Burning down the house (attempt 1)

Today I came back to work after being home sick for two days. I was not feeling better but I was bored and if I don’t have a doctor’s note, I can’t stay out more than two days in a row anyway. I don’t have a doctor, hence the reason I’m in today. Tonight after work, or in the morning, I’m going to go to the hospital if I don’t feel better, though, because now I have a fever and the cold is in my chest and honestly, I feel like I did when I caught man flu/pneumonia in Bosnia that time.

I’ll be damned, though, if I get sent back to the German hospital for 8 days. My sanity cannot handle that right now. So, we’ll go a bit earlier than when I start to hallucinate and hope I can just get some medicine and walk on out. I cannot be sick next week and I also cannot be subjected to a shared room in the TB ward again. Dear God no.

Now. While I sort that out, let’s go over what destruction I caused this week. I like to call this episode, Further Proof Heather Doesn’t Belong in the Kitchen or, as Mr. H would probably title it, Reasons Heather is a Horrible Wife, part 9 trillion.

So I was trying to be somewhat productive and domestic on the first day I was sick by tossing together a roast and vegetables in the crock pot so it could cook while I was asleep. I figured that’d be nice of me and it’d be ready by the time the Mr. got home and I could sleep while it cooked. So I cooked it in this.

This crock pot might look harmless but it's not.

Now the only reason I’m using this old thing is because I think my mom gave it to me when I was in college and so I’ve kept it around, even though I have a newer one at my sister’s house that I got for one of my weddings. So anyway. I plug it in, dinner is cooking and I go back to the couch for a few hours of sick sleep. I did notice a bit of a burning smell after the first half hour, but since the crockpot is from the U.S., it was plugged into the adapter, which always makes a funny smell (kind of) if a heavy-duty American appliance is plugged into it.

Half an hour more into the cooking, I heard a banging noise and got up to see that both handles had fallen right off the crock pot. I didn’t happen to notice that they actually melted clear off the pot. I also didn’t notice that the adapter was turned on low and the pot was turned on high. Apparently this is not a good thing.

Really, I just figured the smell was an indication of electricity, hard at work. Makes sense to me.

About an hour later, I started to clean up the mess and moved the plastic chopping board out from under the crock pot, where a piece of it had been stuck, and even though I noticed that it was melted almost to nothing, I just put it in the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. Never occurred to me that I was in the process of potentially burning down my house.

That night, almost 9 hours after I started the roast, I served said dinner and after it was cleared, I went upstairs to look for my new computer programs to download on the Airbook. This is about the time I heard an outrageous amount of swearing and yelling coming from the kitchen. Normally Mr. H doesn’t reduce himself to dramatics for no reason and so I ran down to see what the fit was about. And then I saw this, and I knew two things.

This is what being a moron looks like.


1. I was in a lot of trouble.
2. I should have my IQ or my mental retardation status checked.
3. I am really terrible at both common sense and all things domestic.
So ok, that’s 3-4 things that picture tells me, but to be honest, this whole situation tells you so many more things about me and my special behavior.

This is the point of the story where as I moved closer to the burn, I started hoping it’d scratch off or I could blame someone else or I could squint really hard and I’d disappear and pop up in a chocolate store in France or somewhere a bit happier than my kitchen. Instead of that happening, though, I just saw an uglier view of the burn.

Yes, it's cracked and peeled and awful looking.

Then I started crying irrationally about turning more Germans against us and how now all of our friends that visit will think the house is ugly and why we’re terrible people who don’t deserve nice things because we are ruiners. Unfortunately, I don’t keep pictures around of me sobbing so you’ll have to just picture this.

Flash to yesterday, day two of being sick at home…

I had to avoid the kitchen as much as possible. I couldn’t stand to even go in there a few minutes to get tea or more medicine or food because the burn was just staring right back at me, as if to say, you’re a fucking idiot and here’s an easy reminder of that and it was making my head hurt more than breathing in 9 hours of burning plastic made it hurt and so on sick day two I went down to the store and came up with a solution.

Decorating success

Pretty plant, don’t you think?

Problem solved. For now.

Sunday, sunday

Seriously. I’ve tried blogging three different times and had to delete them all because each post sucked. So tonight, I give up. I’ll just add some images to give you an idea about how I spent my Sunday.

