Thursday, September 26, 2013
Season Number What?
So this happened last night:
And it was epic.
I mean, seriously, what did we ever do without Pinterest? How did wives around the world know what to make for dinner every. single. night?
I don't know, but it's a mystery to me.
Other than managing to actually make dinner twice (gasp!) this week, our week has been fairly uneventful.
Unless you count the fact that Season 2 of Chicago Fire started this week. That was pretty eventful. Mainly for the Mr. because he started getting inundated with questions that sounded oddly like, "Has God told you of His plans to make you a firefighter yet?"
Yes, I'm sure the Mr. is super excited to have that show back in the weekly rotation.
Four months after our move, we are finally starting to get back into what some would call a "routine". People our age would probably call it succumbing to our elderly ways but hey - it is what it is. I've already accepted the fact that the Mr. and I are drastically different from our peers.
Mainly due to the fact that we prefer to go to bed at 8:30 and are severely allergic to anything with the word "fun" in it.
Just kidding. We are totally fun people.
If you're 35.
Anyway, as I was saying, the move took some adjusting but we are finally in a place that feels like home. Not necessarily because we're in Texas (although I will gladly support that theory), but mainly because for the first time in our lives together we feel like we are right where we're supposed to be. It hasn't been easy; that's for sure. We've had to give up quite a few comforts to walk this path, but it's been worth it.
We've been ready for something new for a long time.
When the Mr. and I met, we were both in uncertain places in our lives. Spiritually we teetered on the edge, unsure of how to move forward. He was burnt out on church in general, and I was struggling to balance what I knew to be true of God with my relapse into all things bad. Emotionally we were both a mess: desperate to please everyone around us and struggling with some deep-rooted insecurities and doubts. Add to that the fact that, after almost a year and a half in recovery, I walked right back into the eating disorder that I had struggled with for 6 years.
It was a chaotic time.
The thing I love about our relationship is that we've been able to grow together. Neither of us are the same person we were when we met... and that's a good thing. We've grown in our faith through the trials we've faced (both individually and jointly). We've developed better coping skills so we can actually deal with life rather than run from it. We've established better boundaries so our relationships are healthy, and we've finally come to accept ourselves for who we are rather than who we'd like to be.
And after all that growth and change, we're ready for a new chapter. Full of new growth and new change. One of our joint dreams and desires has always been that our lives would make an impact and be a catalyst for good. Before I moved to Colorado and long before I met the Mr., that's where my life was heading. I had a passion to share my story and spread the message that there is hope in this world. I started writing a book for girls who struggled with eating disorders. My mess had become my message, and I was passionate about my purpose in life.
Those dreams were pivotal in my decision to move to Colorado and join a church plant. Looking back, I know that the journey was directed by God... even if it didn't turn out exactly as I had planned. I walked away from a lot during my 3 years in Colorado and am just now starting to understand the price I paid.
I lost my passion and didn't want to be associated with my message anymore. When I finally got my life back together, I wanted nothing to do with my past. I didn't want people to know who I was, where I came from, and the struggles that had shaped me. I wanted a new start, a new life.
What I didn't realize, though, was my past will always be a part of my present. When I discredit that part of my story, I'm discrediting everything God has done for my life thus far.
And He has done so much.
All that to say that the Mr. and I are finally at a place where we're ready to be used. All that we've been through together has brought us to where we are now - a new chapter. A new journey.
Which, if I have my way, that journey will include the important things in life.
Like cupcakes and fire trucks.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Real-Life Marriage
He has 7 more weeks of training before his "real" schedule begins, so we get to enjoy an actual 2 day weekend for 7 more weeks. We don't even know what to do with ourselves. I keep researching day trips to take, but by the time the weekend rolls around all we want to do is collapse on the couch and not move until Sunday.
Plus, we can't really go too far from home because of aforementioned high-maintenance dogs. I still haven't met someone capable of handling their extreme levels of high-maintenance.
Although they do seem to like my sister... maybe I can bribe her with Red Vines.
And books.
This year has been a growing experience, that's for sure. Not only have we moved cross-country (positive), undergone two major job changes in two months (positive-negative...can you say just plain stressful?!), but we're also coming up on our second year of marriage.
Which means that we've almost survived two years of figuring out this thing called marriage without killing each other.
Or severely damaging each other's morale. I'd say that's a win-win situation.
