First Married Christmas

So Sam and I are up in Lexington for our first married christmas. It's funny and weird to realize after watching your mom do stuff like make christmas cookies and wrap gifts and cook for armies for twenty some odd years that there are other moms everywhere doing the same things. Sam's mom is just finishing up making muffins and two kinds of soup and chocolate caramel turtles and these italian cookies called Pizelle. How do moms do it all? It's kind of a mind boggle considering I could be in this so-called mom camp someday, and yet moms are always doing stuff that seems superhuman. Like there is literally no room in the fridge for all these piles of food, but Sam's mom will come up with a way to make it all fit perfectly. My thought was, why not eat some of the food that's in the way? No one else in the family seems to be into the idea, based on the looks I got when double fisting some cookies in the name of making more room in the hydrator. Back to this superhuman mom thing, I feel like I have a lot to live up to when and if I become a mom someday. Like there are secret mom things that I feel like you can never be truly indoctrinated into until you have wee ones of your own. Such as, how moms always seem to know how to get stains out of things, or the perfect amount of time for cooking everything so that it's golden brown on top but still a little squishy in the middle. And as a mom, you can set the tone for some of the holiday traditions you have with your family, along with your husband, I suppose. Like, if you want to go around wearing paper bags on your feet and talking in Australian accents on Christmas eve, it'll be a good eighteen to twenty years before your kids know that's not what everyone else does, and even then, there seems to be a certain affinity for things experienced around the holidays in your youth. Like how I think Amy Grant is the definitive singer of Christmas music, and then when I put it in for Sam to enjoy, specifically her first album, I was informed that some of the tracks were "awful," (meanwhile he is planning on playing John Denver and the Muppets christmas for me, his definitive christmas album as a kid) and I have to admit that a few of the heavy synthesizer tracks are starting to show their age a bit, but even so, as a child, this was Christmas. And therefore, I will defend it staunchly for years to come, even if that means wearing paper bags on my feet.

A Late Night Exchange

Recently, Sam and I arrived home from our second jobs at about the same time. It was later in the evening. We hadn't seen each other all day and we were elated to lay eyes on one another. It went kinda like this:
Me: (hugs him tight. sniffs.) You smell like chip.
Sam: (squeezes me back. sniffs.) You smell like candle.
(both giggle. sniff each other again to confirm.)
If that ain't romance, I don't know what is.

Nuggets and Critters and Rugrats! Oh my!