Kicked off the day with my juice.

Read this on the porch.

Spent the morning in the sun with Mox.

Loves sunbathing as much as I do.

Tricked myself into drinking water by making it look like this.

Pretty water goes down easier.

Spent two hours walking through here.

Cooked this.

Yes, I said I cooked.

And now I’m lying in bed, reading and writing.

Sundays are my favorite.

Why my house decorations are better than yours

So, if you recall, Chris thought it was a brilliant idea for our take away from Denver, our memento from Al’s wedding, for it to be a ridiculously large bull on top of a weathervane.

Well, I only saw it sitting on a counter at a souvenir shop. I didn’t see it put together, which it is now. It’s also sitting in my living room, directly across from the couches and by the TV.

It’s also 4 feet and eleven inches tall. I know this because I am only an inch taller and I’m five foot even. Also, the horns come at eye level, which we realized when Chris said we might have to raise it in case I accidentally run into it one day and take an eye out. I’m not quite sure why I’d be running at the bull face first, but then again, stranger things have happened.

So here’s the glorious bull.

Don't be jealous.

This thing is going to set the Germans right off. We can’t put it on the house because we don’t own it. We can’t put it in the yard because they’d call the police. And so it will remain in the living room, in the windows, for all the nosey neighbors to see.

And at Christmastime, we will string him up in white lights. For the rest of the summer, his horns will be used as my bathing suit drying station. You can’t just show up at my house and not be all multi-purpose, even if you are a copper bull. So. All in all, I guess he’s a good purchase.

And if nothing else, he’s just ridiculous and fun.

Frühlingsfest summary and Operation GUACAMOLE

After an exhausting night at Fest last night, which didn’t end until I arrived home at 4am, I am on the couch, surrounded by snacks and in the middle of a movie marathon. I will be laying here, napping on an off for the rest of the night.

Fest last night was as fun as it always is and I found a few pictures of myself from last night’s collection that will sum up the evening’s events.

First, is a pic of me, the Kokes and my half marathon training partner, Sweet Caroline.

Classic open mouth shot.

Then there’s this. All you need to know about Fest. All the beer you can drink, with a healthy dose of sightseeing.

I'm not sure this picture even needs a caption.

And I TOLD YOU IT WOULD HAPPEN. Why can’t I just leave my skirt alone?? Fucking can-can dancing. Damnit.

Oh, just me and Caroline dancing again. Cute.

So that was last night. Tonight, though, before before I hit the couch, I decided to be a bit productive and make homemade guac and chips for a snack. I’ve always been fascinated by people who make a great guac. Normally, I wouldn’t blog about this, but of course I had to act all special ed and Mr. H said it was kind of blog worthy…..

So to start, you have to cut and peel the avocados. Well guess the fuck what? No one has ever told me how to do it. So. Obviously I just started peeling mine like you would an orange. I couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with what I was doing and so I kept going until the Mr. was all, “What in the hell are you doing? Do you have to act like such an animal all the time?” Which of course the answer is yes because that’s just how I do things. So here’s a pic of the start. Guess which avocado is mine. HAAAAAAA.

HINT: Mine is the one that looks like a racoon tried to get into it.

Then when he showed me how to do it, I was back on track. Here are a few of the ingredients. Actually, almost all of them.

Then you add a bit of this.

Then, toss in some spice and mash it around with a fork. Or, if you’re impatient and aggressive like me, smash it up with a potato masher, or at least I think that’s what this is, and you get the job done faster. Using the fork was bullshit.

Suggestion for other angry, impatient domestic nightmares.

And then you are left with this, which is amazing.

Really, REALLY worth making at home.

So. That’s what I’m up to tonight and a few pics from last night. Now. I have to get back to working on my post about my thoughts on monkeys.

Later.

How and why I was pregnant last Thursday

So last night I caused an uproar on the FB by mentioning I wanted to write about being prego (and about Jon Hamm’s yummy facial hair, which I would think was much more important), which you should all know would be too easy if it had meant just that. Do you all really think I would have been boozing like a fish this past weekend AND then announcing it on FB all white trash like? Ugh. Don’t answer that.

SO anyway. About being pregnant last Thursday. I find this story very funny and I have been running around telling it but I will warn anyone with a penis that reads my blog…you will be slightly disturbed and then you will probably picture me with a fat stomach, which I’ll tell you right now I don’t fucking appreciate. All the girls will understand and I will not need to explain any of this further. So. No more prefacing.

