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.

Next year I am definitely crimping my hair (and maybe not on Halloween)

My friend Nicole often lists one of her interests as "putting myself in awkward situations." I respect that (for more on why awkward is good - something my husband says I should know plenty about, judging by my junior high school photos - see my previous post). In the interest of following Nicole's example, I decided to wear my Halloween costume to work today. So I put on a football jersey from my husband's office wall (remind me to address the brave new world of decorating with a BOY in the house later), painted black lines on my cheeks and borrowed a Steeler's hat.

We're allowed, but it's not super common to dress up at work. I guess it's been a while since I was in an appropriately awkward situation because I had forgotten how refreshing and dang FUNNY it can be to watch people try to figure out what to do with you. Also, I should mention that there are a large number of employees from non-Halloween celebrating countries in the office. I'm pretty sure no one prepped them for the American oddity that is Halloween. Anyway, some of the reactions to my costume were as follows:

1. Awkward glance in my direction. Quick glance at the floor. Awkward glance #2 in my direction. Studied examination of the floor tile while quickening pace significantly.
2. Our department's administrative assistant (dressed as a pirate) noticed another employee start to come toward us and then veer away. She asked if he needed anything. He said, "Uh, no," and then scurried (that's really the best word I can think of to describe it) in the opposite direction.
3. "Go Steelers!"
4. More awkward stares - I love these because you can tell the starer can't decide if they should comment on your getup or just pretend it's normal for a 5'5" girl to wear an XL sized NFL football jersey to work (seriously, I was swimming laps in it on my lunch break).
5. "You should wear some Ben-Gay." I was totally lost on this one. I have no idea if that was a blanket sports reference or if Troy Polamalu endorses it. Either way, I don't think Ben-Gay is really something you wear, is it?

OK, so maybe I dressed up because last night I realized that this was about to be the first Halloween since birth that I didn't get all costumed up, and that was just one step farther from childhood than I cared to be. It was a valuable experience in awkwardness nonetheless.

Anyone know the Spanish word for "blog"?

Today I decided posting to a blog is a lot like traveling to a foreign country. Well, minus getting lost a lot and taking too many pictures. But stick with me here and I'll explain.

I speak a little Spanish, but significantly more now than the first time I got off a plane in South America. Traveling more than 3 miles in a car with two ENGLISH-speaking women on a gossip streak can be difficult to keep up with. Mix in some of the most rapid speaking Latinas in the southern hemisphere, a culture where it's the norm to cut off the second half of most words, and a significant (and I do mean significant) jet lag factor, and see how well YOU do (assuming you're not Chilean).

After about 5 hours (OK, more like 10 minutes but it FELT like much more) of staring blankly in response to nearly every question asked by two women who had been told I spoke Spanish, I was beginning to believe I'd been sent to Africa or Outer Mongolia by mistake. Or that the entire language department at Utah State had teamed up with my high school Spanish teachers in a cruel plot to ruin my summer (since what they taught me was clearly NOT Spanish).

I know, I know, "Didn't she say something about this somehow relating to blogs before?" Don't worry, I'm getting there.

Anyway, before that eternity in the car, I was terrified of speaking Spanish out loud for fear of sounding stupid. After the ride from the university to my host family's house, testing my Spanish in an audible voice became a matter of self preservation. And maybe blogging isn't quite a matter of self preservation, but it IS encouraging me (or that's the idea anyway) to write "out loud" at the risk of sounding stupid. And that's healthy.

Autumn Bliss

I have this funny idea that after I die, I'll somehow be able to spend an unlimited amount of time in the moments I have truly loved. I also believe I'll keep learning, progressing and moving forward, so I'm not really sure how that going back in time thing will work. I figure someone else will work that out.

Anyway, when I'm not ready to say goodbye to a place or a moment, I use that idea as a kind of security blanket - tell myself I can return to that spot. Like walking in autumn leaves at dusk, feeling protected by the mountains and holding hands with my husband. Some moments are just too perfect to only have once.

Political Question

I keep hearing about "Joe the plumber" and "Joe six pack." I get the plumber thing, but I'm confused about the six pack (maybe I'm just slow). Are we referring to Joe's abs? Or his beer?

...'Cause if we're talking about Joe's drinking habits, the picture that comes to mind (think sizeable gut, recliner...stereotype? Absolutely but at least I'm being honest) is not really representative of most Americans I know. But then, neither are the washboard abs.

Maybe I run with the wrong crowd (this is a definite possibility), but I just don't think this is a slogan I can get behind.