Dear Secret Blogiary,
Clearly, I have been spoiled by my expansive 1,700 square feet of living space. By bedrooms that are like vast caverns. By kitchens that three or more people can be in at one time.
Spoiled. I admit it.
The apartment I looked at with its supposed 1,400 square feet was such a disappointment. Everything was squashed and dark. The layout was long and narrow, dark and cramped. The only room that wasn’t was the dining room. The bedrooms barely fit the bed and dresser (yes it was still furnished – the current tenant was not yet moved out). The walls were dingy and I was told that the carpets would be cleaned but the owner was not going to repaint. Ick.
I tried to think positively about it. Remember, I told myself, location and price, both of with are good. Except…
When I called Mister W to let him know about it, he asked if it was a place that I could live with for the long term. And I hesitated just a second before I answered, “I guess.”
“Well, that’s that,” Mister W said.
“What?” I asked.
“You paused first. It won’t work. You won’t be happy with it.” He said.
“I-”
“Honey,” he said, “Just keep looking when you get home. We’ll find something.” He reassured.
“But-” I protested.
“Location and price aren’t worth you being unhappy.”
It shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but I am constantly amazed at how well he knows and tolerates me.
Spoiled. That’s what I am.
UPDATE: Went with Mister W to look at another apartment today in the neighborhood next to the one I looked at alone. Much, much nicer. Slightly bigger. And we decided to go ahead and put in an application for it. Crossing my fingers and holding my breath.
Countdowns
Showing posts with label good husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label good husband. Show all posts
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
I Blame Chili's and Their Stupid Good Food
Dear Secret Blogiary,
Mister W. and I do not often get date nights. Hell, between his schedule and The Girls, it isn’t often we get any type of quiet alone time. But we try.
Tonight, out of some random act of kindness, Mom took The Girls for a sleepover. My mind immediately began racing through various naughty things Mister W. and I could partake in.
Oh…The plans I made while waiting for Mister W. to finally get home. And it all started with food. You see, I have long since discovered that, although it is an Old Wive’s Tale, the way to Mister’s heart is to bypass it altogether and focus on the stomach. Mister Q. loves his food. Loves. So it was with great pleasure that I remembered an awesome Christmas present we had yet to use: A gift card to Chili’s.
I assaulted Mister W. as he walked through the door all but tearing off his shirt and shoved him into the shower. As he soaped up I told him of my plans and with a grumble from his stomach he readily agreed that it was a fine plan.
Chili’s was slow, odd for a Saturday evening, but it was nice to get a table without having to wait thirty minutes. Sliding into the booth, Dreamy Waiter took our drink order: Sweet Tea for me (I was driving) and Crown on the Rocks for Mister W.
Normally we skip the appetizers because I never finsish my dinner when we have a started, but Mister W. was Hungry and I just couldn’t resist the southwestern egg rolls.
Big Mistake.
Hot, crispy, just a touch of spice, dipped in that avocado-ranch dressing. Divine. And did I mention hot? Sort of like a lava flow in your mouth except instead of lava it is the skin from the roof of your mouth melting and cascading over your tongue.
I survived. Barely. Thank the sweet tea deity that Dreamy Waiter had just brought me a refill. I guzzled half of it down and suck on ice cubes while waiting for dinner to arrive.
Fajitas all around for dinner; me, the trio, Mister W. the buffalo chicken. Ah! but the meal was so good. And it was nice to be out of the house, eating food that I didn’t have to cook, with someone who I occasionally like to spend time with.
We talked in quiet voices about the plans for the rest of the evening and I am sure that my face was warm not because of the spicy food but because…
But then, poor planning struck. As it so often happens (because every single time we have a date night this is how it ends up) we eat too much and waddle back to the house, bemoaning all the food, as good as it was.
We sit down on the couch to let our dinner settle.
We turn the T.V. on (really haven’t we seen this episode of Mythbusters 5,000 times?).
Mister W. yawns. I rub my eyes.