Last week we were off to DC to celebrate the union of The Bales. If you remember correctly, I was really bullshit about my seat assignment, which I drew out for you in this picture, which is still one of the most awesome things I’ve done of late.

myassignedseating

And then on Thursday morning, I showed up to the airport at 0455 to catch a 0640 plane and the following happened:
https://theheatherchronicles.wordpress.com/2011/04/28/the-day-i-tried-to-make-it-to-dc/

So. To briefly get us up to speed, after two cancelled flights, I was sent back up to ticketing and our bags were shot out on the belt and we were forced to start all over, 4 hours after I started the journey. Then we were told we were flying through FRANKFURT (two hours from my house) instead at 1700, which is 12 full hours from the time I arrived at the airport (which is ten minutes from my house). So. By the time I boarded the plane for Frankfurt I had:
1. Tried on so many lipsticks that my face was stained but I still felt pretty.
2. I used my lunch voucher at Burger King and wore the crown which was a terrible idea because a. I smelled like Bk for the rest of the day and b. never eat BK before you get on a flight. That was just plain moronic.
3. I napped in the shape of a starfish on the floor watching the planes for like an hour which really pissed the Germans off but I.don’t.care.

Anyway. It’s 5pm now and I’m on the way to Frankfurt and napping with my mouth open for 40 minutes. I can’t take my ambien til the longer flight so I’m getting pissy. I’m also bullshit that I didn’t wear sweatpants considering this was now going to be a 20 hour travel day but Mr. H has a NO SWEATPANTS IN PUBLIC rule, which is wicked bullshit in general. And I’m STILL BEYOND BULLSHIT that I am about to get onto another flight in which I am in the middle bathroom seat for 7 MORE hours AND I am going to arrive to our own WELCOME BACK HAPPY HOUR 5 hours late because Lufthansa and Continental can’t get their shit together and fly planes. Fired, both of them.

It’s as we’re walking off the first plane to get ticketed for the next plane in Frankfurt that I come up with a brilliant idea.

“Don’t say a word when we get to ticketing. I will handle this. I have a plan,” I say to Mr. H. I have already blamed him repeatedly for ruining my flying experience that day and I know he has had enough of me.

“Cute. Can’t wait. What is this plan of yours?” He doesn’t even seem that interested. Just still annoyed with me.

“I am going to tell the woman I’m pregnant.” Then I look at myself because I KNOW MR. H IMMEDIATELY LOOKS, as though he doesn’t know what my fucking stomach looks like lately and I am pleased that I don’t think I look pregnant but I am wearing a very roomier fleece jacket and no person in their right mind would question a crazy haired woman wearing a jacket too big for her with clownish lipstick smeared from my nose to my chin. Not if they value their life, or so I calculated.

“You are not.” WHY DOES HE ALWAYS CHALLENGE ME???

“Yes, I obviously am. I once heard that people tell airlines that they just got married and get upgraded for their honeymoon but I don’t like you enough right now to seem honeymoon happy and so I figure pregnancy probably works even better because you just can’t question that and so yes, I fucking am. You better not say a word and you better not laugh.”

“I bet you 80 euro that you don’t do it.” He is technically betting me our shared money but I love winning.

“Stop reverse psychology-ing me.” I approach the counter and am pleased to see a seemingly nice woman in front of me. I lean in so she can’t really see my stomach and at the same time arch my back and puff my stomach out just in case she wants to inspect me. I did just eat Burger King and I’m pretty sure I can make myself look first trimester pregnant because really, anyone can if they try.

For the record, because I am vain and don’t actually want to look pregnant, here is a picture of me at the wedding two days later which I hope clears up the issue of whether I’m just fat because that would really piss me off today.

Me not looking pregnant, standing next to the Mr in DC.

So. Happy looking ticket lady takes the ticket print out I hand her and our two passports and starts processing them. I put my forehand in the palm of my hand, which is propped up right in front of her face and I sigh a bit and put on my best look of distress.

