Category Archives: Jobs and Careers

The Greatest Little Love Story Ever Told

Chris popping the question at Rockefellar Center

Chris popping the question at Rockefellar Center

Now, I don’t like to brag, but my husband is pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread.  We’ve been together since we were 16 – this April it will be 10 years – and we’ve been married for almost four years.  Over time, I have learned that I can definitely live without Chris, but I would never want to.

When we were 16, Chris used to drive us around in this hot little baby blue 1967 convertible Mustang that he and his Dad restored.  It was beautiful.  I’ll never forget what it felt like to see that car pull up to my house when I was in high school.  He parked it on the street right in front of my bedroom.  I’d see his car pull up and I’d go running to the front door and watch him walk across the yard up to my house.  I have butterflies just remembering that.  I also remember that the car had a hole in the passenger floorboard that Chris kept covered with a mat so I wouldn’t get scared.  And the car didn’t have defrost, so when it rained my job was to take a towel and constantly wipe the windshield so that Chris could see to drive.  I remember being all dressed up for Prom one year in a beautiful dress, working up a fierce sweat trying to keep that damn windshield clean.  But it was worth it just to see Chris drive that car.

I remember when we were in high school, we worked at the same restaurant.  I worked as a hostess at the big tourist restaurant and Chris was a quick order cook at the smaller branch down the road that mostly served locals.  One morning my family had breakfast there and when the waitress brought our order out, Chris had put a red rose on my plate.  He used to smell God awful after he was done with a shift.  Like sweat and grease (and sometimes beer).  And after every late night shift, he would come by my house first.  He was always wearing a white undershirt, having shed his clothes because of the sweat and heat.  His shirt was always stained and he always smelled, but I’d hear him tap on my window and I’d go let him in the front door to say goodnight.  He wouldn’t stay long, usually long enough to talk about our days and to say goodnight.  I knew that 9 times out of 10, he was going to meet another girl at a party somewhere when he left my house.  That was just how he was.  But I also knew that he never said goodnight to any other girl, and somehow that made it okay.

I remember the day he left for college.  He applied late – a last minute decision that was probably the best he ever made – and so the only way he was accepted was for the summer term.  I wasn’t leaving until the fall.  We decided months before that we would go to different colleges.  We’d had a rocky relationship in high school (but doesn’t everyone?), and we weren’t stupid enough to believe that we could possibly make it through college.  We would go to different schools and the agreement was that we would date long distance until one of us met someone else.  When we met someone, we had to tell the other person and that would be it.  No hard feelings.  More than anything, we were both realists.  So that Saturday morning that he left, I thought it was the end.  I remember feeling stupid that I was crying in front of his family.  We were only in high school.  Surely I looked silly.  But it hurt so much to say goodbye to him.  He hugged me and kissed me, but his family was around and so it was a rushed goodbye.  And then he drove away.  He was driving a new car, better equipped for the 5 hour drive to college, and his Mustang was parked in his driveway.  I remember thinking that Chris and I had no better chance of making it than that Mustang would have had.  And so I got in my car and drove home.  As I pulled out of his neighborhood, there was Chris.  Parked on the side of the road.  Waiting for me.  One more hug.  It would be our real goodbye.

But it wasn’t our goodbye.  It wasn’t even close.  I spent the majority of my college years on Highway 75 driving to see Chris on the weekends.  We tried to see eachother at least twice a month.  Usually I went to see him because he had technical rehearsals and shows to run, but I didn’t mind.  I remember several Friday nights when I wasn’t scheduled to go see Chris and I’d get a phone call from him at 9 or 10:00 at night telling me that in 3 hours I could be on his front porch.  That’s all it took.  I’d grab an overnight bag, throw Lucy in the car, leave a note for my roommates and head down to Orlando.  Sometimes it was Chris that was unscheduled.  I would be coming home from work and I’d get a phone call on my cell.  Chris was here. Or I’d pull into my apartment complex and there would be his car.  One time he came into town to surprise me, but I had plans to babysit that night.  So, Chris went out to eat with my two Meathead roommates to our favorite Mexican restaurant.  By 7:00 when I got done babysitting, Chris, Neal, and Jay were so wasted on pitchers of margaritas that they passed out before I even got to kiss Chris hello.  I don’t think he realized where he was until Saturday morning when he woke up in my apartment.

