How to tell a MAN's man when you see one

I previously alluded to the adventures of decorating with a BOY in the house. Before I begin, you must understand two things. First, that I had never (and I do mean NEVER) lived with a boy before I got married. First there was just my mom, and then there was the typical montage of college-aged female roommates. (Those adventures are a whole different story. Or several.) Anywho, the point is that there were NO boys. The second necessary background item is that Steve is a sports FAN. Yes, that's FAN in all caps.

When we decided to get married, Steve said he didn't care about details like what color our comforter was or what pictures we hung on the walls. This was slightly (or a lot) less than accurate. Considering he thought I was making up a story when I told him we needed to choose colors for the different rooms in our house, the guy is surprisingly opinionated about where the furniture goes, which picture is appropriate above the TV and, ironically, what colors we use.

Looking back, I suppose I should have seen it coming when he suggested we change our wedding colors from black and silver to black and gold because he doesn't like the Raiders.

Anywho, well-assured the decisions would be quick and easy (since I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted and my fiancee had declared himself un-opinionated), we ventured into the world of Wedding Registry (yes, this is now a proper noun). I was quickly disillusioned. We spent more time talking about the color of our future sheets than we had on previous conversations about having children. The multi-colored couch from his childhood (now completely threadbare in several places) turned out to be a dealbreaker - apparently it came with the husband, take it or leave it (I took it). And the comforter...oh boy. Let's just say we took SEVERAL trips to SEVERAL locations before finding one we both liked enough to look at for at least a few years.

The crisis moment came as I was explaining what it means when people designate colors for certain rooms (for those of you still in the dark on this one, choosing red as a color does not mean you have to paint your walls red or uproot the existing non-red carpet). I explained that in a living room, colors might have to do with what you hang on the wall, or maybe some throw pillows. Steve, unsuspecting of saying anything out of the ordinary, announced that he had some things we could hang on the walls.

"Great," I said. "We'll have to look at our pictures together and decide where we want to hang what."

"Yeah," he said. "And I have a bunch of jerseys we can hang in the living room."

I paused to evaluate. He was not kidding.

"What?"

"I have some jerseys we can hang up. And some model cars, too."

Mmmhmmm.

"You do realize that a result of getting married is NOT being a bachelor anymore, right?"

He failed to see what this statement had to do with hanging jerseys in the living room. It was quite a let-down for him to realize (after a lot of conversation on the subject) that living with a girl meant the living room would not be decorated with toy cars and sports paraphernalia.

I have to say that he had the advantage over me on this one - having grown up with both dad and mom, he had definitely lived with a girl before. And I have never seen jerseys on the wall anywhere in his parents' house, let alone in the living room. But living on one's own for a while does tend to give one ideas.

In the end, we came to a lovely compromise. No jerseys in the living room, but we have an office that he has free reign over. And I will say he has improved - he is no less opinionated, but he'll usually give me the benefit of the doubt when I make decorating decisions, even if he's not happy about it. Although I know he still questions my sanity for preferring the multi-colored, threadbare sofa covered in a simple black fabric (it looks MUCH better).

And I guess that's what marriage is all about - finding ways to let the other person have what they want even if you think they're a little bit nuts. That's what Steve does for me, and half the time I qualify as a lot a bit nuts! More on my quirks later; let's just say I probably got the better end of the stick on marrying into quirkiness :)

So I guess this means the honeymoon is over

My husband is a more patient person than I realized. We've been married for a year now and it turns out he's been fooling me all this time - tricking me into believing he needed that new hat TODAY and that if we didn't get home right when the Suns game started, the whole week would be shot. Nope, the man can wait for a long time. But possibly only if it involves comedic timing or opening the mail (seriously. The weird thing is that I'm the same way. Our kids will probably grow up thinking envelopes contain some kind of gremlin.)

Anywho, when we got married, my man was the model of involvement. He came with me to all the important places - reception centers, caterer, tux shop. Our caterer (who we only met once for about 15 minutes) painted a very vivid picture of a bride whose new husband had smeared cake all over her face. Apparently, there was lots of crying involved and the caterer made my sweet fiancee swear NOT to put cake in my face. He may be a bit of a troublemaker, but he would never want to make anyone cry. And the story was convincingly tragic. So the cake stayed in our mouths.

Until this Saturday. After a romantic night out, we got the (now thawed) top of the cake out. And totally unsuspecting little me (shows you how much I've learned) got cake smashed ALL OVER her face. So naturally, I retaliated by pulling it out of my eyes and wiping it in his hair (which he didn't think was nearly as funny as me having it all over my face and up my nose). And it turns out that it's just been KILLING him this whole year that he didn't get to smear cake in my face. He's been plotting the cake smashing for a full 12 months (after which time the cake is still good - well done Clarissa!). That, my friends, is patience.

I do have to say, I'm glad he waited. Because I can be a pretty good sport about stuff like that in my kitchen, but I'm not sure I would have been so forgiving while wearing a white dress I only got to wear once, with hair that took more than an hour to do.

A Rant

I hate Wal-Mart. HATE it, with capital letters. Possibly even bold capital letters. HATE. Yes. I think that sums it up. I'm sorry if you love Wal-Mart and think its low prices and mind-numbingly large inventory are worth the ridiculous crowds and 24-hour chaos, but I respectfully disagree. There's just something about the place that feels disagreeable.

Sadly, I am sometimes driven to the Mart against my better judgment. Tonight, for example, on a mission for either camoflauge or patriotic wrapping paper. I had exhausted 4 previous options to no avail (apparently holiday wrapping does not come in "USA" versions), I was also craving Honey Bunches of Oats and already in dangerous proximity to the Mart. (In my mind, "the Mart" sounds very ominous. With DUN DUN DUN drums.) I could think of only one place where I could find an unreasonable selection of wrapping paper AND my favorite cereal without driving across town again.

The regret was instant. Before I even got onto official Mart property, a fellow Wal-Mart visitor whose driving skills left much to be desired nearly boxed me out of the parking lot entrance. Then there was what I affectionately refer to as "parking hell." Thanks to Jerkstore boxing me out, I had to use the lot entrance closest to the building. There were approximately five thousand people in the 30-yard stretch between the entrance and my parking space and not a single one was looking where they were walking. I managed to park without mowing anyone over (and I found a stall with only ONE Wal-Mart shopping cart in it!) but that was about the end of my success.

I did find red wrapping paper without any snowflakes or angels on it (forget about the camo, no way am I going to SIX stores to make boxes at work look cute), but my aunt called just as I got to the cereal aisle (where there were also about five thousand people - possibly the same crowd from the parking lot following me to see how long I could keep it together) and that was the end of it. I could barely navigate the aisle and pick out my cereal (which was, I'll grant, ridiculously cheap) while holding onto my phone. I don't know what posessed me to answer my phone in a crowed Wal-Mart to begin with. My poor aunt, she probably thinks I'm either very rude or else losing my mind. Anyway, I forgot to buy the eggs my husband asked me to pick up (and a dozen eggs really isn't much to ask from your wife) and I didn't even look at the address labels I needed. It was like some kind of survival instinct propelling me out of the store.

I had to turn the Christmas station on in the car to restore my faith in humanity, which must have worked because when I was pulling out, the only crowd I even noticed was a little family of four tiny girls, all holding hands, and the one on the end was holding their dad's hand. They were dancing into the Mart and I have to admit they looked like a Christmas card (which is difficult to do in parking hell).

Still, faith restored or no, I am not planning to do my holiday shopping at a certain big box store. I got out alive this time, but you can only press your luck so much.