Archive for the 'Marriage' Category

Published by PaintingChef on 21 Nov 2011

In which I try and bribe you to not think I’m the biggest asshole in the world.

I thought about killing my husband this morning. What? It’s Monday. That’s what we do on Mondays, right? Once you get married that’s what “A Case of the Mondays” means, right? Thanks Office Space.

See… here’s the thing. I’m lazy. If we can just stipulate that fact, things will move right along, okay? So finally, after almost 10 years of marriage, I have a garage parking space. I feel like that’s something that should be on the game of “Life”. The square says something like “Your spouse finally rates you above the boat and the classic car and you earn a garage parking space of your very own. You win $200, dry shoes in the rain and a brand new fight called ‘Why do you park like an asshole in the garage’… CONGRATULATIONS!!”

(Side note… last year for Christmas, my husband got me a laser assisted parking thing for my stocking. Three guesses if you can figure out where THAT fine gift ended up…)

But all that nonsense aside, one thing I have found absolutely GLORIOUS about parking in the garage is the 5 minutes I no longer have to spend in a mad dash running around the house looking for my damn keys. I leave them in my car, in the ignition with the windows rolled down in the garage. And I love it because I know where those bitches are like 99.9% of the time. Oh sure, it means that if I DIDN’T drive, I’m consistently locked out of my own house and I never have that damn Kroger card and entering my phone number only sometimes works but dammit… I KNOW WHERE MY KEYS ARE.

I am the girl who loses her phone twelve times a day but always knows where her keys are. Hi. Nice to meet you.

So yesterday Patrick and I were running some errands and he was driving because usually when we go somewhere together he drives so I can mainline tequila. It makes our lives better, you should try it! Anyway he, for whatever reason, starts giving me shit because I don’t have my keys and we are stopping by the office so I can feed my fish (I have fish! Have I told you about the fish!?!?) and I have to wait for him to unlock the door even though his hands are full (of… wood? I forget) and he’s like “Oh no, don’t worry, I’ll get this” while I’m standing there noticing that my shoes were really cute. And I was all DUDE. What? No keys. And he acts flabbergasted that I have no keys. As if this is brand new information and this very situation has never once ever happened before in the history of Susannah possessing keys. (Other things that have happened more than once? Susannah throwing her entire keychain away at the mall. I win at keys.)

Fast forward to this morning when I am running late as I am on all mornings but Mondays in particular but I have gathered my shit and even made a sandwich for lunch and I can’t even begin to tell you what a rare occurrence this one is and I am out the door and I sit in my car and THERE ARE NO KEYS.

NO KEYS.

Obviously, Patrick has taken them. He has decided to prove a point and he has taken my keys like an assholey asshole and for this he will pay dearly. I look in every drawer in his dresser. I even look the places I used to look for keys when they were a traveling enigma. Normal places. The bathroom. The pantry. The washing machine. Fridge.

NO KEYS.

I spent half an hour looking for my keys this morning and the entire time my poor animals were being schooled in vocabulary that would normally make even ME blush. Supposedly there is a spare key? Like a valet thing? That I lost? Whatever. No keys.

Back to the car that I am now proceeding to tear apart because now I’m thinking maybe he just pulled them out of the ignition and tossed them in a seat or the floor or something where I would OBVIOUSLY see them except that I am morning-stupid. (It’s like being day-drunk but nowhere near as entertaining.) I finally found them under the front seat and I am now yelling so loudly at my damn husband that I am CERTAIN he can already hear me. This is not cute. This is not funny. This is not clever. Clever was the time I reprogrammed his phone to play the Hallelujah chorus at top volume and the caller ID to read GOD when I called it and then called him while I knew he was in a meeting. THAT? Was cute and clever.

He swears he didn’t do it. I don’t think I believe him.

Hey! Let’s turn this into something good and not something I’m still kind of fuming over, what do you say? What the meanest little trick to prove a point that you either played on someone or had played on you? Whoever has the best story wins that damn parking laser and I’ll throw something good in there too. Some Christmas cards with a painting on them and maybe some candied jalapenos from my garden. Oh fine. And a $25 Amazon gift card. Let’s recap…

1. Mean-spirited laser parking assistant.
2. Christmas note cards printed with an original painting by yours truly
3. Candied jalapenos from my garden
4. $25 Amazon Gift Card

That’s not so bad, really, is it? Tell your friends! I’ll choose a winner on December 5th which is two whole weeks so get to thinking about what an asshole you are.