While we were in college, Chris was really excelling in his studies.  He was teaching classes as an undergraduate to his peers.  He was taking one on one private classes with a few of his professors, he was the first student to ever be a technical director at the University of Central Florida.  For the show that he was technical director for he needed steel to bend to build the set.  But steel benders were expensive, and his public university would never have been able to afford one.  So Chris made one himself out of an elaborate pulley system.  And he published the machine design in the Yale University Technical Journal.  A few weeks later, the editor of the journal called Chris and asked him to come to Yale for graduate school.  I was at Chris’ apartment in Orlando when his formal acceptance letter arrived from Yale.  Two weeks earlier I had been accepted to law school in Florida, my life long dream.  But I knew the minute he opened that envelope.  I knew when his face brightened and his eyes teared up.  I knew when he smiled.  His dream was bigger than mine, and I knew I would follow him anywhere he needed to go to achieve it.  I pretended for the sake of my family that the decision to forgo law school to move to Connecticut was a hard one, but there was never a doubt in my mind.  I would go to Connecticut with Chris.

And I did.  We moved to Connecticut the summer that we were married.  I remember our first trip up to New Haven after his acceptance.  We were looking for an apartment.  We had $2,000 saved, and we thought we were rich.  A few days later after putting first and last months rent down as a deposit, we were poor again.  But we were so proud of ourselves.  We moved in a few months later and Chris started school that September.  I worked in the legal field for one more year, thinking I would apply again to law school in Connecticut.  But after a few applications were submitted, I made the decision to withdrawal my applications.  I didn’t want to go to law school.  Instead, I found a position at Yale and decided to change my career path to higher education administration.  In Chris’ third year of school, I started my own Masters part-time while working full-time.  He finished in May.  I finished in August.  We moved into our new house in June.  In early October of this year over a sushi dinner with Chris I had a passing thought out of the blue that maybe I was pregnant.  One pregnancy test and 3 months later, here we are.

This morning Chris came in to say goodbye to me before he left for work like he does every morning.  I was still sleeping, but I woke up and kissed him goodbye like I do every morning.  And then, just as he was closing the bedroom door shut behind him, he turned and stuck his head back in room.  “Call me today if you hear anything from your doctors about the Bean.”  He closed the door behind him, and suddenly I was 16 years old again, laying in my bedroom, listening to Chris drive away after coming to kiss me goodnight.  In high school, that had been the perfect ending to so many days for me.  And now, it was the perfect beginning of so many exciting things to come.

It isn’t an extraordinary story.  We aren’t extraordinary people.  We haven’t experienced extraordinary things.  But I know that he loves me and that I love him and that nothing in my life would be possible if it weren’t for him standing next to me.  Sometimes when we’re cuddled up in our pjs and socks and surrounded by our dogs and everything is perfect I ask him why he loves me.  He never has an answer.  He always says, “I don’t know.  I just do.”  I used to give him a hard time.  What a lame answer to such an important question.  But when I think about it, there is really no other possible answer to that question.  I don’t know why we love eachother.  I don’t know why I laugh in the middle of yelling when we are fighting.  I don’t know why when I pull into my driveway at night and see Chris’ car parked I still feel those same butterflies I felt in high school and his blue Mustang pulled up in front of my house.  I don’t know why when I see ultrasound pictures of our baby, I can already see Chris’ nose and chin and ears.

I don’t know why our love story is still being written, but I can’t wait to see what the next chapter is about.