There's recently been a number of people in my life who have spawned. It's crazy to see people that you literally crawled out of bars with, now as parents. It's even crazier to see what cute little kiddykens those same people can create and that all that alcohol didn't leave them with three-eyed, nine-toed, monkey genes. So aside from witnessing secondhand, the general craziness of bringing 'bitty humans into this wacky uncertain world, I've been privy to conversations with these new mommies and daddies. This has started me thinking about some issues though. Not the least of which being that Lindsey and I are new and proud God-parents. This ultimately means that if my best friend and his wife are randomly sucked into a blackhole along with everyone with blood ties to them, who are more responsible than us, we'd be responsible for a little girl! Parenting is obviously a responsibility of epic proportion so I was glad to know that these new parents are already thinking about some of these relevant issues.
There are a number of things these people are going to have to do for and explain to their kids. This goes beyond the birds and the bees, why you shouldn't eat Chef Boyardee for every meal (you'll get scurvy) and the intricacies of UP, UP, DOWN, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, B, A, Start. More than just "Hey little Johnnie, it turns out smacking Tyson in the face with that t-ball bat was funny, but not very nice" and "You know Suzy, you shouldn't exchange sexual favors for intravenous drugs" but the real McCoy. Things that could really affect these little impressionable minds for the rest of their days.
Thinking back on my own childhood, I find myself remembering the seminal experiences and memories that I have and where they actually came from. Specific things stand out like the scar I got on the back of my head from a priest or my fairly horrid first french kiss (and no, those things didn't coincide in ANY way, shape or form). Many of these memories are contained in this kind of nebulous brain mush that I get to slog around in when I hear a certain song or see certain movies.
For these new parents, the gauntlet has been thrown down. They are charged with making sure their kids get a wholesome and well-rounded education of culture so they don't end up being latte-drinking-top 40 listening-SUV driving-Myspace addicted zombies that the world wants them to be. This is a huge deal! There are a lot of choices out there for new parents. For instance, now that we have six Star Wars movies out there, spanning almost 30 years of cinematic technological improvements, what order is the new generation going to watch the Holy Trilogies in? A lot people may think, "I should show my kids these movies from The Phantom Menace to Return of the Jedi because that's how they're numbered." While this will be the parent's prerogative, 1-6 is a monumentally BAD idea and any parent caught subjecting their innocent young ones to such an abomination should be beaten with a tube sock filled wood screws!
Those kids will think the new trilogy is great because it LOOKS better than the original and this is a valid argument for uninformed, undeveloped minds. They won't have a problem with sappy dialogue, and poor character development and they may even grow up thinking Jar Jar Binks is cooler than Han Solo. This will inevitably lead to relentless taunting when those kids whose parents had the foresight to screen the movies in the right order (how WE all saw them, 4-6, then 1-3 if you're fuzzy about numbers) find out little Billy likes to dress as a floppy eared, bumbling jackass and speak in gibberish around the end of every October. Those new trilogy kids will most likely grow up to be bad tippers, know-it-alls, or people who think Crash really did deserve an Oscar and you know whose fault it's gonna be? The parents.
The point is that there are things kids need to experience as kids. They need to be properly grounded in music appreciating The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas (go ahead and laugh communist) to understand where things came from. They're gonna need to watch The Goonies before the age of 10, go camping with the family, ride rollercoasters and get their knees scraped because that's the stuff that goes into being a kid. All us well rounded folk are gonna be fine parents cause we'll remember the cool stuff that we did when we were wee ones. We'll know that some of that cool stuff was done because our parents had the mental mileage accumulated to know that that's what we should be doing. As for my unborn little ones, I quote a friend of mine who said, "My kid's always gonna be the coolest person I know, even if he can't say the same for me." But I know we're gonna have a lot of fun together. So to all all you new parents out there, Good night and Good luck. I gotta go start making some lists...

My Dr. Jekyll Moment

Sam's been off snowboarding with his brother this weekend, and last night marked the second time I had slept by myself since Sam and I got married in October. The first time almost doesn't count because I slept in my old room at my parent's house. Usually, Sam will tell you I am prone to falling asleep mid sentence and/or as soon as I hit the pillow. Though I don't always directly connect this to his being there, something clearly switches on in my brain when he isn't there and I become this morbid, paranoid person for a few hours. I can't stop obsessively thinking about all the fictitious villains who are on their way to get me--lately it's Chigurh from No Country For Old Men--dude was beyond freaky! I know what you're thinking--villains from the movies aren't real, Lindsey. I know that, or at least the rational part of my brain knows, but when the irrational part takes over, which seems to happen when Sam goes out of town, boy howdy, there's nothing too ridiculous for me to become convinced will happen at any second. There's also a few episodes from Unsolved Mysteries that I saw in the late 80's and still haunt my dreams, so those tend to replay themselves in me mind's eye as well (along with Robert Stack's creepy creeperson voice, describing each horrible moment--ah, noooo). My only strategy for combatting the irrational thoughts is making a game plan for what I will do when the evil doer/rapist/ne'erdowell breaks in. Last night it was, "I'll text Sam and quickly explain the situation" (as if he can do anything from 200 miles away). When that doesn't allay my fears, I'll start thinking about horrible situations in the news and what the survivors of them did to stay alive. Like, at Virginia Tech, how some people got down on the ground and played dead. I thought about convincing ways to play dead for about ten minutes. Yeah, I have a diagnosable problem. If you have any better tips for me to use next time, please send them my way. As for bedtime tonight, the hubby is back and I'll most likely be back to my narcoleptic ways.