“Is this flight full?” I ask in a tone nicer than one I’ve ever used before, but slightly emotional sounding, because I want her to think I’m slightly unstable due to my baby’s hormones overtaking me. (because that obviously happens when you’re really pregnant)

“No, it’s actually not today, but I have nothing but middle seats, unfortunately.” She looks up at me and gives me a fake smile that I DESPISE but I stay strong and try to think of something sad so that I start getting worked up in case I need to cry. The thought of David Beckham having more children with that bitch Posh does the trick and I feel a little pool start in my eyelids.

I sigh, but not in a mean way. “You’re sure? What if we waited until we were the last people on the plane and then we just checked around and if there was ANY other seat, could I please, please move?” I was using some sort of soft, pleading voice that I’ve never used before and I looked out of the corner of my eye to see if Mr. H was acting like a supportive father to be or if he was trying not to laugh like an asshole that was about to blow my cover.

She paused, which was a great sign in my head and looked at the computer, then back at me, then back at the computer. “Well, I don’t have two seats together but,” she tried to continue.

“Oh. No. I don’t care where he sits. One seat will do. Anywhere.” Then Chris jumped in like the generous soul he is, mostly I think because he wanted to get far away from me and he wanted me to stop acting like I was on Grey’s Anatomy.

“I can take a seat wherever. If you have one it’s fine.”

She looked a little concerned that I didn’t care where he sat so I figured it was now or never. I took a deep breath and just let it all out.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m pregnant. (then I paused to be dramatic) And you would not believe the day I’ve had already. Two of my flights have been cancelled and he booked us middle seats (in a, how.dare.he, hiss) and I have 7 more hours to go and I have been getting sick and I just don’t think I can handle one more flight like this. Please. I will take anything you have.” And I’ll take an Emmy with that as well because my performance was almost flawless. Even I believed I was now carrying around a mini me in my belly and now I needed that seat. I would fucking sob if I had to.

Mr. H was dead silent. The woman’s head titled, which was another good sign. She leaned over and whispered something to her coworker, who looked at me. I acted like I was too distressed and busy swallowing back baby bile to be able to smile. They whispered again and then the happy ticket woman started ripping up my tickets and typing fast.

Oh my god, I thought. I had just fucking done it! I had got us upgraded with my superb acting skills and now I was about to get new seats, 80 euro AND bragging rights. (No, maybe I just look fat or frumpy still has not occurred to me)

“Well, we do have two Economy Plus seats next to each other, just a window and aisle seat together available. And, they have a lot of extra leg room, you know, for the baby.” FOR.THE.BABY. What in the Christ? I tried REALLY hard not to laugh. Fuck it. I’d take it.

“I cannot even tell you how happy I am. Thank you so much. You are my new favorite person. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I am PUMPED.

As we walked away toward Duty Free to buy scotch, new tickets in hand, I said to Mr. H, “You’re welcome. You don’t even seem happy that I just Amazing Raced that shit and got us sweet seats.”

“You should feel awful,” he started.

“I will rip up your ticket right now if you keep this up. You can act happy or go sit by the bathroom again. I have no idea why I’d even feel awful.” I knew he’d tell me, though.

“You JUST CRIED awhile ago…remember?” Oh I knew what he was getting at. And by awhile he meant like a month. He kept on. “When the guy said he didn’t know you were expecting? And you cried? And you were yelling and now you tell someone you’re pregnant and you are proud of yourself??”

I had no idea why I would even have to EXPLAIN THIS. “Two fucking different things. One, that day I was wearing a goddamned empire waist dress which NO ONE TOLD ME MAKES ONLY PREGNANT GIRLS LOOK NICE AND NON PREGNANT GIRLS LOOK FUCKING PREGNANT and I was standing like a lazy cow, sticking my stomach out, bagging groceries and he DOES NOT KNOW WHAT HE IS TALKING ABOUT AND TWO I TOLD YOU EVERYONE WOULD CRY and THREE, (I am slightly shrieking but too happy to get to white noise) this is NOT even the same thing. I am brilliant, I won us these tickets and you are UNGRATEFUL.”

“Thank you, honey,” he says in a tone that I don’t consider thankful. “I am thrilled about the tickets and you are still fucking insane.”

I wasn’t even listening to him anymore. All I cared about is that we sat in the front of the plane, drinking two glasses each of chardonnay, to celebrate. And to show you where, and how happy I really was, I drew a new picture, which might even be better than the first. (Click the green link below this)

updated plane seating picture

So, no, I’m not real life pregnant. But you better bet your bottom 80 euro that I will be every time I fly.