Chris and Lucy

Chris and Lucy

The CHRIStmas Elf

The CHRIStmas Elf

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Filed under Changes, Family, Husbands, Jobs and Careers, Marriage, moving, pregnancy, Yale

Gym Rat

I have done the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the unexplainable. I have joined a gym.  That’s right.  I’m paying money to sweat.  I am trying to think of something funny or clever to say about it, but I am at a complete loss for words.  Horror has taken over my body and I have no words.

But I had to do it.  I’m tired of not fitting in my clothes and not wanting to buy any new clothes because “I might lose this weight.”  Well, I’m not losin’ it by eating Fritos and watching Michael Phelps’ ears so this was really my only other option.  Besides, I hear if you, like, run marathons and stuff you can eat whatever you want to eat.  And since I’m a huge fan of eating whatever I want to eat, I must sweat.  And I must pay to sweat.  I must sweat expensively.

About a year ago, I tried to join a gym.  This particular gym, who will remain nameless because I am about to bash the crap out of it…(cough)…LA Fitness…(cough)…was horrible.  I walked in the door already 90% sure I would join.  I mean, why else would you go into a gym if you weren’t interested in a membership?  But these people acted like they had found me in a McDonald’s lobby, eating Big Macs by the handful.  Like they needed to save me.  Or convert me.  They took me on the tour of the gym (which, to be honest, I could care less about.  Just give me a treadmill and a few yoga classes, and lets call it a day).  Then they introduced me around to a bunch of people I could also care less about.  Then they brought me into this tiny little room, and the guy starts pegging me with questions –  Whats is my current workout schedule like?  (Do you think I’d be in here if I already had a current workout schedule?) What is my eating regiment like?  How much energy do I have in the day?  Do I work out in groups or by myself?  What body part am I the most unhappy with?  How much weight did I want to lose exactly?  It was like he felt the need to shame me into a membership.  I already know I suck, health-itarily speaking, but I’m here so just take my money and give me one of those swipy cards and I’ll be on my way.

So we go through this whole song and dance thing where he asks me questions and I pretend to be more fit than I am, and finally it gets down to what I came for – the price.  I wasn’t keen on the idea of a gym anyways, and after the price he gave me I would rather pay money to have people inject fat directly into my fifth chin.  So I kind of make this little face like, “That’s not really the price I had in mind…”

And that’s when he makes the mistake of all mistakes.

“Is that too much money?”  he asks.  “I get it, I get it.  You’re young, probably don’t make much money to do anything really important, not stable yet.  I’ll see if I can find something cheaper for you.”

Now, at this particular point in my life, I am working full time at a good paying job to support BOTH myself AND my husband while we are in graduate school.  The absolute wrong thing to tell me at this point is that I’m young, don’t make much money, and am cheap.  Suddenly, every annoyance I’ve had with this guy for the last hour comes rising out of me.  The pointless gym tour, the introductions that don’t matter, the belittling about my healthy lifestyle – it comes pouring out of me and I can’t stop it.

I stand up in his tiny office, sending my chair flying.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?”  I ask.

“Well, I just meant most young people we see in here…”

“Let me tell you something, honey,” I say.  “MOST young people you see in here are not supporting TWO tuition bills every month on ONE salary.  MOST young people you see in here are not working full time during the day and going to school at night.  But I am.  How about you?  You’re young.  Are you working on a degree and working full time right now?  Are you putting two people through school on your one paycheck at the age of 24?  No, I didn’t think so.  So let’s not take this to the level of how much money I make or what I choose to do with my money, because I’ll tell you one thing I am NOT going to do with my money and that is give it to this gym.  Now, where is your manager?”

I proceeded to cause a scene like I’ve never caused before…and I’ve caused some scenes in my life.  And when I left there, I was so angry I wrote a letter to the corporate office.  And then I wrote a letter to my newspaper and the local television station, asking for someone to please investigate the age discrimination that was taking place at this gym.  I’m telling you, I went crazy.  But I felt so wronged.  First, you’re going to waste my time, then lay on guilt about my eating habits, then you are going to charge me a ridiculous amount of money, and on top of all of that you are going to accuse me of being young and cheap?  I’ve got two words for you – (explicative explicative).

