Wine In a Box? The Married Geeks are Thinking Bigger!

Posted by She Said

When Greg and I started dating, I was thrown into his world of beer making. I’d help bottle and cap his latest home brew. I’m not much of a beer drinker**, but we had a great time doing this together. My favorite was the Jolly Rancher beer made from a Corona Clone, created by using a Jolly Rancher as the final priming sugar. We’d drop a particular flavor into the bottle right before capping it. And they were scrumptious! My favorite was the watermelon. Or maybe the cherry. OH! Green apple! Yum!

For our wedding favors, we even handed out our private label home brew:

And then years of marriage flew by, and out went the beer making, and in came the box wine. We’ve adjusted wine fridges to accommodate these glorious things! We’ve figured out how to best camp with the box! (Remove box, insert plastic bag directly into ice in cooler!) Hell, we’ve even adjusted the shelves in our main refrigerator to work with the average height of the boxes. Folks, we are educated in all things box.

We know people that will snub their noses at the box and swear they are worth nothing more than to be used as props for the next Deliverance movie. To them, I say, I think she looks good in a canoe!

But I digress. Something in Greg must have been missing the creativity that comes in the form of booze production. So, I came home to this:

Yes, my friends, that is a five gallon bucket of “Coastal White” wine in the making. Because who needs a box when you can have a BUCKET?! Now, are we just going to tap the sucker or fill boxes with it? Decisions, decisions.

** Except when I am.

What’s Thankgsiving Without Wings.

Posted by He Said

There are many laws and rules which shape our lives and the world we live in.  Gravity, Physics, Murphy’s Laws and a more specific but particular favorite of mine is the If You Have Been Married For Any Length Of Time You Will Be Required To Purchase Feminine Hygiene Products For Your Wife Law. Now let me be clear, I don’t find this embarrassing or awkward in any way.  It’s life.  In fact, there is something particularly enjoyable about being asked if I would mind “picking something up” when I KNOW it’s going to give me fodder  for a good mocking.

My wife looks at me all doughy eyed as this is going to be a HUGE inconvenience for me. “Will you pick up some panty liners for me?”

YES. In my head I am already processing, realizing that there is a good joke in here somewhere.  In fact I thought about it so much I apparently stood there looking dumbfounded because I paused long enough for her to ask if it was a big deal, and then for her to retract her question.  After a bit of convincing that no, really, this is just funny for me because the If You Have Been Married For Any Length Of Time You Will Be Required To Purchase Feminine Hygiene Products For Your Wife Law has just kicked in and I think its funny.

So I ask “What kind?”
She Said: “It doesn’t matter.”
Me ( very skeptical ): “What size?”
She Said ( very mockingly ): “There is only one size.”
Me: (throw skeptical WTF are you saying look).
She: (throws are you an idiot look)
Me: (quickly retract skeptical WTF look and say) “Ok, I will get some at the store.”

Now in a society that has human beings of many shapes and sizes I just assumed that there would be super tiny panty liners for oh say a size 0 woman. Everything we buy has choices to be made.  For a moment I thought I just MIGHT be right about this (I was right once before) and then the moment passed and I realized that of course I MUST be wrong.  There probably is only one kind of panty liner.  Right?  Getting my wife’s preferred panty liner details was like pulling teeth.

When I finally got to the Feminine Hygiene products aisle I see that I was right.  There is more variation in panty liners than Ford has in its auto lineup.  To prove it I had to use the panorama app on my phone to capture it.

So the texting conversation went a little something like this.

Me: There is only one kind (include picture above).
She: LMAO.  Unscented. I don’t care what brand.
Me: What brand do u usually buy. Only generic say unscented.
She: Always. I think. Usually grab the best deal. Go figure.

The cheapest unscented brand was a box of 24 for like a dollar.  I KNEW if I brought this home there would be something about them that was wrong.  I just couldn’t get myself to do it.  I couldn’t find the Always brand in unscented. So I started browsing the various types.  Just a small sampling of the “one size” as my wife put it.

Regular, regular with wings, regular with wings scented, long, long with wings, long with wings with baking power, all night, super thin and all variations in between.  My favorite choice of all were the thong shaped. I thought about bringing those home just for fun to prove that I could screw this up somehow.