How to Cut Corners

Sam and I are aspiring writers/film people, or possibly circus performers if the aformentioned doesn't work out, but as we have yet to get our big break (it should be arriving in the mail any day now) there are a few things we've been trying out to save that extra 8 G's, I mean 8 cents every month. A few you may find ridiculous, but I call them wacky newlywed fun!
1) Living on the top floor of an apartment building = free heat. You know how they always used to say, heat rises. Well, our apartment stays a balmy 65-70 degrees (depending on how cold it is outside) without the heat on! Sometimes we'll turn the heat off and see how far we can get with the heat rising through the floorboards of the apartment below. Anywhere from a few days to a week or so. Once my teeth start chattering, I'll cave and switch the sucker back on. It's like a great energy saving science project.

2) Bottle o water in the toilet. Speaking of energy saving, we don't actually have to pay for water right now, but I heard putting a bottle of water and/or sand in your toilet tank can help cut down on your monthly water bill costs, since the full bottle takes up space where new water would go. We've been doing it, just to try to cut down on our carbon footprint a wee bit more. Try it and tell me how much your water bill goes down. Seriously. I have to know.

3) Invent new food combinations. Since Sam won't eat my Fritos (see Chili blog for more information) and I don't want them to go to waste, I've been putting them on all sorts of things and getting shockingly delicious results! My new mantra is Fritos go with everything! I put them with cashews for a kind of funky redneck trail mix effect, and don't throw up, but I put them on my french silk ice cream last night, and for anyone who's ever enjoyed the salty sweet goodness of chocolate covered potato chips (it's considered a delicacy in some regions) or french fries in your wendy's frosty, I'm telling you, this was just as good. Please don't judge me.

4) Get rid of all that stuff you have to drag around. Since Sam and I are trying to move to a much bigger city where there will probably live in a really nice box on the street or an apartment that closely approximates the size of a box, we've been trying to get rid of our extra stuff. If I can't remember the last time I wore something, it goes in the giveaway pile. We've given probably six trash bags full of stuff to Goodwill, but we've also had good results with a couple of second hand stores in town that will give you money in exchange for your stuff, if it qualifies. And next up we're putting some other things, most of which have never been opened, up for sale on the ole ebay. We'll let you know how much Sam's figurines, err, action figure collectibles go for. Sam's trying to get rid of some of our new potterybarn springwood entertaining pieces, but I have thrown my body in front of the mingling plates once and I will do it again! If the mingling plates and the chip and dip serving set go, by god, I'm going down with them. He'll thank me when we throw the best party the cardboard box neighborhood has ever seen!

The Dear God! Phenomenon, or why goodwill sells a lot of cheese plates

There's a rite of passage that comes with getting married. Even if you register at every store in town for things that you like, there is no escaping it. A well-meaning but misguided aunt or someone who secretly hates you could be the culprit. I call it the Dear God! phenomenon. This is when you open a wedding gift so hideous and so far from your general good tastes as a human that it forces you to call upon the maker of all things and say, either to yourself, or perhaps out loud to your spouse, "Dear God!" often followed by, "Why?" or "I don't get it."

The presents that qualify fall into a range of categories. Lots of figurines qualify, especially if it involves animals of any kind. I love animals, just not in figurine form. Generally. I'd rather just interact with a real one. Certain items made of crystal may qualify. We received a crystal picture frame so enormous, it could not hold itself up. Even if you had a really big house with really big pieces of furniture, which we do not, I can't imagine where or how you would display such a thing. Gifts that may or may not have been used, but you suspect have been used qualify. What am I to think when someone I thought of as a good friend gives me a gift that appears to have been used? Was our friendship a farce? Have you secretly despised me all of these years, and you've been waiting for just such an occasion as my nuptuals to really give me the proverbial middle finger with this dish you appear to have been using in your kitchen until just last week when you decided to wrap it up and tie a bow on it? Did you think I wouldn't notice? The final category worth noting is the "I don't know what this is" gift. This is a present that you literally can't describe to anyone by name. It's a glass oval with a neck, that could be a light fixture but there's no way to screw it on a light and can't be a vase cause when you put anything in it it falls over. True story.