Seriously, though... marriage? It's hard. Not only is there no in-depth, step-by-step instruction manual for every possible scenario, but there are close to a million opinions and perspectives that can leave you scratching your head for days wondering how that was supposed to help.
And the movies? Marriage is nothing like you see in the movies. Real-life marriage is messy and raw. It's about making sure that you take the time to think about the other person in every situation and learning to not be so selfish. It's about compromise and "I'm sorry". It's about joining together two very different people (with two very different backgrounds) for the sake of one cause.
It's about dying to yourself and loving the other person even though they breathe loudly.
Not that that's an issue.
I've learned a lot about life in the past (almost) two years of marriage. I've learned that life is not always fair and sometimes you just really don't need to "win" that argument. I've learned that more often than not, the best reply is silence (not the silent treatment kind... the "I really want to tell you exactly what I'm thinking but I won't because I love you and I won't feel that way tomorrow" kind). I've learned that two people can conquer anything when they are united and don't let outside influences sway them.
And there are a lot of influences that want to sway. Some well-meaning, some not.
The most important thing I've learned about marriage is that it can only survive with a whole lot of prayer. Because even the most promising, well-meaning marriages can fall short. Even the most grounded and secure couples can give a little to outside influences and watch their marriages crumble. I've seen it, and I've felt it happen even in our short two years.
Every so often, we get comments about being married so young. We get the "why would you want to throw your life away already?" questions and the "it's not going to last" comments. We get the looks, and we get the lectures from older generations about how awful marriage really is. We get all of that, but it's not what we hold onto.
What we hold onto are the stories of people just like us. People in real-life, messy marriages. People who realize that marriage is hard but wouldn't trade it for anything. The people who look at us and remember what it was like when they were young and in love.
Those are the people we listen to. Those are the people who inspire us.
Because in the end, it's not about an age or particular milestone passed. It's not about what your family says or what society thinks. It's about love and commitment. It's about knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that your life is better because that person is in it
And it's about not getting mad when they drink too loudly...or when their dog is just a little too high maintenance.
Friday, June 28, 2013
I Blame My Parents for This One
Last night, someone (namely my husband) had the great idea to drive around Boerne and look for a neighborhood my parents had been telling us about. I only agreed because my mouth was full of frozen yogurt, and I wasn't about to complain about the gas we would be wasting driving around since apparently I am a "fun sucker".
His words, not mine. Apparently it's a mortal sin to be concerned about the price of gas now days.
So it's 8:00 at night, and we're driving around Boerne in circles looking for Champion High School (because that's the only part of the location we remembered my parents saying). The problem with finding said high school, however, is that neither our iPhones nor our GPS could locate it.
So we're driving around in circles, Josh is talking about how he knows we're just about to find it, and all I can think about is how I should have never asked for frozen yogurt in the first place. Because if there's one thing I hate more than wasting gas, it's driving around aimlessly looking for a specific location.
Eventually I busted out the Google map on my phone and found the high school. {God bless Google. It is superior in all location-finding aspects.}
We finally found the neighborhood, and as we drove in, my heart decided to stop beating. I was expecting a little run-down neighborhood full of cute, but character-filled houses because my parents said it looked like a neighborhood we could afford for our first home buying experience.
Uh, no.
My parents, apparently, have more faith in our financial situation than we do. Because this neighborhood was Alexis' house heaven (which translates into "we couldn't touch it for, like, 10 years").
I'm serious. I had found my dream neighborhood.
As we drove around looking at the new, cottage-esque houses, I tried to brainstorm ways to save thousands upon thousands of dollars for a down payment within a year. All I could come up with was selling our dogs on the Black Market, trying to figure out how to work that complicated website called Elance, writing stellar article content that would entice magazines to publish me, or winning the lottery.
They are all very far-fetched goals.
In an effort to torture ourselves even more, we kept driving around and drooling over said dream houses. Josh kept talking about how we could raise our kids here and look! There's an elementary school! You love elementary schools! {Yes, I do. If I didn't think I'd go crazy being around kids all day, I would totally be a teacher. Just so I could spend my days basking in all the goodness that is elementary schools.}
We eventually stopped our neighborhood-stalking efforts and drove home. On the way home, I declared that I was totally ok with living in an apartment for the next ten years if we could buy one of those houses as our first home. Because once I've found what I want, you know I will never settle for anything less.
Josh agreed, and I sentenced myself to ten years of apartment living. Just to torture myself even more, I went online to look at the houses and get an idea of their prices.