Needless to say, a few months later when my blind rage subsided a bit I was a bit gun-shy around gyms.  So you know if I decided it was time to face that situation again, I must be desperate.  When I went into the gym closest to my house – a Bally’s – and the first thing the membership guy said was, “Let me take you on a tour of our gym,” I may or may not have broken out in hives.  But I went through it and it wasn’t so bad.  He wasn’t pushy, he wasn’t intimidating, he didn’t ask personal questions, and he listened when I said, “I’m really just here for your treadmills and yoga…”  So I joined.  I wrote my big, fat, ridiculous check, and he handed me my shiny new swipy card, and I was on my way.  Now, wasn’t that easy?

Yesterday I went to the gym for the first time.  I got right on my little treadmill, turned up my music, and started running.  Incredibly, I ran for 2 miles straight right off the bat.  I wasn’t even winded.  But I decided it was a fluke and that I better ease up so that I could get out of bed in the morning.  And I was noticing my ankle was hurting a little.  And so were my calves.  And my neck.  And my back.  And my pinkie finger.

That night as we watched TV on the couch, I asked Chris to rub my calve because it was hurting.  He started rubbing it and then said, “Your leg is swollen.”  Sure enough, my ankle looked like it had an innertube around it.  I put some ice on it, but it is still swollen this morning.  And I can’t get out of bed.

“This is so exciting!” I said to Chris.  “Its my first sports related injury!”

“I think that’s a little extreme,” he said.  “Its probably just that the force of your body weight on your ankle was too much weight at one time.”

And that’s when I stabbed him in the other eye with the tweezers.

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Filed under Around the House, Changes, Husbands, Jobs and Careers, Marriage, Money, Stratford

Rebellions

(Before I post, I should advise you that I wacked my head pretty hard this morning when I was getting dressed. I was blow drying my hair, which takes world-class hair tossing and in the middle of one spectacular hair toss, I came a bit too close to the door frame of my bathroom. I may or may not have seen visions of the Madonna and Child.)

Today, I am rebelling. While the entire reason for my rebellion is long, complicated, and boring, I’ll sum it up in a nutshell: My ENTIRE office is on a trip right now to China and I am here, in exotic New Haven, holding down the fort. For months I have been assisting with, hearing about, and working around this incredible trip and, while my sour grapes were pretty bitter for a while, I had pretty much made my peace with the fact that I am going no where in my job (literally). Yesterday though was difficult. I worked a 12 hour day to help send off the 100+ students, faculty, and staff and my day of hard work concluded with the buses pulling away with me standing, alone, on the sidewalk waving goodbye. It was awful and I hated every minute of it and somehow smiling through bitterness and jealousy was really difficult.

Anywho, I decided last night over my “Yay! You’re NOT Going to China!” dinner with Chris that I would rebel – slightly. So, today I am wearing my red heels to work. That’s right. Me. Arguably one of the most conservative Southern belles you’ll ever meet wore hooker red heels to work today. In all fairness, I wore them with a completely black and white outfit, so I think that took some of the “What-do-you-want-my-name-to-be” out of it, but STILL! There they are on my feet for God and everyone to see – hooker red shoes.

And I was 15 minutes late to work today. Actually, I tried to be 15 minutes late to work today just out of principle, but traffic was miraculously light and I made it in record time. But I still count this as a rebellion because I had the INTENT to rebel.

And I’m taking a long lunch today. Hooker red shoes. 15 minutes late (theoretically). Long lunch.

And I might leave early. But probably not. Those shoes took a lot out of me.

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Filed under Jobs and Careers, Random

Shuttles and Such

In one week I will be moving away from New Haven, and will have to begin driving to work everyday.  For the past three years, I have been lucky enough to walk to work everyday because we live so close to campus.