I just can't fathom why in some circles, the concept of using the registry still hasn't become acceptable. You know, the registry, that list of gifts the couple has hand selected as items they want or need to add to their househould. Unless you are a close dear friend of the couple, intimately acquainted with their likes and dislikes and able to hand select an item that you know they would like and don't already have, why would you buy something not on the registry? I for one would be mortified if I gave you something like a cheese plate that I saw somewhere or had sitting in my closet and then, it turns out, not only had you already registered for a cheese plate, which some wise old soul had the good sense to purchase, but, in addition, seven more people had the idea to send you a cheese plate that they saw somewhere or had in their closet, and now, for the love of all things holy, you have nine cheese plates. No one needs that many cheese plates people, I don't care who you are. That's the beauty of the registry. Even if, say, there's a mix up and two people each give you the same cheese plate off your registry, you know where it's from. You can return it. Get store credit. It's beautiful. When it's stuck in a random box, I don't know where to take it. It goes in the Goodwill box. They must sell a lot of cheese plates at the Goodwill.

Ode to the Breathing Apparatus

Sam and I stayed at this amazing resort in St. Lucia on our honeymoon called Ti Kaye Village. We loved the feel of a smaller resort (people there know your name and say nice to see you, sam and lindsey. what can I get you to drink, sam and lindsey, though not necessarily both of us at once all the time, that would be creepy). We got a package that included several excursions around the island, and we picked scuba diving as one to try. Granted neither one of us had been scuba diving, but this was an intro course that included an actual 30 foot dive on our resort's gorgeous reef.

And it sounded like an adventure! full of potential intrigue! danger! giant man-eating sea monsters! (or some nice coral at the very least.) The morning of the dive we signed some papers promising to do and not to do some important stuff, and then we got to watch a very informative video on scuba diving that included my favorite, underwater hand signals.

Then we put on wetsuits and fifty pound oxygen tanks, grabbed our flippers, and headed to the open water. Our group was me, Sam, Jem (Truly Outrageous!) the wonder instructor, and a 12 year old girl who was a certified diver. First we had to get in the water, and with fifty pounds of oxygen on your back this is a feat in and of itself. Jem warned us that the "last couple of steps" down were extra slippery since they were underwater. Not wanting anything to befall me before even getting started I carefully walked down, holding on tightly to both rails. Unfortunately, the stars were not aligned in the non-injury department and when I hit the first step underwater, I lost my footing and fell the rest of the way down into the ocean. I blame genetics that tend toward clammy extremities. I looked up and Sam had this look of supreme horror on his face. Jem the wonder instructor was mortified as well, and although my wounds upon later inspection would include a bruise from my ankle to my knee, a gash on my arm that still has a scar, and mangled toes, my embarrassment outweighed the pain and I refused to admit defeat. "I'm fine" I insisted. Now Jem the wonder instructor was convinced I was the goofus of the group and was keeping her scuba eye on me, and I was going to have do extra hand signals to prove my scubadiverness to her.

You have to show instructors you can expell water from your breathing apparatus thingy and clear your mask of water before they'll let you do an actual dive so, the 12 year old and Sam go underwater and are waiting on me to join them, but every time I start to go under my mask fills with water. I can feel the 12 year old's impatient eyes on me. Finally Jem wiggles over, probably thinking, this girl is a train wreck in the water. "I'm doing everything you say and my mask fills with water as soon as I try to go under." I demonstrated. She smiled a little and said, "You're smiling too much. It's creating a crease in your mask thats allowing water to rush in. Don't smile." After several attempts I got the serious scuba face down and joined the group. The test went off without a hitch and Jem gave us all underwater hand signal handshakes, which are the best! Now we were ready for the real deal!