What I found made me so excited that I jumped up & down and did the happy dance. Because - in my little dream neighborhood - I found some houses that we could afford when it's time to buy a house.
I guess I should thank my parents for telling me about that neighborhood after all.
{If the Mr. thought I was frugal when it came to gas now, he has no idea what's about to hit him.}
His words, not mine. Apparently it's a mortal sin to be concerned about the price of gas now days.
So it's 8:00 at night, and we're driving around Boerne in circles looking for Champion High School (because that's the only part of the location we remembered my parents saying). The problem with finding said high school, however, is that neither our iPhones nor our GPS could locate it.
So we're driving around in circles, Josh is talking about how he knows we're just about to find it, and all I can think about is how I should have never asked for frozen yogurt in the first place. Because if there's one thing I hate more than wasting gas, it's driving around aimlessly looking for a specific location.
Eventually I busted out the Google map on my phone and found the high school. {God bless Google. It is superior in all location-finding aspects.}
We finally found the neighborhood, and as we drove in, my heart decided to stop beating. I was expecting a little run-down neighborhood full of cute, but character-filled houses because my parents said it looked like a neighborhood we could afford for our first home buying experience.
Uh, no.
My parents, apparently, have more faith in our financial situation than we do. Because this neighborhood was Alexis' house heaven (which translates into "we couldn't touch it for, like, 10 years").
I'm serious. I had found my dream neighborhood.
As we drove around looking at the new, cottage-esque houses, I tried to brainstorm ways to save thousands upon thousands of dollars for a down payment within a year. All I could come up with was selling our dogs on the Black Market, trying to figure out how to work that complicated website called Elance, writing stellar article content that would entice magazines to publish me, or winning the lottery.
They are all very far-fetched goals.
In an effort to torture ourselves even more, we kept driving around and drooling over said dream houses. Josh kept talking about how we could raise our kids here and look! There's an elementary school! You love elementary schools! {Yes, I do. If I didn't think I'd go crazy being around kids all day, I would totally be a teacher. Just so I could spend my days basking in all the goodness that is elementary schools.}
We eventually stopped our neighborhood-stalking efforts and drove home. On the way home, I declared that I was totally ok with living in an apartment for the next ten years if we could buy one of those houses as our first home. Because once I've found what I want, you know I will never settle for anything less.
Josh agreed, and I sentenced myself to ten years of apartment living. Just to torture myself even more, I went online to look at the houses and get an idea of their prices.
What I found made me so excited that I jumped up & down and did the happy dance. Because - in my little dream neighborhood - I found some houses that we could afford when it's time to buy a house.
I guess I should thank my parents for telling me about that neighborhood after all.
{If the Mr. thought I was frugal when it came to gas now, he has no idea what's about to hit him.}
Friday, May 31, 2013
The Andrews Cookie-Making Dilemma
It's officially Friday, and that can mean a lot of things.
This week it means that I am trying to get as much work done as possible as early as possible, so I can bake some awesome treats for the Annual Andrews Family Reunion.
I was voluntold to make them, in case you were wondering.
If you don't know what voluntold means, you must not know an Andrews woman.
To give you an idea, the Mr.'s motto is that you "never cross an Andrews woman or tell them what to do". Unless you're an Andrews woman, that is.
I've trained him right.
Anywho, this whole figuring out what to bake for the Family Reunion has been stressful. So stressful, in fact, that I've even considered skipping out on it altogether because my creative baking ideas were seriously lacking.
I would have strongly considered it if it weren't for the fact that I'm pretty sure said-Andrews women would hunt me down with a pitchfork and force me out of my humble abode.
Especially since I've missed the past three years of Andrews fun.
So in the middle of trying to attend to my sick-y husband yesterday, crank out some work projects and wish I was the one laying on the couch instead of the Mr., I looked up as many dessert recipes on Pinterest as I could find.
There were a lot, by the way. Pinterest is, after all, anything if not plethoric.
{By the way, I totally just Googled "Is plethoric even a word?". It is... in case you were wondering.}
I found a lot of recipes that I wanted to try and a lot that I wanted to remake. However, the problem with me picking out recipes is that I tend to choose the most complicated recipes that are required to set for hours... or days.
Like this one:
So those were immediately tossed out of the idea bag.
After realizing that I am not Super Woman and cannot simultaneously get all dolled up, crank out work, and bake heavenly treats, I made the executive decision to just make cookies.