In the end I found a non $1 brand that met the detailed requirements and purchased those.

This blog is the follow up to the mocking my wife got when I got home. I don’t think I will be letting this go anytime soon, and as such, I don’t think I will be asked to buy panty liners anytime soon.

Crab Monster

Posted by She Said

Crab Monster is a not-so-affectionate term that often flies around our house. For example, when Emily doesn’t get her way in say, oh, any given situation, the beast within emerges, and Greg and I often mutter about what a Crab Monster she is being. More often than not though, it is a term that is often directed at yours truly after a not-so-restful night of sleep. This is ok though, as I have worked very diligently to accept my Crab Monster within. More importantly though, so has Greg. Which is why he does whatever he can in his power to ensure I get enough sleep at night and keep the Crabster at bay.

Greg will do things like let me get to sleep before he comes to bed, so that his own troublesome beast doesn’t emerge and keep me awake. See, if I fall asleep first, I am less susceptible to succumb to the beast’s powers of arousal. Not the GOOD kind of arousal, mind you. I mean the type of arousal that emerges when trying to sleep next to a marathon snorer. That’s right, Greg, my beloved partner, snores so loudly that it surprises me the neighbors haven’t knocked on the door in the middle of the night to demand that he roll over.

In addition to letting me fall asleep first, Greg’s feelings weren’t hurt when out of three nights of camping last weekend, I only slept next to him once. Why? Because the one time I did, I wanted to run madly into the middle of the dark woods when the close proximity of sleeping in Stella didn’t offer enough of a sound buffer from the snorefest going on next to me. OK, it was that and the fact that Emily talked in her sleep on and off all night, and the fact that we have a dog who pants loudly and wants out in the middle of the night. So, rather than becoming a widow because his wife was eaten by bears by moonlight, Greg insisted that I sleep in the trailer, a mere 25 feet away. ALL. BY. MYSELF.

Yes, I am married to an amazing man, and he’s mine, so back off! BACK THE F…

See? I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Bad Crab Monster, BAD! Maybe it wasn’t kindness that led Greg to his generous behavior. Perhaps it was self-preservation?

How To Ensure A No-Nooky Night

Posted by She Said

Let this be a lesson to you, husbands, partners, and significant-others. If you want some, don’t do this:

Me: Greg, if you were ever going to leave me, you need to do it now.

Greg: Why?

Me: Because if you leave me after what I am going to tell you, I will forever think it is because of what I’m going to tell you.

Greg: OK, I’m going to leave you.

Me: *blank stare*

Greg: Now that I am going to leave you anyway, you might as well tell me what you were going to tell me. *grin*

Me: *sigh* I have proof that I am old.

Greg: *short pause* You have gray pubes?

Me: *jaw drop*

Greg: Am I right???

Me: How the hell did you guess that?!! SERIOUSLY?! HOW???

Greg: So, I’m right.

Me: Yes. Shut up.

Greg: I'll just call you my silver fox.

Me: *stink eye* Yeah, that doesn’t help.

Love, American Style

Time to get back to the real world.  After several weeks (yes, 3 weeks) of vacation this weekend marks the end of a work free period. How was it spent? One week spent on the ocean coast, a long drive up, a new (used, but new to me) Westfalia named Stella, a day spent crabbing in Waldport with friends, a trip to the worlds largest sea cave full of sea lions, a 14.5 hour drive home with only one stop due to overheating, a couple days in the woods, and a day at Sand Harbor, Lake Tahoe. Now I am roaring to get back to work.
Maybe not. Work is overrated.  While gone I apparently survived another round of layoffs (thank you FSM). I will let you know Monday first thing. If things go really bad, I will always have a van to live in.  Most likely park it down by the river.
Meet Stella.  The newest member of our family.  Isn’t she HOT.  That’s right, the A/C doesn’t work. 

