What Happens When I'm Angry

You know when you're mad at your husband and you just have to leave the house and go somewhere to vent?   

Movies are out.   I mean, the fight isn't that big of a deal (but he will not know this yet) so once he figures out how wrong he is and apologizes you will make him take you to see that Valentine's Day chick flick starring like 74 Hollywood stars. (Also, how horrible are those movies? And why can't I stop watching them?) 

Restaurants are definitely out.   I like to do my stress eating in private.  No one needs to see me pigging out on cupcakes and pumpkin pancakes.  

The mall is dangerous.  If I'm really irate, I have been known to go on a buying spree with our joint account.   That's right...I'll show you, Mark!  I'm going to make us poor.  

That will definitely show him!  You go, Kristen! 

So my safety choice is CVS.  

If I'm in a really poor mood my ability to resist product marketing is minimal.  Do you ever have the feeling that with one tube of the perfect mascara or one vitamin/retinal/placenta packed face cream that all of your troubles will mysteriously melt away?   

You mean THIS mascara will make me look like I have little wings attached to my eyes and every time I blink it will make it rain in the Amazon? Sold. (Also, that’s the Butterfly Effect, right? I never got all the way through that horrible Ashton Kutcher movie so I’m just guessing.)  

A couple of my mascaras. And yes, those two are basically the same but one is Carbon Black and other is Black Black.

Buy this little tub of farts wrapped in organic dust bunnies we found under our couch sprinkled with real life angel sneezes and you’ll never look a day over 3 years old again!  

And buy them, I do.  

Just a few of the many products I've invested in. 

Anyone need body lotion, antibacterial hand lotion, spritzes, sprays? 

I’m a complete sucker.   I'd like to say "I'm a complete sucker when I'm angry" but really I'm kidding no one.  I'm just a sucker for all these fun little 'miracle cures'. 

My execution is lacking, however.  

My bathroom is filled with little baskets and in those little baskets are zillions of half empty bottles of lotions, creams, retinals, soaps and the odd makeup that just never looked right.   

They all sit there in their little basket, mocking me.   

I’m made of freaking organic dust bunnies, girl!  What is not to love?  

I guess the real question is, does Good Will accept half used bottles of night cream, body lotion, eye wrinkle magic, and dark spot remover?

And, maybe I should just go eat my feelings the next time we fight.  After looking at all my 'potions', I feel like that might be a better use of my time.  

My Olympic Dream

While I’m generally not an Olympic person, I can’t help but get sucked into the athletes back stories. Little Gabby Douglas moving away from her family to work with her coach, the 4:00 am practice sessions, the grit and determination. Seeing these dedicated individuals is really inspiring.

This inspiration has led me to look at an unrealized dream of my own.

Liquid eyeliner. More specifically, the act of applying liquid eyeliner in the cat-eye technique.

Yep, that’s it. That’s my little ol’ dream.

Liquid eyeliner application is like the highest achievable level of humanity in my opinion. I’m sure the Nobel Prize winners are very smart with their disease cures and award-winning mathematical algorithms but I bet they’ve never mastered the cat-eye.

The straight black line across the eyelid, the gentle upward swish of the gooey black liquid at the precise outside corner of the lid with a careful flick of the wrist looks easy enough.

But you’d be wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Mine is a splotchy, not straight. The all-important swish comes either too early or too late thereby making me look like I have a fish hook piercing my eyelid or at the very least like I accidentally wrote on myself with a sharpie.

FAIL.

I want to be the kind of girl who is able to achieve the cat eye. I want the damn cat eye, people! I guess if we’re really analyzing it (and yes, welcome to my life) it’s really what the cat eye represents.

The girl who wears liquid eyeliner is fearless and not afraid of commitment (cuz that stuff is not coming off anytime soon. See my trash can with the 10 gazillion makeup remover thingies). Also, she’s classic, timeless, sophisticated and damn, it… COOL.

Think Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I may not have her gamine body or the face shape to pull off those blunt bangs (Jessica Biel doesn’t either, she’s just kidding herself) but I can attain the cat-eye. That I can do.

If the Olympics has taught me anything it’s that with a lot of determination, a heaping helping of talent and Gabby Douglas’ biceps I too can achieve the cat-eye.

I’ve already told Mark I’m quitting my job and moving into Sephora full time. He didn’t seem pleased.