I lie down and put my head in his lap. His stomach burbles in protest. I sit back up.
We look at each other.
We laugh and shake our heads.
“Every single time,” Mister W. says.
“Yup.”
“Maybe in the morning? Before the girls come home?” Mister W. asks.
"I do like morning sex," I say.
Mister W. stumbles off to bed.
And I get sucked into watching a SyFy (why do they spell it like that?) mini-movie, Meteor, "starring" Jason Alexander.
I blame you, Chili’s.
Mister W. and I do not often get date nights. Hell, between his schedule and The Girls, it isn’t often we get any type of quiet alone time. But we try.
Tonight, out of some random act of kindness, Mom took The Girls for a sleepover. My mind immediately began racing through various naughty things Mister W. and I could partake in.
Oh…The plans I made while waiting for Mister W. to finally get home. And it all started with food. You see, I have long since discovered that, although it is an Old Wive’s Tale, the way to Mister’s heart is to bypass it altogether and focus on the stomach. Mister Q. loves his food. Loves. So it was with great pleasure that I remembered an awesome Christmas present we had yet to use: A gift card to Chili’s.
I assaulted Mister W. as he walked through the door all but tearing off his shirt and shoved him into the shower. As he soaped up I told him of my plans and with a grumble from his stomach he readily agreed that it was a fine plan.
Chili’s was slow, odd for a Saturday evening, but it was nice to get a table without having to wait thirty minutes. Sliding into the booth, Dreamy Waiter took our drink order: Sweet Tea for me (I was driving) and Crown on the Rocks for Mister W.
Normally we skip the appetizers because I never finsish my dinner when we have a started, but Mister W. was Hungry and I just couldn’t resist the southwestern egg rolls.
Big Mistake.
Hot, crispy, just a touch of spice, dipped in that avocado-ranch dressing. Divine. And did I mention hot? Sort of like a lava flow in your mouth except instead of lava it is the skin from the roof of your mouth melting and cascading over your tongue.
I survived. Barely. Thank the sweet tea deity that Dreamy Waiter had just brought me a refill. I guzzled half of it down and suck on ice cubes while waiting for dinner to arrive.
Fajitas all around for dinner; me, the trio, Mister W. the buffalo chicken. Ah! but the meal was so good. And it was nice to be out of the house, eating food that I didn’t have to cook, with someone who I occasionally like to spend time with.
We talked in quiet voices about the plans for the rest of the evening and I am sure that my face was warm not because of the spicy food but because…
But then, poor planning struck. As it so often happens (because every single time we have a date night this is how it ends up) we eat too much and waddle back to the house, bemoaning all the food, as good as it was.
We sit down on the couch to let our dinner settle.
We turn the T.V. on (really haven’t we seen this episode of Mythbusters 5,000 times?).
Mister W. yawns. I rub my eyes.
I lie down and put my head in his lap. His stomach burbles in protest. I sit back up.
We look at each other.
We laugh and shake our heads.
“Every single time,” Mister W. says.
“Yup.”
“Maybe in the morning? Before the girls come home?” Mister W. asks.
"I do like morning sex," I say.
Mister W. stumbles off to bed.
And I get sucked into watching a SyFy (why do they spell it like that?) mini-movie, Meteor, "starring" Jason Alexander.
I blame you, Chili’s.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Man Can Plan
Dear Secret Blogiary,
So the word is in and it is not in my favor. Not that everything has to be about me (though it is nice when it is) and not that I expect to win get my way all the time (although, really, I still don’t understand why I don’t).
Mister W and I had a deep standing-in-the-kitchen conversation about plans for the future tonight. This was probably not the best time to converse about the subject, but as I had finally forced my way through the massive number of secretaries and voice mails and actually managed to speak to the real live lawyer*, I was able to get some basic real estate advice. And the crazy thing was, after I explained what was going one with Mister W’s dad, the house and everything, his legal advice was explicitly simple in design:
Walk Away.
It. Isn’t. Worth. It.