Learning to fight fair

Where was that section in my marriage handbook that no one gave me?  I wonder why no one ever told me that when you get married you have to learn to fight fair. 

I wouldn’t say I like to fight, but if it’s that or flight, you better believe I’ll pick losemyshit and smashing something over say, lock myself in my room and give the silent treatment for days.  I don’t do silent treatment.  I do irrational crazy and I’m pretty, wicked good at it. 

With each fight over nothing I have with my Mr. H, I realize I have no idea how this is supposed to go in normal married world.  Typically I have no idea:

1. What the hell I’m usually fighting about.  I usually start with something minor and then it all goes to shit so fast you wouldn’t believe it.

2. Why I can’t act like a normal person and keep myself from white noise shrieking.

3. How to pick my battles.

The way I see it is that everything can be a battle.  I will win the toilet seat battle and the food on the counter battle and the don’t talk to me like I’m committable battle and especially the yes, I’m allowed to nap, I’m a grown ass woman battle.  What else are we doing that’s so interesting that we can’t throw down over the *fun stuff?  We don’t have kids.  It’s not like we can say, “Look, I’m too worn out to fight with you after bathing, feeding, entertaining the kids.”  Moxie hasn’t bathed in months, it takes 2 minutes for them to eat and entertaining=buy new bones.  We have PLENTY of time to fight if we want to.  Not that we do. 

I do know that I like to swear a lot when I fight.  And clench my fist and jaw.  I’m a name caller and an evil eye giver and sometimes, when my Mr. H really drives me crazy, I just want to scream really fucking loudly.  I’ve somehow taken up stomping and if it’s a really minor, annoying, harmless round of banter, I’ll punch him really hard on the arm.  Not in a domestic violence type way…more like a, I’m so cute and you deserve it for bothering me, type way.  I’m fun, I know.

And so is it wrong that when I heard this song for the first time, I thought of myself and it’s now one of my favorites?

And really.  Loving and fighting like this means you have passion, right? 🙂

Resolving to just be a better me, the work in progress edition

I always have trouble getting my goals and thoughts about the upcoming year on the first day of the year. I figure the second isn’t that shabby. Besides, I have spent the last day and a half sleeping off the end of last year, recovering from a bad flu and getting my house back in order to properly start this New Year. And so, a day late, here are my thoughts about what I’d like to accomplish this year.

I think I have spent the past 15 New Years day-afters thinking of things to give up for the next 365. I’ve given up every food group but junk (and red meat, seriously, I will never give up red meat), a number of different beverages, people, many self-destructive habits and ways of thinking. I’m promised myself to write books, lose fat, gain muscle, become a person that likes things I’m not even sure I like such as baking (which I hate), sewing (which I have no attention span for) and triathaloning (lets.be.honest.with.ourselves). I’ve made sneaky compromises by giving up red wine (I fancy white), bbq chips (I get all weak in the knees for salt and vinegar) chips, coke (I heart ginger ale). I resolve, if at all, to do things that don’t really count or really aren’t going to make much of a difference in my life because sometimes I like succeeding so much that I choose to take the easy road.

I don’t want 2011 to be easy. I want it to be rewarding and I want to feel like I made more of a difference by the end of it–personally, maybe professionally, just all around change my shit type stuff. (clearly still refusing to add “stop swearing” to 2011’s list, per usual) So let’s go over the list I’ve come up with.

Cook 2x/week: I haven’t had to cook in 5 years. I am a lucky gal to have my own personal husband-chef and its a good thing he loves it or he would surely not like me anymore. But I like cooking, or at least I like to watch cooking shows, which should count for something. And I need to learn a few skills before I become all with-kids-domestic and they grow up and are able to trash talk me to their friends by spreading the word that I don’t know what thehell I’m doing in the kitchen. And so, to make it fun, I’m going to cook my way ahead with Deb, from her A++ site, www.smittenkitchen.com, which I.heart.to.death. Two weeks ago I tried her (adapted) Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic and I was sooo proud of myself, at the very least for trying and turning out a delightful little meal. http://smittenkitchen.com/2007/11/chicken-with-forty-cloves-of-garlic/ And, to add a dash of cliché into the mix, I’d really like to cook Julia’s Beef Bourguignon,for a special occasion. And so there is my domestic contribution to a better me.