Photo Credit: Hiral Henna on Flickr

 

Worst Case Scenario Kind of Girl

Thoughts that roll around in my head at night…

What did Mark have in his hand earlier? And why couldn’t I find that big butcher knife at dinner?




*Checking under his pillow* Nope, not here. Remember to check his closet in the morning.




While I am firmly against Ella dating (as in EVER), we must be on the lookout for those boys that want to murder parents in their sleep. Keep a sharp eye out for that kind.




Hmm…sure he says he is going to fix that hole in the garage with the duct tape and tarp he bought at Home Depot but what’s his hidden agenda? Lets just remember to throw ‘em in the trash on Wednesday.




So, I may spend a bit too much time watching real crime dramas. Dateline, 48 Hours, Investigation Discovery, you name it I watch it.




Clearly, they have an impact. Good and bad, I suppose.




For instance, midway through a normal dinner, I may happen to blurt out strange things.




For instance...




You know you'll never get away with it. I am much too smart to be murdered!!




What ARE you talking about?




*Silence*




Ummm...




You've REALLY got to stop watching those shows.



Admittedly, I get a bit “Worst Case Scenario”and freak myself (and my husband) out on occasion.




But, on the bright side, my many hours staring into Stone Phillips’ pretty face listening to his deeply hypnotizing voice will probably, maybe, one day save our lives.




So Mark is just going to have to deal with the occasional outbursts. And the checking for wayward weapons.




Also, if you’re in the market for a never been used tarp please see my trash can on Wednesday. You’re in luck.

Let's Get Physical ... er... Healthy

I’m doing this “Let’s Get Healthy” thing. You know the drill – eat better, move more, consume considerably smaller amounts of brownie, etc.

(Side note: “Let’s Get Healthy” should be sung to the tune of “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John. It just makes sense.)

In the spirit of “Let’s Get Healthy” I had to measure myself last night. It wasn’t pretty. Mainly because I don’t know how to work a tape measure. Do you put the metal end piece thing-y so it’s just touching the other end of the tape measure or on top of the tape measure? I took livestock in 4-H because I thought it would be a good way to meet boys so my sewing skills are lacking. (Note: if you like making out with someone that smells like manure then, yes, it is a great place to meet boys.)

That is not the point, however. The point IS: I had to measure myself last night. Measuring a few areas on your body is supposed to be a good way to tell if you’re losing inches. Pounds lost is not always the best guide. It's also a good way to become an alcoholic.




So for those of you looking to make a change and want to get started, I’ve made a quick step-by-step guide:

1. Figure out how to use the tape measure.

2. Wrap the tape measure around the body part you choose to start with. For example, I chose my thigh.

3. Stare, disbelievingly, at said number.

4. Deny that that number is correct.

5. Re-do the measurement.

6. Start whimpering.

7. DENY the measurement.

8. Storm out of bathroom.

9. Grab a glass of wine.

10. Measure, AGAIN.

11. Commence bawling.

12. Sip glass of wine. Grab the bottle of wine.

13. Lie on bathroom floor.

14. Order a pizza.

The following steps are crucial, y'all:

15. Have your significant other tell you that you are awesome and perfect and lovely no matter what that stupid tape measure says.**Crucial**

16. Wipe nose with his shirt.

17. Throw away tape measure.

Clearly there was a reason those manure boys and I didn’t work out.

Photo credit: Flickr


 

Marriage: Just Hire the Experts

Our house is truly a joint effort.  My husband and I both do dishes and change diapers.  We take turns making dinner while the other one feeds the miniature She Devil (mess with her apple sauce and there will be hell to pay.)  

I'd say we’re pretty much 50-50... unless you count the Boy Jobs and the Girl Jobs. 

Growing up, I was one of four kids, the oldest and only girl.  My dad and my brothers did a lot of the yard work (OK, all of it), took out the garbage, did the plumbing/electrical odd jobs, put up outside holiday decorations, and of course, tended to the cars.  The boys also had to help in the house.  I mainly had to help in the house.  

Before you get all judge-y, I also had jobs outside the house and spent a lot of time being generally pretty awesome.  Being awesome requires lots of time and effort, y’all.   