But not just any kind of cookies. These cookies:
I'm pretty sure I gained five pounds just looking at them.
But that's ok because I totally need to gain five pounds so I can fit into these shorts at Banana Republic:
I don't see any potential roadblocks to making these cookies. Well, unless you factor in the fact that HEB may not - in fact - carry the crucial cinnamon chips.
My grandma Susie, by the way, is convinced that HEB makes the decision to discontinue items solely based on her debit card purchases at said establishment. So if that's the case, they probably won't have said chips and my cookie making will be doomed to failure.
If that's the case, I'll just have to make these:
Because you've always got to have a good back-up plan.
This week it means that I am trying to get as much work done as possible as early as possible, so I can bake some awesome treats for the Annual Andrews Family Reunion.
I was voluntold to make them, in case you were wondering.
If you don't know what voluntold means, you must not know an Andrews woman.
To give you an idea, the Mr.'s motto is that you "never cross an Andrews woman or tell them what to do". Unless you're an Andrews woman, that is.
I've trained him right.
Anywho, this whole figuring out what to bake for the Family Reunion has been stressful. So stressful, in fact, that I've even considered skipping out on it altogether because my creative baking ideas were seriously lacking.
I would have strongly considered it if it weren't for the fact that I'm pretty sure said-Andrews women would hunt me down with a pitchfork and force me out of my humble abode.
Especially since I've missed the past three years of Andrews fun.
So in the middle of trying to attend to my sick-y husband yesterday, crank out some work projects and wish I was the one laying on the couch instead of the Mr., I looked up as many dessert recipes on Pinterest as I could find.
There were a lot, by the way. Pinterest is, after all, anything if not plethoric.
{By the way, I totally just Googled "Is plethoric even a word?". It is... in case you were wondering.}
I found a lot of recipes that I wanted to try and a lot that I wanted to remake. However, the problem with me picking out recipes is that I tend to choose the most complicated recipes that are required to set for hours... or days.
Like this one:
 |
| Source: http://www.globalgourmet.com |
So those were immediately tossed out of the idea bag.
After realizing that I am not Super Woman and cannot simultaneously get all dolled up, crank out work, and bake heavenly treats, I made the executive decision to just make cookies.
But not just any kind of cookies. These cookies:
 |
| Source: picky-palate.com |
I'm pretty sure I gained five pounds just looking at them.
But that's ok because I totally need to gain five pounds so I can fit into these shorts at Banana Republic:
 |
| Source: bananarepublic.gap.com |
I don't see any potential roadblocks to making these cookies. Well, unless you factor in the fact that HEB may not - in fact - carry the crucial cinnamon chips.
My grandma Susie, by the way, is convinced that HEB makes the decision to discontinue items solely based on her debit card purchases at said establishment. So if that's the case, they probably won't have said chips and my cookie making will be doomed to failure.
If that's the case, I'll just have to make these:
 |
| Source: http://www.doughmesstic.net |
Because you've always got to have a good back-up plan.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
A Nosebleed Kind of Life
Last Wednesday my sister and I went to the Taylor Swift concert in San Antonio, and it was epic.
Epic as in I'm trying to figure out how I can become a full-time singer and perform for thousands of LOUD and adoring fans.
I think the first requirement for this requires being able to actually sing, so I may be screwed. Although, if we were in the 90's I could totally get by with the help of a little auto-tuning and my totally awesome dance moves.
Say hellooo Britney Spears.
But I digress.
As I was saying, K-Beth and I had the awesome opportunity to experience T-Swift in real life. Well, as real life as you can get stuck in the nosebleed section. K's words...not mine.
I may have even been a little offended if it wasn't for the fact that it was true. What can I say? When you're 23, you don't have much money...or connections. It's all about the music anyway - right?
Ha.
Right.
Thankfully K-Beth is fairly easy to please. As long as we made it in time to see Ed Sheeran, she was a happy camper. She loves him so much she even bought these shorts that say "Sheeran" across the derriere.
Yeah, my mom gave me a look for that one. What can I say? I can't cramp the girl's style. If she wants to rock the word-butt shorts, more power to her.
I'm pretty sure I've been banned from ever taking her clothes shopping again, though.
Anyway, the point of this very random blog post is to say that watching Taylor Swift in concert had me questioning everything that is my life.
Particularly what I'm doing with it, and where I'm going. Because, let's face it, when you put T-Swift's accomplishments next to mine, her's come out a lot shinier and prettier.