This from a LAWYER!!
Wow.
He laughed and commented that I sounded like I had been raised by “proper” middle class parents who instilled in me a set of rigid morals that kept me on the straight and narrow.
And I certainly was. You pay your debts, pay your taxes and follow the rules. I was good with this system. I like it. It works for me. Everything is structured and symmetrical; which is odd, considering how chaotic and spontaneous I tend to be. I have never understood myself!
In any case, Mister W and I talked and we developed a three year plan. One that unfortunately does not involve me moving to Maine and becoming a lobsterwoman, never mind the fact that looking at waves gets me seasick! The plan then is this:
We walk away from the house, bankroll my paycheck, I keep working at least until the school year is over, and then we pick up an apartment closer to Mister’s work and I can work or not (probably will so as to keep the extra money coming in for the next two years and then Mister W will entertain the possibility of moving back up north. Maybe.
This is something that I have just got to accept. I knew way back when, that Mister W did not want to leave Florida. He likes it here, likes his job and really invested in it. But me? I’ve never been thrilled with Florida. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it since I came here. I hate it for nine months of the year when the blistering sun bakes the very gray matter in my brain. And Florida loves to torture me with the blistering heat.
There are way more reasons than this, but far too many to go into any great detail. Let’s just say that I came with the understanding that I would remain no more than four years. It has now been ten years and I am more than ready to exit stage right!
The biggest problem I have with this plan is that it puts Big Sis as a junior in high school when the plan magically comes to fruition. And I would feel bad ripping her from school (assuming she didn’t graduate early and head to MIT or Yale because that is how bad-ass her brain is). I hate that I have been unable to provide for her the kind of physical environment I had growing up. I hate that for most of her life she had lived in a city and a crappy one at that! Obviously, I can’t change the fact, I can only do what I can to ease my mind about it (because really, I don’t think she has ever once complained about it except once she mentioned she wanted to live in the country and raise chickens).
Little Sis is, quite honestly, happy wherever. She wants a horse and to live on a farm, but then so did I and that never happened and I turned out mostly sane. I still want to live on a farm though, except, I’d rather have llamas than a horse. And a large concrete wall but that’s a story for another day.
Little Sis seems to have the mindset that home is where Mommy and Daddy are and if we don’t have a horse, chickens or llamas, that’s okay because it is. She is so wise sometimes and makes connections that I just don’t remember making at her age.
I guess what it boils down to is that Mister W needs a plan and I think plans take too long. I’d go tomorrow if Mister W said, “Hey, let’s jam!” I’ll go his way, though, if for no other reason than that while I hate my job, Mister W loves his and he is really good at it. His biggest fear about the “let’s just go” plan is that we’d go and end up in a worse situation where he is in a job that he hates and I can’t find a job I love.
Also, he seems very concerned about food.
Geeze. As if I wouldn’t pack a few granola bars to tide us over.
*Coolest thing about being part of a union, I totally have free access to a lawyer…and of course, by free I mean I make regularly monthly payments to be able to have access to a lawyer.
So the word is in and it is not in my favor. Not that everything has to be about me (though it is nice when it is) and not that I expect to win get my way all the time (although, really, I still don’t understand why I don’t).
Mister W and I had a deep standing-in-the-kitchen conversation about plans for the future tonight. This was probably not the best time to converse about the subject, but as I had finally forced my way through the massive number of secretaries and voice mails and actually managed to speak to the real live lawyer*, I was able to get some basic real estate advice. And the crazy thing was, after I explained what was going one with Mister W’s dad, the house and everything, his legal advice was explicitly simple in design:
Walk Away.
It. Isn’t. Worth. It.
This from a LAWYER!!
Wow.
He laughed and commented that I sounded like I had been raised by “proper” middle class parents who instilled in me a set of rigid morals that kept me on the straight and narrow.
And I certainly was. You pay your debts, pay your taxes and follow the rules. I was good with this system. I like it. It works for me. Everything is structured and symmetrical; which is odd, considering how chaotic and spontaneous I tend to be. I have never understood myself!