I am thinking I might need a beer right about now and seeing as our fridge decided to die just as the vacation ended I have a cooler of beer sitting next to me so it will take zero effort.  I might have to make this a permanent edition to the living room (over Susanne’s dead body most likely). Anyone for a PBR?  Yeah, not my beer either, but as Eric “The Piano Mover Man” Holden never was able to complete the piano moving I managed to drink the 12 pack he never picked up. I have to say, it does make a nice summer beer.
Damn, I have been away from this laptop for so long, can you help me…is this thing on?
Am I rambling...is this thing on?
So if you are one of the 10 readers (not regular readers, but just one of the 10 people who read this blog) you noticed that our family took a vacation to the Oregon coast. We rented a house on the ocean (no, I won’t recommend it, the house, I highly recommend the ocean) of Seal Rock Oregon, just south of Newport or North of Waldport, depending on your sense of direction.  It was newly on the rental market because apparently the old lady who lived there just died.  Who’s kidding. Susanne likes to correct me every time I make that joke, but the chalk mark outline on the kitchen floor proved I was right.  They really should have cleaned up a bit first.  I mean, they lady’s slippers were still in the closet. True story.  I’m not making this stuff up. Maybe some of it, the house wasn’t RIGHT on the ocean.
So what was this blog about? Oh yeah, Love, American Style.  Well, there was no loving this vacation, I mean for Susanne and I.  Jake did sneak out a lot so who knows what he got into (so to speak) but the kids were sleeping in our room at the rental because the beds in the loft at 50 feet above sea level and 14 feet above the 2nd floor weren’t exactly child safe.  So, the kids “slept” in a mattress on our bedroom floor.  Sleeping being loosely used here of course.
Let me demonstrate.


Now I don’t want you thinking that our vacation was love free.  It was full of love.  My kids gave me lots of love.  My wife loved the ocean. I loved not being at work and best of all, I loved having my family together. Oh, and there was Wine love.
Additionally we had all sorts of interesting conversations regarding love.  My favorite one occurred on the trip up.  There we were heading up into Oregon. The kids watching “Swan Princess” (a story of true love) and Jacob texting his girlfriend in Washington (long distance love) when Susanne comes over a hill and smack dab in the middle of the road is a dead squirrel and another standing over it (lost love).
“Oh, that is so sad. That poor squirrel lost the love of his life!” she says.
“That’s one way to look at it,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he was eating her?”

Hang On, We’re Almost at 50!

No, no, I’m not talking about age here. Well, I guess in a way I am.

Greg has a way of wearing me down when it comes to getting new stuff. It generally takes me a while to warm up to the idea of purchasing something like an iPhone, or a shed for the yard, or new tires on the car. Greg likes to tell the story about how I really didn’t think we needed to get a DVR when they first came out, but he kept talking about it, sending me emails, researching the product, hinting at it, and playing the recording of how great it would be while I slept to stir the subconscious consumer beast within.

And it works. I love our DVR. (So does my bladder.) And my iPhone. And the shed for the yard. OK, the new tires aren’t very exciting but they do provide quite the peace of mind.

To date, he has gotten several new laptops, a motorcycle, and the DVR this way. I am certain he will soon be getting his own iPhone since he has been bombarding me with hints (subtle and not so subtle) so that I cave or go crazy, or both. It’s not that I don’t want him or us to have nice or new things. It’s not that at all. I just prefer to get things at a much discounted rate at garage sales. Waiting to see an iPhone on a card table in front of someone’s house on a Saturday morning may take too long for Greg though. Go figure. *Shrug.*

His latest burning desire, well, besides me (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), is being presented to me over and over and over and over again with a slightly different angle this time. THIS time it’s all about Greg feeling old. He has declared himself in the throws of a mid-life crisis. And what would soften this self-imposed blow? Thankfully, it is not a Corvette and an 18 year-old (although we ALL know how he likes them young. JUST KIDDING!). No, he has no desire for the sports car or a fling. Thank FSM. Instead, the ONLY thing that will successfully ease the pain of this transition is a VW bus. That’s right. The man wants to turn himself into a hippy. Thankfully, he wants the family along for the groovy ride.

So over the last few months, during the depths of despair of his self-professed mid-life crisis, Greg has thoroughly researched what years are better than others, which engines have a little more umph, which ones had an A/C option, and which ones can have an after-market three-point harness installed to match today’s seat belt standards. Over these last few months, he has sent me many (and by many, I mean TONS) of pictures of buses for sale. You see, he is wearing me down.