I mean, the girl and I are the same age, and she's already accomplished more than I probably ever will in my entire lifetime.
So - in an effort to make myself feel better about my life and snap out of my mild Taylor Swift caused depression - I made a Top Ten list. A top ten list of things to do before I turn 25, specifically.
Because if I can't write songs with clever lyrics ("Casually cruel in the name of being honest"... that's a lyric that the word-girl in me has been jealous of since I heard it. Or read it. I don't remember which. All I know is that I wish I had written it.) or buy 25 houses by the age of 23, I might as well do something productive.
And interesting.
So here goes...
My Top Ten List of Things to Accomplish Before I'm 25.
{A list I'm sure T-Swift herself would be super jealous of... Just sayin'.)
Epic as in I'm trying to figure out how I can become a full-time singer and perform for thousands of LOUD and adoring fans.
I think the first requirement for this requires being able to actually sing, so I may be screwed. Although, if we were in the 90's I could totally get by with the help of a little auto-tuning and my totally awesome dance moves.
Say hellooo Britney Spears.
But I digress.
As I was saying, K-Beth and I had the awesome opportunity to experience T-Swift in real life. Well, as real life as you can get stuck in the nosebleed section. K's words...not mine.
 |
| View from the said "Nosebleed" section |
I may have even been a little offended if it wasn't for the fact that it was true. What can I say? When you're 23, you don't have much money...or connections. It's all about the music anyway - right?
Ha.
Right.
Thankfully K-Beth is fairly easy to please. As long as we made it in time to see Ed Sheeran, she was a happy camper. She loves him so much she even bought these shorts that say "Sheeran" across the derriere.
Yeah, my mom gave me a look for that one. What can I say? I can't cramp the girl's style. If she wants to rock the word-butt shorts, more power to her.
I'm pretty sure I've been banned from ever taking her clothes shopping again, though.
Anyway, the point of this very random blog post is to say that watching Taylor Swift in concert had me questioning everything that is my life.
Particularly what I'm doing with it, and where I'm going. Because, let's face it, when you put T-Swift's accomplishments next to mine, her's come out a lot shinier and prettier.
I mean, the girl and I are the same age, and she's already accomplished more than I probably ever will in my entire lifetime.
So - in an effort to make myself feel better about my life and snap out of my mild Taylor Swift caused depression - I made a Top Ten list. A top ten list of things to do before I turn 25, specifically.
Because if I can't write songs with clever lyrics ("Casually cruel in the name of being honest"... that's a lyric that the word-girl in me has been jealous of since I heard it. Or read it. I don't remember which. All I know is that I wish I had written it.) or buy 25 houses by the age of 23, I might as well do something productive.
And interesting.
So here goes...
My Top Ten List of Things to Accomplish Before I'm 25.
{A list I'm sure T-Swift herself would be super jealous of... Just sayin'.)
- Learn to drive on the highway without dying. You laugh, but it's totally true. I avoid the highway at all costs because as soon as I enter the on-ramp images of flippity flip cars and beer guzzling truck drivers enter my head. I'm not really sure why I picture truck drivers illegally drinking, but I do. So just go with it.My parents like to make fun of this little quirk of mine. They even joke that when I'm 50 I'll be calling my mom in the nursing home to drive me across town to go shopping. It would be funny if it wasn't semi-true.
The nursing home part, I mean.
Because remember, I'm conquering my fear of the on-ramp before I turn 25. Watch out truck drivers... I may just be running you off the road this time. - Conquer the art that seems to be pizza dough making.
Not to sound all conceited or anything, but I am a pretty good cook. Give me a complicated recipe to try, and it'll turn out. But give me the challenge of making homemade pizza, and I fail.
Always.
It's like a rule of the universe.
I used to blame it on the altitude in Colorado, but now that we've moved back to Texas I'm realizing that wasn't the case. I'm just really, really bad at making pizza dough. It either rises to Mars, burns on the edges, or decides not to bake in the middle.
The Mr. always says it's good, but I think he's lying. Probably because he knows if he criticizes it, I'll have a minor breakdown and refuse to cook again.
And then he'd be screwed. - Finish one of the many books I've been writing. I couldn't imagine my life without words. I have so many unfinished novels and book ideas that I don't even know where to begin. All I know is that publishing a book requires writing a book, so I better get on it sometime soon.
- Take a photography class so I can take artsy pictures that all of my followers on Instagram will be jealous of.