Now that I’m married, it's funny because I automatically assume that all jobs outside are Boy Jobs, aka Mark jobs.  Some inside jobs, but not all, are Girl Jobs, aka Kristen jobs.  

For example, he'll say We really need to re-caulk the drive way.  Immediately, I think Thank God I don’t have to do that! And he never thinks it’s funny when I say Be sure to wear sunscreen! Enjoy!  

Queue the discussion about how both of our names are on the deed and 'outside' does not equal Mark.    

By the way, I don’t even know if caulking your driveway is a thing.  I just made it up. 

Also, I get the whole We really need to organize the garage speech.  A lot.  But I don’t like the garage.  At all.  It’s really hot in there.  Like gross hot.  That 'everything is bigger in Texas' line, well, it’s completely true in the bug department.  We’re talking geckos, anacondas, spiders, baby velociraptors and not so baby cockroaches.  Granted, we exterminate on the regular (to the point that I’ve invited Ray of Terminix to dinner) but still.  Ick x infinity. 

It's not that I think I'm too good to organize the garage or caulk the driveway it just doesn't occur to me to go out and do it.   I'm not very hands-on in that way.  I'm flipping awesome at laundry and my dish washer loading skills are top notch.  He's pretty great at garbage and putting that plunger/ball/hook thing in the toilet tank so it flushes.   

So, compromise.    That's the ticket.   

Also, now we just hire the experts.  Life is much easier when you don't have to caulk the driveway or mow the lawn.  

  

Hillbilly Is Not A Language

Thank God for the internet. Or should I thank Al Gore? I don’t know. I’m still confused on who made the internet. My point is without email my husband and I would probably not be married.

See, I may not be the best arguer but I can craft a thoughtful, articulate email. When I say “may not be the best”, by the way, I mean I’m the absolute worst possible communicator when I’m angry, hurt, sad, hungry, sleepy or irritable (so any of the 7 dwarfs really).

Our arguments consist of me giving him the silent treatment until he figures out that I’m giving him the silent treatment (this could take a while).

Are you mad at me?

No, of course not. I’m just stomping through the house, huffing and puffing and sighing very loudly to let the robbers in the attic know we’re home. (I always think we have robbers. Why they haven't come out & robbed and/or murdered us already is besides the point.)

Then I announce in an odd, high-pitched, sing-songy voice what I’m mad about and how I can’t believe he *insert stupid thing/comment/action*.

He apologizes and SCENE, if this were a Jennifer Lopez rom-com.

But then he has to go and make it a THING. (Way to go, Mark)

So then we’re locked in a battle over something really important and we have to “talk it out”.



This wouldn’t be a problem if I could think on my feet. But I’m more like a “lie face down” kind of thinker when I’m angry. My points get jumbled; I speak in short hand known only to me, and butcher clichés on the regular. (FYI, I butcher cliches all the time.)

Exhibit A:

I didn’t even think about what I said earlier and I can see how it would make you feel but I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings.

*sob* It’s just….it really hurt my heart…*sob*…my feelings are sore…*SOB* …*SOB* …and, and *SOB* and you just pulled all the air out of my balloon…and lunch is gone....and now my day got a monkey in the wrench.

Translation: my feelings are hurt *sob* and with one comment you took the wind out of my sails *sob* your callous comments ruined my lunch hour and this argument threw a monkey wrench in my day.

Thank god for email because no one is going to win a fight sounding like that.

And I should probably never use cliches in an argument. Hillbilly is not a language.

Throw Out The Cell Phone & Grab The Croissants

No. I’m serious. My cell phone just LIT up like it was calling someone but I didn’t touch it.

I promise you, your cell phone did NOT just turn on by itself. Did you get a text?

Oh… I just got a text. I’m just saying these Apple products are eerily smart these days.

OHMYGAWD. WHY IS THE TV BLINKING?!

It’s powering on. Please stop screaming.

Did the toaster just unplug itself?

No, I just unplugged the toaster. Jeesshh. I’ve never letting you read another sci-fi book ever again.

If you have read the book Robopocalypse you would be having these same conversations with your husband. Unless, of course, you are saner than I, which I know some of you so let’s not kid ourselves, ok.

Let me just state for the record that I am in no way a science fiction fan. If a book starts out “on planet Rom-a-Long-A –Ding-Dong…” I’m not interested. Call me a genre-ist. My husband, however, pleaded with me to read this book.