Common sense upgrades. These are the little things I need to do merely to act like a functional adult. Mine as well toss them in this post.
1. I need to wash my goddamned face every morning and every night. I know this must just look insane to some people but really, I cannot bring myself to the sink before bed and it’s so annoying.
2. While I’m at it, take my contacts out every night so my eyes don’t fall out of my head.
3. Drink 9 glasses of water a day. I would say 8 but why not go crazy and shoot high. I have NEVER had 8 glasses of water on any day in my life. I’m sure of it. This year, friends, I will BE.HYDRATED! And, I am going to order a supply of the world’s BEST water, Volvic Coconut and Lime, which is AMAZING. Of course it is, it’s French.

The Chronicles goal of the year: 4-6 posts/week. For real.

Nancy Drew super task of the YEAR: FIND.THIS.JUICE.

Honestly. I’ve been obsessed with it for three years and I’ve only had one bottle in my life and I NEED IT. Considering it’s only sold in FRANCE (http://www.granini.com/content/dropdown_oben_oben.php?get_navigation_id=440), I’m not sure how many more random grocery stores I can keep searching. My little heart can only be broken so many times and FRAMBOIS GRANINI, stop.breaking.my.heart and SHOW YOURSELF. (I will pay big money for this juice and consider inappropriate trades of other sorts. Maybe.)

Professional goal of 2011: Give up the notion that I have to wait until all of my family is dead or has disowned me aka Finish my collection of autobiographical essays. The ones I don’t post on The Chronicles. The ones that I think are the really funny ones….the ones that someone else will obviously not think are funny but perhaps they can be swayed by bribes and monthly direct deposited checks (my parents, surely). The ones I’m saving for The Book. The Book I want to be talked about the way I rave on and on loudly in open spaces about “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim”. The one I’m always talking about but never finishing. And so. I figure I need 30 solid stories to fill a book. I figure at least 10-15 will be banned by my sister alone. (we discussed said banned list at Christmas but we’re still negotiating and no parental opinions are allowed, sorry) I have 15. I need 30 more to go. I’m going to do one 1-2 a week. Then we’ll see if I am serious about this. (I am, I am) Because if I can’t do it this year, it’ll forever just be a hobby and not a career. I don’t want to herd cats forever. I just want to use my 31 years of chaotic dysfunction and dramatic, fresh mouth and inappropriate and very offensive inner monologue to make people laugh. But in something you have to purchase because this shit can’t be free forever.

More selfless behavior resolution:
I’d like to give more this year to charity and people that make a difference in the world. I think I’ll commit myself to my two favorites and then find 2 more to contribute to and contribute at least $500 to each by the end of the year. I know it’s not much, but each is very important to me and I’d like to thank them. The charity list is as follows:
1. Active Minds http://www.activeminds.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=57&Itemid=136
2. HART animal rescue http://www.rescueahart.org
3. tbd
4. tbd
As I donate, I’ll blog about each charity and why I care. Never too late to make a difference, right?!

So. There you have it. Just looking at this list makes me both excited and tired at the same time. 🙂

Hope you’re enjoying the first weekend of the New Year. Best wishes to you and yours from Germany.

Everybody Hates Chris, the Tussin edition

Or at least his school of thought when it comes to sickness at my house. Chris Rock, I hate you. In all fairness, I should be blaming my husband, but seriously, that is too easy and to be honest, it’s Chris Rock’s fault that I’m miserable when couch-ridden, delirious with the sweats and spewing awfulness from the mouth and nose.

Seriously, I blame Chris Rock for fucking with me every.time.I.get.sick. And it’s all because he had to go and do his little Tussin skit which apparently every man on EARTH subscribes to.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wd-EBG3a7jU

So, let’s go back to Monday, when I start to feel the sickness in the back of my throat. It’s scratchy and I start with the sniffles and I can feel the throbbing behind my eyeballs which (this time) has nothing to do with vino intake and so I am pissed. I am getting sick. I go to the store. Alone. I have to go alone if I want the medicine that I want. Otherwise, I am chased by my Mr. H with the same question he asks every time, “Are you going to get some Tussin?”