After I got over the initial panic of breathing into a mask thirty feet down (my body didn't think I should be doing that and at first it seemed to be boycotting the idea)--it was really neat down there! I was so glad I had made it that I swam like Ariel. Flippin your fins you don't get too far...Apparently I was a little too much like Ariel because when Jem the wonder instructor turned around she made a "stop" underwater hand signal, pointed directly at me, and hand signaled me not to swim with my arms (use your imagination). Don't swim with your arms, ok, I thought, but apparently my body didn't listen cause 5 minutes later she turned around and scolded me again. What's the big deal! I thought. So I'm using my arms! Around this time, I also noticed, I had no peripheral vision and Sam was no where to be found. No matter, I enjoyed my 30 minutes on the ocean floor, just me and the octopuses and squidses and fishies, and occasionally Jem swimming by to make sure I wasn't inadvertantly doing anything lethal to myself. Everything had it's own quiet rhythm down there. The surroundings themselves are so calming, but it's also exhilirating since humans don't normally get to hang out underwater like that.

We emerged and I thought, that was unbelievable! Sam pulls off his mask, and I'm waiting for him to tell me the same thing, and the first thing out of his mouth is, "You almost killed me, twice." "WHAT?" I said, confused. "Yeah," he said. "When you were swimming wildly with your arms, you knocked my breathing apparatus out. Twice. That's why Jem was signaling you." I felt really terrible that I'd almost killed my new husband, but also really glad that it was him having to retrieve his air apparatus for real like we'd practiced and not me, because if that had happened to me I probably would have self destructed from anxiety. All in all, though, it turned out to be a pretty grand adventure. Oh Scuba, I wish I knew how to quit you.

How We Found Our Inner Crackhead

I'm just going to go ahead and say it. I have an addiction. There comes a point in everyone's life when you just have to go ahead and 'fess up. So I'm letting you in, dear Reader, about the my dirty little secret. I've come to terms with my problem, I've accepted it and frankly come to enjoy it. At first I felt a little odd, walking around the house with that dazed, vacant look in my eyes. I'd explain to people at work that I had the "shakes" just cause I was cold or tired. The truth of the matter, is that I'm a junkie. TV on DVD is my drug of choice and I just can't seem to kick the habit. And my wife is just as bad as me.
I knew we were both in for it when we first started dating and she confessed that there was a time when she'd come home from work on her lunch break to jones on episodes of Felicity. Sensing that our relationship was a "safe place" to talk about such things, I proudly explained that I burned through the 14 (sigh) episodes of Firefly in two days when I first got them. Then I furthered her J.J. Abrams problems when she got her wisdom teeth out and I left her with Lost: Season 1. Well that crazy fox burned through it with a frightful tv-pseudo-coma-like-craziness that only a gal hopped up pain killers and pudding pops can muster. God I love my wife.
And now it's like we try to out do each other in the best way! We saddle up on our crappy couch and inhale The Office like a couple of gunfighters playing cards, daring the other to "just watch one more" as the 22 minute segments fly by. It's sick, it's twisted, and it's commercial free! Nothing annoys me more than watching BSG (Battlestar Galactica for all you haters out there) and having my peeps interrupted by shameless advertising. Don't all these commercial-slinging pimps know that these people are FIGHTING TO SAVE THE HUMAN RACE FROM EXTINCTION? For the love of all that is Holy people, I don't need that kind of drama interrupted by ads for cereal, tires, or the dreaded reality show! Actually, I'll note that there is a Children's Hospital commercial and Applebee's commercial out there that make me get a little misty eyed but that's for another time.
I'm not promoting addiction. And I'm not promoting tv. However, I may be promoting TV on DVD addiction. It seems relatively harmless, you can take it at your own pace, and it's loads of fun for the whole family! I mean if you've got to have a problem, it's best to have someone to share it with right? I'm not going to judge my wife when I occasionally come home from work and she's crouched on top of the coffee table, caressing My So Called Life, gutturally uttering "Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy preciousssssssss..." And in turn, she accepts the fact that I'm not above accidentally trampling someone's grandmother at the store so we can get home and check out a fistful of Scrubs episodes. And that's just a Tuesday night. You should see us on the weekends...