It’s a FASCINATING take on how deeply intertwined the human existence is with that of machines.

Ok, well, he didn’t say it exactly like that, mainly because my husband isn’t a tool, but he did suck me in with his “this book is sooo good” and “I can’t put it down.”

OK. Fine, Mark. I’ll read your stupid book.

AND OMG y’all. I couldn’t put this dumb science fiction book down.

It’s a take on what happens when the computers and machines become smarter than the humans (which seeing some of us in action shouldn’t be too difficult). In order to stop the humans from sabotaging the Earth (which sounds so weirdly sci-fi I still can’t believe I read this one) the machines rise up and eradicate civilization (total bummer). Then, of course, there is a small band of resourceful humans who serve as the revolutionaries and blah blah blah. I will let you read it or just email me and I’ll tell you the ending.

After finishing the book I was thisclose to coming up with a Robopocalypse Survival Guide. I didn’t get too far, mainly because I’m lazy and not a crazy Prepper. (Thank you National Geographic Channel for introducing us to the nut jobs who will outlive us all should the unthinkable happen).

This is the basic outline of my plan: Run. Oh, and bring lots of those little chocolate croissants. Those are my fav.

I’m going to be so screwed when my toaster unplugs itself.

 

Being Me

We all have our things right? You might eat PB&Js without the PB or maybe you can recite the Gettysburg Address by heart. Whatever it is, it's what makes us unique. I'm to the point in my life where I am grateful for what makes me different. I don't want to be like everyone else. I want to be me. And I want you to be you and revel in all your "you-ness".



So here I am...



I only read the NY Times for the Modern Love and Wedding Celebration stories in the Style Section.

I have GOT to go to bed by 9:00 (10:00 at the ABSOLUTE latest) or else I get weepy and emotional.

If left to my own devices I could live on buttered noodles, but I won’t because I’m a grown up…obviously.

The only way I wake up in a good mood is if my husband wakes me up. Alarm clocks make me angry.

I detest coffee (the smell, the taste, how hot it is) but drank it (several times a day even) in order to spend time with my then boyfriend, now husband. Oh, and I used to work at Starbucks but never drank their drinks.

I hate getting the mail and refuse to do so. Unless it’s around Christmas or my birthday when there might be cards in the mail. The hubs lets me open all the cards.

I always wanted an arm cast and braces growing up. I never broke anything nor needed braces. Such a bummer.

I’m an exceptional speller but I still need to sound out ‘together’ like my 3^rd grade teacher explained it to me: to-get-her.

I have a fantasy of camping out in Yellowstone National Park but I’m fairly certain the reality would be me getting eaten by a bear, mauled by a cougar (NOT Courtney Cox) and head-butted by a bison all in the same day. Also, I don’t like bugs.

So do tell lovelies, what makes you you? Leave it in the comments.

I Talk In My Sleep

(Urgent, hushed whisper)  Mark, Mark…  WAKE UP

What?

There are people staring at us!

WTF?   (Dangerous, underwear-clad husband jumps out of bed to defend his family)

WHERE ARE THEY?

Up there!  (Points to the ceiling)

*sigh* Kristen, go back to bed.  You’re dreaming

***************************************************

(Hushed whisper)   Mark, Mark, Wake UP!

What is it?

Is the crystal ok?

WHAT?

(Demandingly) I SAID, Is the crystal ok?

The crystal is fine.  Go back to sleep.

****************************************************

(Hushed whisper) Mark, Mark WAKE UP!

What?

(Shrieking, near panic) Where’s the baby? I CAN'T FIND THE BABY!

OHMYGOD!  WHERES THE BABY?  WHERE DID YOU PUT HER?

(After taking a breath) *Sigh* the baby is in her crib.  Go back to sleep.   

Oh, ok.

******************************************************

(Patting his head and whispering) Shhhh….it’s ok….it’s ok…

What are you doing?

Shhhhh…it’s ok….it’s ok

*sigh* Kristen go to sleep.  You’re dreaming. 

*****************************************************

What are you doing?  Pause.  KRISTEN! What are you doing?

(trying to pick up my husband like he was a baby)

Kristen, you're trying to squish me into a ball.  I'm not the baby.  Put me down. 

Go back to sleep.