My camera skills are sub-par, to say the least. With the combination of my iPhone camera and my uncreative eye, my photos are boring. And plain. And practically put me to sleep. - Run a mile without passing out on the side of the road.
This is a minor accomplishment in the grand scheme of life accomplishments, but I'm convinced that if I can ever get to the point of running a full mile without stopping, I can do anything.
Granted, that would require having to actually workout and get sweaty, so we'll see how that one goes. - Go on a vacation to somewhere that isn't Texas or Colorado.
The thing about loving Texas when you aren't living in Texas is that you want to take all of your trips to Texas. Now that we live here, however, I'm getting the vacation itch.
I don't care where we go, as long as it's to somewhere we've never been before. Charleston, Savannah, Jamestown, the Florida Keys... they all sound like heaven. And if we can score a cottage on the beach, my life will be made.
Forever. - Learn how to sew.
I've been wishing that the Sewing Fairy would sweep down and grant me her skills for years now. Unfortunately, I have yet to wake up with the acquired skills.
I'm trying to convince my mom to hold a class for me and K-Beth this summer, but we'll see. Apparently she's a very busy lady with very important things to do.
Like hitting Banana Republic and J. Crew for their newest items before anybody else.
At least I know where I got it from. - Pick up the violin again.
When I was in middle school, I was forced to choose an elective class. The problem with elective classes is that if you have no exceptionally great creative talents, you're not going to want to do any of them.
So I was put in Orchestra. With the craziest lady I've ever met.
She seriously put Medusa to shame.
I quit somewhere along the way... I'm not really sure why. It probably had something to do with boys were far more interesting than music in high school.
Oh, the error of my ways. - Do something that matters.
I'm not really sure what this entails quite yet. All I know is that at the end of my life, I want to have made a difference. And by 25, I hope to make some kind of small difference in the world. - Buy a house to call home.
Ok - so it won't be me buying the house. It'll totally be Josh because he's the one that makes all of the money.
Yay him.
I've already started looking. There's something about being able to hear everything in the apartment above you to motivate you to look for a more permanent establishment where you can run the disposal at 10:00 without fear of getting a letter from your apartment agency.
Not that that's happened.
Yet.
If we do end up buying a house before we turn 25, I have a few specifications. Like that it must be this one. Because I am in love with it.
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| Photo from Realtor.com |
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
The Weekend I Decided I'm Never Having Children
My Memorial Day weekend was so jam-packed full of fun and exciting events that I just know you are going to be super jealous.
Because who wouldn't want to sit on the couch all holiday weekend with absolutely nothing to do?
Definitely not me... I'm all about activities that can put your brain into a minor coma.
Josh was out of town this weekend for his mom's 50th, so to say my weekend was more boring than usual is an understatement. With the exception of mooching a movie and dinner off of my parents for two nights in a row, I stayed inside the entire weekend (and Monday because Josh works for the only Chicken Coop in town that didn't close early).
So my holiday weekend consisted of catching up on some work, reading a few books, and taking care of our dogs. Which to most people would mean putting some food in a bowl and making sure they go out three times a day.
But no. We have to have two of the most high maintenance dogs in the history of the entire world.
I'm sure of it.
The fact that I did not give away one of our dogs this weekend is a testament of my love for my husband only. Because if it was just me, the Holy Terror would now be living in a home that doesn't mind waiting on a dog hand and foot (or paw and paw).
Because this weekend - of all weekends - Dunkin decided to have a major case of the D's. If you don't know what that is, use your imagination.
So between running the dog outside every 30 minutes (in the pouring rain, mind you) and giving him a bath every other time, my patience was running a little thin and my compassion meter a little low.
I may or may not have told him just exactly what I thought of the situation and demanded that he "hold it" until I felt like going outside.
In a really sweet and compassionate tone, of course.
{Just in case you were wondering, that didn't work. Reasoning with a dog is apparently just a testament to my growing insanity as a person.}
I think it was when Dunkin decided to start throwing up hydrocholoric acid in addition to everything else that I finally lost it. If he had been sick, I may have had an ounce of compassion.
But he wasn't sick. That's just normal, everyday, tempermental Dunkin for you.
Like I said, he's the most high maintenance dog in the history of the world. I've pretty much given up on the hope of ever getting to go on a vacation any time in the next ten years because there's no way I would submit anyone to his level of crazy when we (or just Josh) are gone.