No. I never get Tussin unless I am coughing up piles of phlegm and it’s flourescent. I get dayquil and nightquil and lemon cough drops and some of that throat spray, depending on how badly I really want to swallow because that Sucrets spray is a friend of no one. And since I’m alone, I get them all with some soup and some tea and figure I’m good for the night.

I’m not on the couch one hour in my sweaty misery after work when he asks, “Did you take some Tussin?” I roll around and moan. I know his second attempt at medical advice is next. “Want some juice? You can have some and then go for a walk.” Like clockwork.

It’s 25 fucking degrees outside. I hate “walk it off” more than I hate “get some Tussin.” And what I hate more is what I know he’s going to whip out next, (wait for it)

“It’s too bad you don’t have a super immune system like I do. Must be from all those times you took that medicine. Tighten up, Heath. You should work on that.” Ohhhhhh, someone is A GODDAMNED COMEDIAN. He LOVES to talk about his immune system, sometimes I think in third person, like it is a goddamned superhero. I go to bed, refusing Tussin and feeling like a train hit me. I pray I don’t have man-flu pneumonia again.

Tuesday morning: He finds me in the spare room, surrounding by two waters, a juice, 93 cough drops and a year’s supply of used tissue.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, pulling my covers off to inspect me. He is mesmerized by my beauty.

“You were snoring too loud and I couldn’t sleep and I’m dying.” He is not on the bed anymore. I hear him down the hall. No, wait. He is coming back. He sits on the bed again. I roll over to face him. Oh, jesus FUCK.

“Here. Be a good girl and take some Tussin.” Down the hatch he forces it. He smiles, proud of himself. “There, you should feel better.”

He calls three hours later from work.
“Did you take some Tussin?”
“No.”
“How about you take the dogs for a walk?” I can barely stand without wanting to pass out. I am getting angry.
“Please stop calling me with your worthless advice.” We hang up.

He comes home from work. He alternates between singing, “You are my Sunshine” and “You’re my favorite girl” over and over again, just mocking, mocking, mocking. I haven’t showered now in two days and I am borderline death. I am going to punish him when I am well enough.

“Do you want some Tussin?” That’s it. I’m going to bed. I don’t leave bed for another 18 hours.

Until now. I am up today and out of the house. So. Since today I’m well enough to lift my head for longer than three minutes at a time, I thought I’d write about my never-ending battle with Tussin, Chris Rock and my husband’s *helpful ways.

*(I will note that when asked to rub my face/nasal area, my Mr. H complied on day 1 but on day 2 started charging me 2 euro/min for said sickness face massage. Ahhh, marriage.)

Marriage and bargaining, a true art form

Sometimes I think my husband tells me his brilliant ideas just to spike my blood pressure and make sure my ticker is working on a daily basis. Otherwise, I’m unsure as to why he tests me so regularly, knowing I have a tendency to losemyshit over nothing. Like today, he’s just full of nonsense talk today and GOD, I REALLY WISH I HAD THAT VOICE RECORDER I’VE BEEN WISHING FOR (any takers? http://www.amazon.com/Sony-ICDB600-Digital-Recorder-Silver/dp/B002ZZ60IY). A voice recorder would have really been useful in bringing out the tone of this little lunchtime chat we had today about the gift he wants to “give to us”.

You’ll probably get the gist, though.

“I want to get the TV this weekend, before everyone comes over for Christmas, so everyone can enjoy it.” The TV is a 50 inch Samsung, in white, as thin as paper. He thinks it’ll look faboo in our new living room, and while I agree, I do not want said TV, nor do I think we need to get it this week before Christmas just to please our friends who do not even know about said TV. I suggested we wait until the after-Christmas sales.

“They don’t have those sales.” I think he whined like an 8-year-old.

“Oh really. They don’t? What? Germany is the only country in the world that doesn’t jack up the prices and then jack them the fuck back down on the 26th? Please.”

“I’m going to jack you up,” he offered.

“Cute. You sound crazy. But fine. You want the TV? We’ll get the TV tomorrow and then since we were planning on getting a couch too, I get to pick the couch alone. You, TV. Me, couch. AND, when the TV goes on sale on the 26th, whatever the difference in price is, I get in cash to buy boots and clothes. Still want your TV?”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Heather. So if I get the TV, we spend extra money by getting you something else? No. What I’m trying to do is give us a gift, baby.” Here it comes. He is honestly going to try to convince me this gift is for me. I love this.