Okay, that’s a lie.  We do live incredibly close to campus, but at least once a week I still drive the whole 4 blocks, part on the street, get a $20 ticket, which turns into a $40 ticket because I hide it from Chris and then forget to pay it on time.  It’s a mess.  I’m lazy.  Let’s move past it.

Anyway, I finally went down to the parking office and got myself a shiny parking space on campus.  The problem is that is is really far from my building, but according to the very talkative woman at the parking office, its a “humdinger” of a lot because the shuttles run there so frequently.  I’m serious.  That was her word.  Humdinger.

So yesterday I decide that I’ll test out this shuttle situation and see how I do, so I drive to my parking spot in the morning, park, and lo’ and behold – a shuttle magically appears the minute I shut my car door!  I jump on, and it drops me right in front of my building about 10 minutes later.  Couldn’t be easier.

And then came the afternoon.  I feel the activities of yesterday afternoon are best described in a schedule format, as follows:

4:15 PM     I leave my office and head to the shuttle stop.

4:20 PM     Shuttle drives up.  Everyone I am standing with gets on the shuttle.  Me, too.  I tend to go with the majority in new situations.

4:45 PM     The shuttle makes an unexpected turn at an intersection and instead of heading towards the north side of campus where my car is parked, heads towards the south side of campus where there are medical buildings and other things that are not familiar to me.  Its an area where a handgun would be more of an asset than a handbag.

5:00 PM     It is now clear to me- 40 minutes later – that I have gotten on the wrong shuttle.  I am in the middle of a part of town that does not look the slightest bit familiar to me.

5:05 PM     The last person leaves the shuttle and its just me sitting in this old city bus.  The driver yells back to me, “Did you miss your stop?”  “No,” I reply.  “I think I got on the wrong shuttle.”  The bus driver sighs and tells me she’ll drop me back where I started.

5:15 PM     I am dropped at my original boarding site.

5:20 PM     A co-worker finds me and physically places me on the correct shuttle.

5:30 PM     I arrive at my car.

TOTAL TIME ELAPSED:  1 hour and 15 minutes

I have a new found respect for commuters today.  It takes coordination, dedication, and perseverance to park, ride, and shuttle.  I’m a changed woman.  Today, I salute you, Commuters of America.  Because its a hell of a lot harder than it looks!!

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Filed under Changes, Jobs and Careers, New Haven, Random, Yale

The Interview From Hell

I don’t usually blog about my professional career because of confidentiality. Well, confidentiality and the fact that when I leave my office I like to think about rainbows and butterflies instead of spreadsheets and organizational charts. But I feel that I need to break this rule in order to purge my mind of the horrific mistakes I made today at work.

I had a job interview for an internal position at my university. The position is quite honestly my current dream job. I say current because I don’t believe in that crap about having life-long dreams. Dreams should be something you work to obtain and so they shouldn’t stay dreams for too long. They should eventually become realities. So, I have short-term dreams in my life and this job is one of them. The thing about this position is that it is several steps above where I am currently in my profession, so I wasn’t expecting to even be within spittin’ distance (sorry, there’s them Southern roots showing through again…) of the dream any time soon.

I threw a resume out there several months ago and thought, “If it happens, it happens.” And then I prayed like the dickens, thought about it every day, and generally obsessed about it for three months. Miraculously, the education gods had a sense of humor and I received a call to interview last week. My interview was by phone today.

I was thrown off by two different things. First, the interview was by phone. As if first impressions aren’t hard enough. And secondly, there is a search committee of people for this position. That’s right. Not only do I need to make a stellar first impression OVER THE PHONE, but I have to impress a group of 7 people – including 4 deans and a representative from the University President’s office. Because of the whole phone thing, I couldn’t read anyone’s reactions to anything. It was like Russian Roulette. I could have been saying the most brilliant, mindblowing things ever to come across the Yale University campus, and I would never had known. Or, and more likely, I could have been saying the most ignorant load of crap ever uttered and I still would have had no idea. So I just closed my eyes and forged ahead – talking a mile a minute. Add to this my incredible anxiety about interviewing with a search committee for my dream job, and you have the recipe for a genuine train wreck.