Published by PaintingChef on 12 Aug 2011

The fact that I managed to make even THIS come back to shoes should be ample proof of my dedication and talent.

In December of this year, Patrick and I will celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. TEN. YEARS. Quick show of hands… who thought I’d ever last that long in a relationship with such a NICE guy? Yeah…not so much. I was always really drawn to the assholes. Oddly enough though, Patrick was always drawn to the good, sweet, nice girls and look at him now. He married the biggest asshole around. YOU WIN, PATRICK!

Our wedding capped off kind of a banner year for my darling husband. He graduated from school, moved out of the bubble he’d lived in his entire life, bought a house, started a new job and, for the icing on the cake, married ME. Suffice it to say…Patrick got about 14 hours of sleep between May of 2001 and February of 2002 (which was when I found myself employed, albeit for a very short amount of time as I didn’t take kindly to being told to “go to church more” in my job review).

But one thing that did NOT happen in that time frame was a honeymoon. A fabulous, tropical, lazy, wonderful honeymoon in which I could finally make Patrick surrender to the gloriousness that is sloth and laziness and drinks on the beach and brunch in bed at noon. I was certain that he would come around to my way of thinking if only he was given the opportunity. Well. Patrick got up at 5:30 this morning to go to the gym and run while I tossed and turned in bed enduring what has become rather frequent dream in which I’m running around wondering if I forgot to take my finals, pay my rent and get a job. OBVIOUSLY we both need a vacation. Either that or those two hours I spent playing Build-a-Lot at the end of the day yesterday before I left work would probably have been better spent being productive.

It’s like a circular discussion isn’t it? I’m totally dizzy.

All evidence to the contrary, I’m not complaining about Patrick’s lack of lazy. I carry enough lazy for both of us although I try to make him believe that I’m just balancing shit out. If it weren’t for Patrick though, my life would be chaos. I think that’s pretty clear. And don’t get me wrong, if he wants to relax, he is perfectly capable of it. But in general, I think it leaves him with a cloud of guilt, like he should be doing something else and he can relax when I finally make him so crazy he clubs me over the head and then suddenly all the stress in his life will be gone and he finally put up his feet and have a damn beer in peace. If he thinks I won’t haunt his ass, he doesn’t know me at all.

Ahem. ANYWAY.

After much talking and begging and whining and negotiating and demanding and then finally just sitting down in the middle of the kitchen, sticking my fingers in my ears and just SCREAMING until he finally relented (as I am nothing if not a completely mature adult) I do believe I’ve convinced my fair husband to remedy that whole honeymoon situation.

Oh sure. We aren’t going until six months AFTER our anniversary but that’s because we want to go with other people (you know… since on top of the whole married business of living together we also happen to WORK together and that’s a lot of together and crazy shit happens in foreign countries, right?). Once I finally stood up off the floor and composed myself and regained control of my inner monologue we started having an actual conversation about this whole trip notion. It’s AMAZING how that actually works, I need to rethink my whole life strategy.

How about you… honeymoon? Anniversary trip? Babymoon (which I maintain is NOT a word!!)? Just cause we need to get the hell out of town? Where did you go? What did you love? What was… not so great? I’m pretty sure I know what we’re doing but if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that the internet is FULL of good ideas. Well… that and shoes. The internet is full of shoes.

Published by PaintingChef on 22 Jul 2011

How a television sent me to Lowe’s at 9:00 at night after my husband almost (understandably) killed me. And other bedtime stories.

The television needed dusting. We were in the middle of the Great Technology Migration of 2011 as our circa 1998 bedroom television was finally giving up and so we were moving the 2003 model from the living room into the bedroom and we FINALLY bought a nice, new, big, shiny LCD model for the living room. Never mind that said nice, new, shiny, flat model was roughly 6 inches (okay, fine, 8 inches) wider than the actual opening in our gorgeous built-in entertainment center. Patrick SWEARS he can fix it and as my sister reassured me, “It’s Patrick. He’ll do a good job. Chill the fuck out and just go get a pedicure or something while he’s cutting and sawing and painting and shoehorning… it’ll be better for EVERYONE if you aren’t there.” My sister is a rocket scientist and that’s pretty damn close to a doctor so I’m going to get a doctor-ordered pedicure.