Really, it's quite depressing.
Anyway, as I worked to do everything within my power not to knock on my neighbor's door and ask her if she wanted a free dog, I informed Josh that I am never, ever, ever having children if it's anything like taking care of Dunkin.
Thankfully Josh knows to just let me vent and get all my crazy ideas out there, so he said what any smart husband would say - "Ok".
Because he knows that in ten years I will totally change my mind. But until then, I will enjoy living my life child-free.
Well, as much as that is possible with the Holy Terror living under our roof.
Because who wouldn't want to sit on the couch all holiday weekend with absolutely nothing to do?
Definitely not me... I'm all about activities that can put your brain into a minor coma.
Josh was out of town this weekend for his mom's 50th, so to say my weekend was more boring than usual is an understatement. With the exception of mooching a movie and dinner off of my parents for two nights in a row, I stayed inside the entire weekend (and Monday because Josh works for the only Chicken Coop in town that didn't close early).
So my holiday weekend consisted of catching up on some work, reading a few books, and taking care of our dogs. Which to most people would mean putting some food in a bowl and making sure they go out three times a day.
But no. We have to have two of the most high maintenance dogs in the history of the entire world.
I'm sure of it.
The fact that I did not give away one of our dogs this weekend is a testament of my love for my husband only. Because if it was just me, the Holy Terror would now be living in a home that doesn't mind waiting on a dog hand and foot (or paw and paw).
Because this weekend - of all weekends - Dunkin decided to have a major case of the D's. If you don't know what that is, use your imagination.
So between running the dog outside every 30 minutes (in the pouring rain, mind you) and giving him a bath every other time, my patience was running a little thin and my compassion meter a little low.
I may or may not have told him just exactly what I thought of the situation and demanded that he "hold it" until I felt like going outside.
In a really sweet and compassionate tone, of course.
{Just in case you were wondering, that didn't work. Reasoning with a dog is apparently just a testament to my growing insanity as a person.}
I think it was when Dunkin decided to start throwing up hydrocholoric acid in addition to everything else that I finally lost it. If he had been sick, I may have had an ounce of compassion.
But he wasn't sick. That's just normal, everyday, tempermental Dunkin for you.
Like I said, he's the most high maintenance dog in the history of the world. I've pretty much given up on the hope of ever getting to go on a vacation any time in the next ten years because there's no way I would submit anyone to his level of crazy when we (or just Josh) are gone.
Really, it's quite depressing.
Anyway, as I worked to do everything within my power not to knock on my neighbor's door and ask her if she wanted a free dog, I informed Josh that I am never, ever, ever having children if it's anything like taking care of Dunkin.
Thankfully Josh knows to just let me vent and get all my crazy ideas out there, so he said what any smart husband would say - "Ok".
Because he knows that in ten years I will totally change my mind. But until then, I will enjoy living my life child-free.
Well, as much as that is possible with the Holy Terror living under our roof.
This is how he acts when Josh comes home.
Yep. I'm pretty sure he hates me.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Facing Fears...One Snake at a Time
One thing I learned about the Mr. very early on is that he is terrified (and I mean absolutely terrified) of snakes. So terrified, in fact, that during one of our first outings together he took off running up Horsetooth Mountain because he saw one heading toward the hiking trail.
Leaving me behind to wonder what the heck he was running from.
Yes, he left a real heroic impression with that move. Thankfully I am neither terrified nor freaked out by snakes so I was totally okay with fending for myself. Now moths on the other hand....
When I finally caught up to him and learned that he had seen a snake, I had to hold back my laughter. I mean, the man was obviously traumatized so I couldn't even make a joke about it.
I quickly learned that any snake sighting in our future would result in the Mr. suddenly and without warning running in the opposite direction.
Even if we're almost home, and I'm on the verge of an asthma attack.
Apparently in the situation of a snake, it's totally okay to walk your wheezing-almost-dead wife back around the entire block to avoid the snake in the creek next to the sidewalk.
Makes sense to me.
So anyway, to say that the Mr.'s snake fears are borderline insane is an understatement. Which is why I had to pray that NO ONE ELSE would fill his head with horror stories of snakes in Texas. Before we moved, he was told story after story of snakes in houses, snakes in yards, snakes in boots, snakes in planes...
And all I wanted was for people to keep their big mouths shut because 1.) we were moving to Texas and no one was stopping us...not even the King Cobra and 2.) I had maybe seen one snake in my entire life living in Texas and found these stories absolutely ridiculous.