Then last week, he firmly planted me on Team Mid-Life Crisis. He’s flung me, albeit gently, into pro-bus mode. How did he triumph, you ask? He took me to look at one. You see, there is a soft spot in my heart for these little gems. My mother and I traveled from El Paso up into Canada and back down the coast over a two month period in one of these things when I was growing up. Not only did we take on the open road, singing 100 Bottles of Bear on the Wall, we did this trip twice, once when I was about 8 and again at 15. As a child I used to love sprawling out in the back while my mom drove us to our next destination. (Of course, my kids will be firmly planted in their 5-point harness cages car seats.) Camping and crabbing on the sand dunes of Dillon Beach was by far the best time we had in our little bus. It really does bring back great memories.

So we’re actively making plans for a purchase (and subsequent sale of our current mommy-mobile). Now I am just trying get my lead foot to understand that “giving her all she’s got” means, we’re almost at 50 mph!

Oh, and I am also practicing my Spicoli-sounding version of, “Duuuuuuuuude.” I’m getting pretty good. It’s actually a little uncanny.

Where’s the Mop?

Along with our devil duckie positioning, Greg and I have other little ways of trying to surprise the other. Over the last year or so, a certain little rubber lizard has found its way in various places throughout the house. The goal is to try and surprise the other during its discovery. I have found it in our breadbox. Greg has found it in a clean sock while putting it on. It has been placed in the center of toilet paper rolls, in my box of tampons, in coffee mugs, in shoes, and under pillows. So you see, it has made its rounds. It is not meant to scare; it is meant to put a smile on the face of the discoverer.

Apparently, Greg wanted to crank the fun up a notch or two. Last night he scared the crap out of me and then laughed so hard when he heard the scream (and the ensuing expletives) that he had to wipe the tears away from his eyes. Apparently fun was no longer had by the simplicity of putting a smile on my face. He needed mass exodus by my bodily fluids for his amusement.

Before I tell you how he managed to shave several years off of my life, I have to tell you about what Santa left Braedyn this Christmas. Our super-hero obsessed boy got a full-size cardboard cutout of Ironman. He was totally wowed by this present. Well, he was at first. It lasted in his room a couple of days, but then he said it scared him at night. We reminded him that Ironman is a good guy, but he didn’t care. So, our friend spent a few nights in Jacob’s room. Then he got dragged out to the living room. I tried to put him in the playroom, but Emily carried him back into the living room. Which in and of itself is a very humorous sight.

Last night after a couple of highly interrupted episodes (thank you Braedyn and Emily) of the first season of Six Feet Under (thank you Netflix), I announced it was time for me to go to bed. I got up, walked to our bathroom, turned on the light, and saw this as my eyes adjusted to the light:

All I have to say is thank goodness it happened on the linoleum, and hooray for the fact that we have a mop and Greg knows how to use it. Oh, and I’d like to remind my dearly beloved that revenge is a bitch. Watch out!

Eight is Great

Today is my eighth wedding anniversary with Greg. And eight is great. Greg has more patience than I deserve. Oh sure, he has his quirks, but his ability to deal with mine is uncanny. Seriously, he GETS me. And that is a tall order. I know I can be difficult.

To celebrate this brilliant occasion I would like to share a story about us. When we were dating, the issue of kids came up. At the time, I didn’t think I wanted to have kids. I attribute this feeling to the fact that I had never been with anyone I wanted to have kids with. Before him, having kids seemed like something I would have to do alone if I ever wanted any. Greg on the other hand knew he didn’t want any more kids. He already had one beautiful boy from his first but failed marriage. He was certain he didn’t want any more. His adamancy about this became a hot topic for us as we plunged further and further into head-over-heels-in-love land. I wasn’t sure I wanted that door closed, and as far as he was concerned he had locked the door, swallowed the key, waited for it to be pooped out, and then buried it in the middle of the Nevada desert. Somewhere.

Then one day, one remarkable day, Greg took Jacob to his swim lesson. As he sat and watched his boy swim, he swelled with pride and unconditional love. At that moment he realized this was something that he didn’t want me to miss in life. I want to be clear about something. I love and adore Jacob. We had then and still have today a great relationship, but I was never any kind of replacement or substitute for his own loving and adoring mother. I was more of a loving addition to his growing family.