The end.

Not really.

Also there was need for some sort of technical gobbeldy gook that I didn’t understand or care about but Patrick was all HD! GOOD PICTURE! BIG SCREEN! FOOTBALL SEASON! and I was all DYLAN MCKAY IN HI-DEF OKAY FINE I’M IN! and so we had to do a little moving around of things and switching TVs and other such mess that was just heavy and really, really dusty and I was a little afraid of losing a cat behind the bedroom entertainment center forever plus I also had to move my shoes so I was kind of annoyed.

And breathe.

The stone-age television was in the “purple room” which is what we call the third bedroom in our house as it has purple walls and also many, many chairs and also some boxes and is where things go to age for a year or so before we finally get around to throwing them away. (And the boxes we haven’t unpacked since we moved in. In 2008. But I refuse to throw them away because somewhere in one of those boxes is a really cute pink summery purse and I miss that purse but not enough to go digging for it. Also now that I think about I’m also missing a really cute black handmade purse from an antique shop) The second television was in our bedroom waiting to have all twelve thousand pounds of it hoisted into the bedroom entertainment center when Patrick decided it needed to be dusted first. (The giant ass new and shiny and pretty and secretly purple (I WIN! I WIN!) television was still in a box as it is too fragile to be breathed on by human mouths.)

And then shit went very, very, very horribly wrong.

“Where’s the pledge? I need to dust this television”

“Under the sink where it always is.”

“Hey Susannah? Have you noticed that there is a puddle of water under the sink?”

“Um… no? That’s where the cleaning stuff lives and I don’t clean, remember?”

“Yeah. Right. How could I forget? Well there is a puddle of water under here and something is leaking and this is very bad and I’m pretty sure that our sink is about to fall through the countertop because the underneath of the countertop is waterlogged from whatever is leaking.”

“Huh. Bet that wouldn’t happen to a granite countertop, would it?”

“Laser eye death stare and various offensive and very deserved hand gestures”

“So… what now?”

“Now I turn off the water to the sink and we fix this mess.”

“So… no water? For how long? Do we get a new sink? I don’t want another white one, they suck. Are we going to replace the countertops? I’d really like granite. Or quartz. We get a new faucet with the new sink, right? I can get rid of that pointless soap dispenser? Hey… do you think we can just make that whole section of the countertop bigger? You know we’re having people over for dinner on Sunday, right? SO this is going to need to be done by then, right?”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m probably going to perform the most justifiable homicide that ever was and ever will be.”

“Hey… don’t forget that this TV is sitting in the middle of the bedroom.”

I did not get a new sink. I did not get a new countertop. Patrick is quite certain that he can fix this and it will be fine until we can actually purchase new countertops. I did, however, get a new faucet as apparently the old one was what caused all the damage in the first place. The new faucet is in a box on the dining room table and there is still no water in the kitchen. Patrick has, however, refrained from killing me and he totally sprang for Zaxby’s for dinner once we walked out of Lowe’s at 9:30 last night.

He has also vowed to never dust again. The television is no longer in the middle of the bedroom floor and all the cats are accounted for.

Published by PaintingChef on 03 Jun 2011

My Secret Sides

Given that Patrick and I spend much more of our lives in close proximity than most married couples should, we’ve had to learn how to deal with all the different versions of each other. You know what I’m talking about. Work Susannah. Daughter Susannah. Fun Susannah. Stressed Susannah. Procrastinating Susannah. Those are all me. And nine times out of ten, your spouse isn’t going to see that side of you on a regular basis.