The Jig Is Up

A mere two months ago, I had eschewed all desserts and sugary beverages in my best attempt to stay the right size for my wedding dress. A few too many bon bons and that sucker was not gonna zip. But once Sam and I arrived at our luxurious resort in St. Lucia, appetizers, fruity drinks and desserts became de rigeur. I made up for what I had gone months without in a mere ten days.
Since our return, not much has changed. Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream is my friend; watching back-to-back episodes of the Office til my eyeballs hurt and snuggling with my honey continue to sound so much more appealing than venturing into the nippy out of doors. I really identify with the concept of hibernation. And then today, a reality check from the most unlikely of places. I have a part time job doing therapy with kids with autism, and as I was leaving a little girl's house today, her older eight-year-old sister was trying to get my attention. "Hey, hey, hey. Hey! hey," she called persistently. I introduced myself (this was the first time we'd met) and chatted with her about Thanksgiving, her new talking dog toy. Then she busts out with "Have you had any babies yet?" I smiled at the mom, and at said eight-year-old girl, thinking, how charming, kids at this age and their lack of filter, she's seen my sparkly new wedding ring, has put two and two together, and wants to know about my family. "No I haven't, not yet," I smiled widely at the delightful conversation I thought was about to unfold. "Oh," she says, "Cause you're really getting kind of fat." WONDERFUL! I watched her mother's eyes grow wide with terror, and she goes on and on about how rude that was and that I wasn't fat at all. I was one part amused and two parts horrified. I found myself actually trying to reason with her, to help her realize she'd made a mistake. "I'm wearing a really big sweater," I explained. She stared back at me blankly. "I probably have gained a little weight since my honeymoon," I heard myself tell her, while vowing to myself to take more walks and start yoga up again this week, for real this time. So thank you, eight year old girl who shall remain nameless, for saying what most friends would not. I look forward to our next interaction, when you may comment on the slightly outdated cut of my pant leg, or my shaggy unkempt brow.

The Chili Fixin' Debate

So Sam and I have been married just over a month, and though our tastes in music, movies, food, and rugs seem to mesh rather perfectly, a couple of incidents have come up that made me realize we don't do absolutely everything the same way. This realization was a little alarming at first -- you mean there are things I don't know about this person I've vowed to spend the rest of my life with? Case in point: chili accoutrements. On Halloween, as the chilly (ho!) weather was first starting to roll in, we decided to make a big pot of the good stuff and have a scary movie marathon. (Gremlins, anyone?) When it came time to serve it up, we grated some cheddar cheese and pulled out the sour cream, but Sam still had one question: Where's the macaroni? And I was like, what do you need macaroni for? Meanwhile I pulled out a giant bag of Fritos and began to sprinkle them on the sides of my bowl. Sam looked at me with some disgust. "Fritos, gross!" I looked at him with equal disgust as he began to boil water for his macaroni, which is, apparently, how he grew up eating chili. (I have since learned that spaghetti is a popular addition to this dish around the Cincinatti area, while only 200 miles south, in Nashville, Fritos reign supreme). I added some macaroni to my chili and he added some Fritos to his, but I think we both still dig what we've grown up on. The Fritos add a salty crunchy to the spicy mush of chili, but what do noodles add? I still don't know. All the same, it was a good exercise in appreciating our differences, albeit small ones, and should help as we enter Christmas tree season. (He's grown up on fake ones, my family has always gone to tree farms.) I offered to compromise by going really fake, sparkly, and fabulous (see photo) --but so far, he isn't going for it. Stay tuned fair readers.