In any case, Mister W and I talked and we developed a three year plan. One that unfortunately does not involve me moving to Maine and becoming a lobsterwoman, never mind the fact that looking at waves gets me seasick! The plan then is this:
We walk away from the house, bankroll my paycheck, I keep working at least until the school year is over, and then we pick up an apartment closer to Mister’s work and I can work or not (probably will so as to keep the extra money coming in for the next two years and then Mister W will entertain the possibility of moving back up north. Maybe.
This is something that I have just got to accept. I knew way back when, that Mister W did not want to leave Florida. He likes it here, likes his job and really invested in it. But me? I’ve never been thrilled with Florida. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it since I came here. I hate it for nine months of the year when the blistering sun bakes the very gray matter in my brain. And Florida loves to torture me with the blistering heat.
There are way more reasons than this, but far too many to go into any great detail. Let’s just say that I came with the understanding that I would remain no more than four years. It has now been ten years and I am more than ready to exit stage right!
The biggest problem I have with this plan is that it puts Big Sis as a junior in high school when the plan magically comes to fruition. And I would feel bad ripping her from school (assuming she didn’t graduate early and head to MIT or Yale because that is how bad-ass her brain is). I hate that I have been unable to provide for her the kind of physical environment I had growing up. I hate that for most of her life she had lived in a city and a crappy one at that! Obviously, I can’t change the fact, I can only do what I can to ease my mind about it (because really, I don’t think she has ever once complained about it except once she mentioned she wanted to live in the country and raise chickens).
Little Sis is, quite honestly, happy wherever. She wants a horse and to live on a farm, but then so did I and that never happened and I turned out mostly sane. I still want to live on a farm though, except, I’d rather have llamas than a horse. And a large concrete wall but that’s a story for another day.
Little Sis seems to have the mindset that home is where Mommy and Daddy are and if we don’t have a horse, chickens or llamas, that’s okay because it is. She is so wise sometimes and makes connections that I just don’t remember making at her age.
I guess what it boils down to is that Mister W needs a plan and I think plans take too long. I’d go tomorrow if Mister W said, “Hey, let’s jam!” I’ll go his way, though, if for no other reason than that while I hate my job, Mister W loves his and he is really good at it. His biggest fear about the “let’s just go” plan is that we’d go and end up in a worse situation where he is in a job that he hates and I can’t find a job I love.
Also, he seems very concerned about food.
Geeze. As if I wouldn’t pack a few granola bars to tide us over.
*Coolest thing about being part of a union, I totally have free access to a lawyer…and of course, by free I mean I make regularly monthly payments to be able to have access to a lawyer.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Easy Button Doesn't Work All Of The Time
Dear Secret Blogiary,
Today, I once again came home from work with my eyes red and poofy from crying.
It was a rough day.
Not only are the students having to adjust to a new schedule because we had to rearrange classes to meet class size amendment, but with block scheduling “B – Day” is my worst day. I have three 90 minute classes of hell with no break except for lunch. Each class is overloaded, still out of compliance with class size I might add, and all three of the classes are over two thirds ESE (also against the law).
Now having ESE students would be fine IF the students had learning disabilities. I can deal with that, but with the labeling the schools have, anyone with a “behavior” problem is also labeled ESE even though what they really need are parents at home doling out discipline with a large stick! Needless to say, it is hard to actually teach when I spend 70 minutes dealing with behavior problems.
Well, when Mister W saw me walk through the door, he took one look at my face and offered to “take care of” whoever was giving me grief. He was trying to get me to smile a little, but all I managed to do was burst into more tears. Mister W did not like that one bit. In fact, it kind-of turned him into a raging lunatic for a brief moment or two (he is so adorable when he gets all He-Man protective of me).
“Just quit.” Mister W makes it sound so simple and easy.
“I can’t just quit!” I garbled into his shoulder.
“Why?”