To put it as mildly as possible, it was horrific. In a 15-minute period, I managed to call myself a racists (which I am completely not even anywhere close to being) and I bashed the technology usage of Yale University.

This is precisely how you want your first interview to go.

I like to usually have a moral, lesson, or snidbit of information for you readers to take away when you read my blog. So, here’s today’s lesson. When interviewing for a position that you are not qualified for, but for which you dream of acquiring, try taking a few shots of Jim Beam before you meet your search committee. This might make you sleepy and everyone knows that falling asleep in the middle of an interview is much preferable to calling oneself a racist and bashing the position you are interviewing for. Alternatively, scratch the Jim Beam and just abandon all your dreams completely. Learn to be content with someone else’s name on the letterhead as you work towards someone else’s strategic plan.

And if neither of these solutions works for you, and you find that you stubbornly hold on to your dreams and refuse to compromise your moral integrity by drinking before noon on a business day, then climb aboard my bandwagon and we’ll just sabotage our careers together. Sounds like fun…

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Filed under Changes, Jobs and Careers, Yale

Big Boy Job, Big Boy Boxers

(Even as I write this, I know the minute I post it I am going to get in trouble with my husband. He is always telling me that some conversations should just stay private between the two of us, and I’m pretty sure that he’ll think this is one of them. But I can’t help it.)

This afternoon on my lunch break I walked up to J Crew to take a look around. As I was standing in line with my shiny new pair of khaki pants and pastel argyle belt to match, I started flipping through a pile of men’s boxer shorts that were in a bin next to the cash register. I found the funniest pair of bright yellow shorts with little, bity dachunds dogs on them, and the dachunds were wearing hot dog buns! They were adorable.

I contemplated getting a pair for Chris but then I realized if I bought him a pair he would know I had been at J Crew and he would roll his eyes and make some comment about my shopping habits (which, for the record, are extreme but are nothing compared to his Apple addiction…). I made a mental note, instead, to just tell him about them when I got home.

So tonight over dinner I describe these incredibly cute boxer shorts to him and wait for him to burst out laughing with me. Every chance I get I buy him funny boxers – its sort of our (weird) thing. He’s got some with hammers and nails, some with ants, some with grills and hamburgers, some with giant pumpkins…and the list goes on. But instead of sharing in my giggling, he just laid down his fork and turned to me all serious-like.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about my boxers,” he said.

Boy, that’s a line you don’t hear from your husband very often.

“I’ve been thinking it might be time for me to get some different boxers.”

“Oh,” I say. “I wish I had known you needed new ones because I totally would have gotten these for you!”

“No,” he says, searching for the right words. “I think its time I had more, you know, grown up boxers.”

I freeze. Because I don’t know what to say and because I am quite certain that if I heard him correctly then I might be about to wet my pants with laughter.

“You mean, like, big boy boxers?” I ask, hardly surpressing a giggle.

“Well, you know, sometimes people can see boxers when you bend over or something, and I just don’t think people at my new job need to see dauschunds dressed as hot dogs.”

At this point, I’m laughing so hard that I can’t even sit up in my seat. Is he not just the most adorable thing in the entire world?

So, I kiss him and say, “Okay, sweetie. You’re right. You’ve got a big boy job, so maybe its time you had some big boy boxers.”

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Filed under Around the House, Changes, Jobs and Careers, Marriage, Random

Them’s Fightin’ Words

I have found recently that the price you pay for new things in your life is new things to fight about with your husband. Chris and I honestly don’t fight that often, and when we do it lasts about 2.7 seconds and then we buy each other ice cream and move on. We both have thick skin, but more importantly, we both know that the best way for us to deal with things is to just say whats eating on us and then duke it out for a few rounds and move on. And eat ice cream.