Fast-forward four years or so, and Braedyn was born. I enjoyed being a mom more than I ever could have imagined, so much so that I had a confession for my ever-giving husband. I wanted one more. Just one more. C’mon. I mean, really, what’s one more when you’ve already got the house baby-proofed? His response? Um. No. Resounding and certain. No.

Valentine’s day was several weeks after my emotionally charged confession. This is one Valentine’s I will never forget. This is a picture of what I received:

This locket with a picture of Braedyn on one side and a spot for “Baby #2” on the other exemplifies what kind of man I am lucky to be married to.

I’m sure it was painful and a tad disgusting to locate that damn key, but I’m so glad he did it. Twice. We now have a charming and energetic boy that can unabashedly look up to his father as a wonderful example of how to be a great man and a beautiful and painfully stubborn daughter that has him wrapped around her little finger.

Thanks, Greg, for digging through the poop for me. I love you, and happy anniversary.

A Reason to Not Sound So Smug. Ouch.

Many moons ago when I was a wet-behind-the-ears 18 year old, I met a guy. It was July 4th, and I was hanging out at “the bar” with my Dad during a visit with him in El Paso. You only had to be 18 to get into most bars in Texas at this time. You couldn’t legally drink at 18, but you could hang out with all the people who could. Yeah, interesting law. Maybe they figured this was the best way to have a designated driver on hand. Or wait, maybe that was just in my family. Anyway this guy, whose name I can’t even remember now, was older, recently divorced, and had a couple of small kids. He was a nice enough guy, but I think he thought he was going to get something from me other than some good conversation. You know, good conversation with an 18 year old. Uh-huh. Let me be clear up front, he didn’t get anything more than conversation from me. Let me repeat this. He did NOT get anything more than conversation from me. Even though he wanted more.

He and I spent some time together. We went to White Sands and hiked around on the dunes one afternoon. We had fine dining experiences at the local Denny’s. And then one fateful day, we played racquetball. I had never played before but figured, hey, this guy’s old, how hard could it be to beat him? And it wasn’t. We played some intense games of racquetball, and I kicked his ass. Sure, I can hear the questions now. Did he LET you win? Was he trying to make me feel euphoric from the slaughter, so much so that he could take me back to his place for a roll in the hay? Um, NO. No, no, no. It was a heart-thumping, intense game. And did I mention I never played before and still kicked ass? Oh, and this was the last time I saw this guy. So, if that was intention, it totally backfired. As you can see, this slaughter made me smug about what I thought were natural racquetball abilities. At least I can admit it.

Fast forward to the present. Almost two decades later. *Shudder.* Last week I joined a gym. This gym even has a place I can take the kids while I work out, so I have no excuse not to go. I even convinced Greg to sign up. Here’s why I thought this was a good idea. We don’t have date night. We rarely get to go out by ourselves. Here’s an opportunity to get as many dates in a month that we want, all for only an additional $25 a month. Granted, these dates will not consist of candlelight and fine wine (or box wine, for that matter). There will be no long and loving gazes as we walk down a moonlit path. No, these will not be traditional dates. The upside? Two incredible things. One, we don’t have to worry about getting a babysitter to get some alone time. Two, there will be some ass-kicking on the racquetball court. Me doing all the ass-kicking of course. I mean, Greg is older and has two small kids and one big kid. He fits the perfect mold for one of my court dominations.

Yeah, smug. Right? Well, I learned my lesson yesterday. Never estimate an old dog. (Sorry, Greg. You ARE older.) Greg kicked my ass in the racquetball court yesterday. He even stung my ass once with the ball when I didn’t move fast enough. I held my own, for sure. I hadn’t stepped foot in a racquetball court for 18 years, and I think I did an ok job. But Greg, well, he did better.

About 40 minutes into our first “date” on the court, I felt a snap. A foreboding and painful snap. So, now I am nursing an injured wrist. Boo hoo. Sniff. Sniff. That’s ok. This will give Greg some time to get really smug about his victory. That’s my game plan. Let him *think* he’s all that and a bag of chips. I just needed a warm up, a refresher course. And now I just need a little time to heal. He better watch out because our next date is sure to be a knock-out! Get your protective gear ready, Greg!