“Heath, what I’m trying to do is better our quality of life. I’m trying to give us something we can share, enjoy together, maybe even for the next seven years.” No he didn’t just quality of life me and propose we’re going to enjoy seven full years of this TV. I picture our current TV. We accidentally melted the bottom of it by burning a large candle under it for 12 hours straight without noticing the burning plastic smell. (*responsible adults) Seven years my ass.

“You know we are going to upgrade it again within seven years. Stop lying to me.”

“Why are you being so selfish? I am thinking about US. You are thinking about you.” He’s being slightly dramatic, considering the joint present he knows I bought us for Christmas is a weekend DOG SLEDDING TRIP IN SWITZERLAND. Um yeah. A bit different.

“You know, Christmas is about giving, not receiving.” I am just taunting him now–one of my favorite hobbies, actually.

“Fine. Then you are forcing us to continue to live in squalor.” He huffs.

Squalor? He used SQUALOR? hahahhahaah. Good god.

And so tonight I’m going to play the violin for my Tiny Tim and then tomorrow you can find me at MediaMart, where I’ll be standing in line, buying said TV. But not because he won. Because I am going to get my boots, clothes AND couch and this way just seems easiest.

Compromise: Paying someone to blow your husband

Marriage is like having a second fucking job. Who the hell knew it was as much work as all of your miserably married friends warned you about as you prepared to walk down the aisle. I didn’t believe a word they said. I laughed in their faces and mocked them behind their backs. Marriage? Work? Not for us. We’re too good for that.

Wrong, wrong, why am I always so fucking wrong.

I can just (uncharacteristically) losemyshit now over pretty much anything these days. Like this morning before 830, I stomped my foot because I dropped a package my Mr. H handed to me, primarily because it is always more fun to blame. As I picked it up from the snow I hissed, You could be a little more CAREFUL when handing me things. He asked me what my problem was, not even wanting an answer and then walked off, obviously not in the mood to entertain a tantrum in the snow, in 8 degree weather on a Friday. FINE.

I’m not sure if it has to do with the fact that my hormones are OFFTHECHARTS lately or if it’s my pent-up aggression from that nasty bitch troll landlord that owes us 6000 euro which is like 9 trillion USD or if it’s that we’ve been hit by 30 inches of snow in two days and I HATE IT or if it’s because I’ve been losing iron straight out of my legs now for um 36fuckingdays straight. Either way, I’m just out of control lately and there’s no reason not to just let you all know what a delight I’m being…send your condolences to my husband. He needs all the support he can get.

Now. In admitting all this, I will also say that I have found it amusing how some of our conversations have changed since we’ve been married. Now keep in mind, we’ve probably never had typical husband/wife chats to begin with, but I certainly think we have some good ones. Here is a conversation we had this week over dinner.

“So I’m going to call S&K’s masseuse. The one that comes to their house. Should I book you a rub too?” I’m really dying for a massage lately.

“A rub and tug?” He seems more interested with his version.

No. (sigh and not because he wants a jerk but because I WANT TO BOOK THIS NOW and he’s stalling me) Do you want a 60 minute back rub or shall I take your time too?” I love to be rubbed down by strangers and he knows it.

“You know I don’t want one.” He is so bizarre. He does not want a stranger, female or not, anywhere near his naked backside, rubbing him down with oils and such. I don’t get it. He claims it’s uncomfortable and just weird. And yes, I’ve already asked if he’s just afraid of getting a chub while getting said stranger given rub down and he gave me a look. No, he had said. I’m not. Firmly. I bet he was. Anyway, back to the conversation.

“I bet you’d let her give you a blow job, though. You wouldn’t think paying a stranger to come into our house to do that would be odd, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t. Does she give blow jobs?” He is merely baiting me.

“I’m not sure, I’ll check. Then you can have your blow job and then take a nap while she rubs me down. And in that case I’m getting more than 60 minutes for a massage.”

“Fine. You get out of a blow job and you get a massage. Win-win.” He was right. That was a win-win for me.

We high-fived and finished our dinner, chatting about something else.

So. Today’s lesson is this: I guess if you’re good at compromise, maybe marriage isn’t such hard work. Even if compromise means paying someone to blow your husband so you can get a massage.