So, after reassuring the Mr. of the fact that we would be living in a developed area where snakes would not abound, we arrived in San Antonio.
We're sitting at the kitchen table on that first afternoon in Texas, minding our own business, when my sister walks in and calmly says, "I almost stepped on a snake."
As she proceeds to walk upstairs like nothing at all happened.
So we all rush out the front door (the Mr. was more like cowering by the front door) and sure enough there is a huge snake slithering through the front yard and wrapping itself around a tree.
While Mom and the Mr. are standing there trying to figure out what to do and discussing how freaked out they are, I'm silenting lamenting over leaving Texas so soon.
Because I know the Mr. is about to pack up all of our stuff and get back on the road.
Which would be a problem because he'd have to drag me kicking and screaming all the way back to the mountains.
The snake stayed around for a couple days, lifting it's head from the hole in the tree to say hello and slithering around the yard occasionally looking for food.
Food in the form of a little white dog.
Named Princess.
Which also freaked out the Mr.
I think he was seriously entertaining the idea of putting her in a diaper and not letting her outside until the snake was dead. Fortunately, Miss Priss did not have to tolerate the trappings of the old. I took her out as usual and determined that if she did - in fact - get eaten by the snake, at least she went down with a bang.
Or a really big swallow.
We haven't seen the snake for at least a week, so it's safe to say that it's moved on to terrorize some other poor unfortunate soul. In the meantime, I'm praying that our apartment (that is only a couple of blocks over from my parents') is snake-less.
Because in that case, we're either moving back to Colorado or getting a very big gun.
Leaving me behind to wonder what the heck he was running from.
Yes, he left a real heroic impression with that move. Thankfully I am neither terrified nor freaked out by snakes so I was totally okay with fending for myself. Now moths on the other hand....
When I finally caught up to him and learned that he had seen a snake, I had to hold back my laughter. I mean, the man was obviously traumatized so I couldn't even make a joke about it.
I quickly learned that any snake sighting in our future would result in the Mr. suddenly and without warning running in the opposite direction.
Even if we're almost home, and I'm on the verge of an asthma attack.
Apparently in the situation of a snake, it's totally okay to walk your wheezing-almost-dead wife back around the entire block to avoid the snake in the creek next to the sidewalk.
Makes sense to me.
So anyway, to say that the Mr.'s snake fears are borderline insane is an understatement. Which is why I had to pray that NO ONE ELSE would fill his head with horror stories of snakes in Texas. Before we moved, he was told story after story of snakes in houses, snakes in yards, snakes in boots, snakes in planes...
And all I wanted was for people to keep their big mouths shut because 1.) we were moving to Texas and no one was stopping us...not even the King Cobra and 2.) I had maybe seen one snake in my entire life living in Texas and found these stories absolutely ridiculous.
So, after reassuring the Mr. of the fact that we would be living in a developed area where snakes would not abound, we arrived in San Antonio.
We're sitting at the kitchen table on that first afternoon in Texas, minding our own business, when my sister walks in and calmly says, "I almost stepped on a snake."
As she proceeds to walk upstairs like nothing at all happened.
So we all rush out the front door (the Mr. was more like cowering by the front door) and sure enough there is a huge snake slithering through the front yard and wrapping itself around a tree.
While Mom and the Mr. are standing there trying to figure out what to do and discussing how freaked out they are, I'm silenting lamenting over leaving Texas so soon.
Because I know the Mr. is about to pack up all of our stuff and get back on the road.
Which would be a problem because he'd have to drag me kicking and screaming all the way back to the mountains.
The snake stayed around for a couple days, lifting it's head from the hole in the tree to say hello and slithering around the yard occasionally looking for food.
Food in the form of a little white dog.
Named Princess.
Which also freaked out the Mr.
I think he was seriously entertaining the idea of putting her in a diaper and not letting her outside until the snake was dead. Fortunately, Miss Priss did not have to tolerate the trappings of the old. I took her out as usual and determined that if she did - in fact - get eaten by the snake, at least she went down with a bang.
Or a really big swallow.
We haven't seen the snake for at least a week, so it's safe to say that it's moved on to terrorize some other poor unfortunate soul. In the meantime, I'm praying that our apartment (that is only a couple of blocks over from my parents') is snake-less.
Because in that case, we're either moving back to Colorado or getting a very big gun.
Sir Snake in the Yard
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