We’ve talked about it before and we both think this comes from doing long distance for four years while we were in college. When your primary source of communication is a cell phone with crappy service, you learn to be clear, concise, and honest. Its hard to play head games when you’re on a cell phone. Try being coy or aloof when your cell phone battery is beeping in your ear because your battery is about to die. So very, very UNdramatic. We’ve learned that when something is bothering us, its much faster to just say what the problem is. And, lets face it, we’re lazy people. Putting it all out there just takes so much less effort than trying to craft elaborate games of “guess why I’m mad today…”

Lately though, there just seems to be more topics for debate. It started small. I wanted a nice neutral living room color. Chris wanted hooker red. This week, its gotten progressively bigger. If I were writing a book about our marriage and needed to title this chapter, I would call it “Adjusting Our Routine: Life After Chris’ Employment.” Chris, however, would title it, “Pay Attention to Me, Dammit!”

For three years, I have been the wife of a Yale graduate student. I learned right away that rather than get mad at his schedule and lack of free time, I should just find something else to do. True, this something else was sometimes throwing pennies at him while he worked for hours on his thesis. Nevertheless, I learned to keep myself entertained. That actually was 90% of the reason I got my own masters degree. I thought, “I can either do yoga every afternoon while I wait for graduation day, or I can work on something productive that I can use the rest of my life.” I made girlfriends to have dinner with and go see movies. I went shopping. I started this blog. I learned to bake (sort of).

In the last week, though, these things that have been part of my routine for three years are suddenly really pissing Chris off! A few nights ago, he was watching TV so I played online in our office for a while. Chris kept walking into the office and just standing there, then walking out again. Finally, he made some snide remark about how I wasn’t spending any time with him. Then, he came home yesterday from work and found me taking a nap. I had been home for a while and knew we were going out with friends later, so I took a load off for a while. Everyone knows I prefer to sleep over doing laundry. That’s no secret and nothing new. But Chris walked into the bedroom and looked disgusted. It was like he had caught me eating Chunky Monkey out of the carton in a closet somewhere. This time his snide comment was along the lines of, “I’m home. Get up.”

He’s like many of the elementary kids who are getting for the summer. He’s been looking forward to not being in school for so long, but now that it is here and he has all this free time, he’s bored and he’s looking for trouble. And since his little sister lives 2,000 miles away in Orlando and since I’m almost positive SHE could actually beat HIM up, he’s decided he’ll pick on me instead.

Yesterday, after chastising me for taking a nap (the nerve!) he decides to accuse me of not paying any attention to him. Oh brother. Here we go. So I yell back to him (as politely as possible, of course, because I’m nothing if I’m not a lady…) “MY LIFE DOESN’T STOP JUST BECAUSE YOU GET A JOB!” And you can pretty much tell how things went from that point. As we are going round for round on this one, Chris is turning on the shower and getting ready to get in because we are going to a friend’s house for dinner. So, he closes the door on me and gets undressed and gets in the shower. End of discussion. I pace around the house fuming for a few minutes and then suddenly I throw open the bathroom door and yell at my poor, naked, soapy husband, “AND ANOTHER THING…”

Ladies and gentlemen, please refrain from attacking your spouse in combat when either of the parties is naked. It tends to take the fire out of your argument a bit.

Like usual, in the short time it took Chris to put some clothes on, we were over the argument and packing a beer cooler to take to dinner. I’m fairly positive that this little incident will come back a few more times in the next few months, but I’m also fairly positive the naked thing was the low point, so that’s good news. Better to just get the low point out of the way right off the bat.

What can I say though? Fightin’ words are just part of relationships. We say them, own up to them, apologize for them, and move on. But, just between you and me, I will fight to the death before I allow hooker red walls to be painted in my living room.

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