“...the house, the food you like to eat, the clothes the girls keep growing out of, the new car we have been trying to save up for…should I continue?”
“We can survive on my salary.”
“Survive?” I said, “I’m not sure I want to just “survive.”
“You know what I mean. We downsize, move into an apartment, you can get a part-time job somewhere…or better yet, stay home, write your damn book and home-school the girls.”
“…” Of course this is totally what I want, but I almost feel guilty for wanting it so I say nothing.
“Oh and have dinner for me every night when I get home from work.”
“And a cocktail too I suppose.” I finally crack a tiny smile.
“Yup. Just quit. Works for me.” He smirks.
The awesome thing is, he is serious. Call him a throwback, but his mindset is that of the 1940s where the men worked and the women stayed home. So when he says this to me, I know that if tomorrow, I hand Mr. MoHOLU a resignation letter, Mister W will be fine with it. Hell, he’d probably take me out drinking to celebrate.
Then why am I so scared to do so? Why do I continually torture myself with a job that makes me cry? Sure, I am terrified of being poor. But we have lived on Mister W’s salary alone in the past.
I think what holds me back is my die hard determination to avoid quitting out of defeat. I’ve quit jobs because I’ve moved or have gotten a better offer, but I’ve never quit because I lost, because I was defeated and beaten down.
Right now, I am beaten. And with Mister W prodding me to make a change, I feel like I could almost take that plunge.
Almost.
Today, I once again came home from work with my eyes red and poofy from crying.
It was a rough day.
Not only are the students having to adjust to a new schedule because we had to rearrange classes to meet class size amendment, but with block scheduling “B – Day” is my worst day. I have three 90 minute classes of hell with no break except for lunch. Each class is overloaded, still out of compliance with class size I might add, and all three of the classes are over two thirds ESE (also against the law).
Now having ESE students would be fine IF the students had learning disabilities. I can deal with that, but with the labeling the schools have, anyone with a “behavior” problem is also labeled ESE even though what they really need are parents at home doling out discipline with a large stick! Needless to say, it is hard to actually teach when I spend 70 minutes dealing with behavior problems.
Well, when Mister W saw me walk through the door, he took one look at my face and offered to “take care of” whoever was giving me grief. He was trying to get me to smile a little, but all I managed to do was burst into more tears. Mister W did not like that one bit. In fact, it kind-of turned him into a raging lunatic for a brief moment or two (he is so adorable when he gets all He-Man protective of me).
“Just quit.” Mister W makes it sound so simple and easy.
“I can’t just quit!” I garbled into his shoulder.
“Why?”
“...the house, the food you like to eat, the clothes the girls keep growing out of, the new car we have been trying to save up for…should I continue?”
“We can survive on my salary.”
“Survive?” I said, “I’m not sure I want to just “survive.”
“You know what I mean. We downsize, move into an apartment, you can get a part-time job somewhere…or better yet, stay home, write your damn book and home-school the girls.”
“…” Of course this is totally what I want, but I almost feel guilty for wanting it so I say nothing.
“Oh and have dinner for me every night when I get home from work.”
“And a cocktail too I suppose.” I finally crack a tiny smile.
“Yup. Just quit. Works for me.” He smirks.
The awesome thing is, he is serious. Call him a throwback, but his mindset is that of the 1940s where the men worked and the women stayed home. So when he says this to me, I know that if tomorrow, I hand Mr. MoHOLU a resignation letter, Mister W will be fine with it. Hell, he’d probably take me out drinking to celebrate.
Then why am I so scared to do so? Why do I continually torture myself with a job that makes me cry? Sure, I am terrified of being poor. But we have lived on Mister W’s salary alone in the past.
I think what holds me back is my die hard determination to avoid quitting out of defeat. I’ve quit jobs because I’ve moved or have gotten a better offer, but I’ve never quit because I lost, because I was defeated and beaten down.
Right now, I am beaten. And with Mister W prodding me to make a change, I feel like I could almost take that plunge.
Almost.
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