Because let’s be honest… a little mystery is good for a marriage. I will maintain that opinion until the day I die. Bathroom business? Keep it behind closed doors. The grooming ritual a lady must undertake before that first step is taken out on the beach? Keep it under wraps. The twitchy little frown I get when I’m trying to slog through some math at my desk? My engineer husband never needs to see that. Not if I expect to keep him impressed with a completely and utterly worthless genius level IQ. The skill and speed with which I will check something at your head if you have the cojones to ask me for a favor while I’m in the midst of a project? Nobody that sleeps next to you needs to see that ugliness. The way I will shamelessly revert to childhood if I’m going to ask my dad, the boss, to leave early and get a pedicure? Patrick needs to think that level of manipulation adorableness is exclusive to him. And I am TRULY adorable. It’s one of the perks.

On the flip side, there are sides of Patrick that I used to remain blissfully ignorant of and I was FINE. WITH. THAT. My sweet beloved? Is a bear when he feels like he is losing control of his time-management skills. In the past, I’ve had my suspicions but I’ve learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that those skills are not actually present in his body. ANYWHERE. And without going into too much detail, let’s just say that the amount of time he spends in the bathroom at home is NOT an isolated event. I’ve also learned that I’m not alone in my frustration-induced stabbiness. We BOTH have a supremely bitchy side and that boy can drama-queen it up with the best of them. If I weren’t so furious that it was briefly aimed in my direction, I believe I would have shed a tear of pride.

All in all though, I figure he’s a pretty good guy. All sides of him. And I think I’ll keep him, drama-queen tendencies and all. But let’s keep that our little secret; I’m gearing up for a new summer wardrobe and I’ll have to flex that charm pretty hard. Should I stretch? I’d hate to sprain an eyelid…

Published by PaintingChef on 22 Apr 2011

There’s a good chance that naming Cher Horowitz as my Life Guru is one place I may have gone wrong.

This morning, my dad jokingly told one of our employees that I was in charge of “procurement” for our company because he thought he should play to my strengths. It’s true…sadly. I am very good at shopping. I am the person that you call or email when you know exactly what you are looking for but don’t have the time to look for it. I’ll get back to you pretty quickly with an extensive list of options.

But when my dad said that, I was a little surprised at how my heart kind of fell a little. To quote my life guru Cher Horowitz, “You think that’s all I do? I’m just some ditz with a credit card.”

Several months ago, Patrick and I decided that it was time for us to maybe act like grown-ups and investigate this mystical word we kept hearing people mention. It was time for a budget. Apparently flying by the seat of out pants was going to get us in trouble one day and Patrick was starting to lose sleep. It’s probably good that I married someone with adult tendencies as when I am left to my own devices, I quickly revert to someone who lives on macaroni and cheese and is mesmerized by shiny things.

I immediately informed Patrick that I was not going to be able to get through this exercise in torture without some sort of clear reward (of which financial solvency didn’t count) so we needed to figure out the bribe part of this equation first. We realized that we will celebrate our 10th anniversary this year and so clearly, a tropical vacation of some sort would be in order. We settled on the Dominican Republic, decided to invite friends since we see each other all the damn time and I was in.

I’ve learned a bit about myself since we started this, what I am and I’m not willing to compromise on or sacrifice. I’m cheaper than I thought but I’ll cut you if you try and take my stinky French cheese and I will go to my grave declaring manicures and my forty dollar face wash are necessities. It’s been interesting, seeing where we spend our money. I think it’s a good indication of what you value and I can tell you without a doubt that I am a shallow, shallow girl who is oddly obsessed with eyeliner.

All in all, it’s gone well. I get a little less prickly when Patrick asks me if I really do need something and he is sleeping better at night which I’m certain is not at all related to the roofies I’ve taken to slipping him. I think the main thing is that I’m learning to curb my instant gratification impulses. That’s something that I struggle with in several aspects of my life. But I find myself combating it on multiple fronts at this time in my life. Between the Lap-Band surgery and the budgeting plan we’ve adopted, I’m seeing that I don’t have to have it all right this very second. Cake? Yeah… probably magically delicious but I think I’ll wait an hour and see if I really want it. Purple glitter eyeliner from Sephora? Sure it could be fun but how many Tiffany concerts am I going to go to?

(Oh… wait… she’s touring with Debbie Gibson? Maybe I DO need that eyeliner)

Maybe 33 years old is a little late to be learning this lesson. But I figure better late than never and you know what? Some of us just need a little encouragement and I have learned that I can be bribed. I can be bought. And dammit… I want to go to the Dominican Republic.

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