Last night my husband went to a party celebrating his sister’s birthday. It was what most would consider to be a “big” birthday. Steve’s sister is nearly 8 years older than he is. For years now, people who know Karen and then meet Steve automatically assume Steve is older than his sister. Why? Because he has gone prematurely grey.

When I met Steve way back in 1993, he had very dark hair. It wasn’t quite jet black but it was black and not brown. By the time our youngest son was born in 2003, the grey was definitely noticeable around the sideburns and at the temple. Now, 9 years later, about 50% of his hair is grey. While some might note that the greying of his hair neatly coincides with his marriage to me and our raising our two sons, I would like to point out that premature grey hair runs in Steve’s family. His Aunt Bobby was grey before she turned 50.

Last night, I stayed home with our boys while Steve went to the party for his sister, which was being held at a bar downtown. Through the night he was updating me via text on the party I was missing. This message came in:

“2 people thought I was older. F*** me.”

“I’m sorry,” I responded, adding a 😦 to punctuate my sympathy.

“I knew it would happen,” came his reply.

When he got home, he told me that a third person had told him they thought he was older than Karen. I tried to console him.

“It’s okay, hon. George Clooney went prematurely grey. I read an article where he was commenting that people always think he’s like 10 years older than he is because of his grey hair. At least you’re in good company.”

“Yeah. But, at the end of the day, he’s GEORGE CLOONEY.”

Well, he had me there. Can’t argue with that.

If Steve’s hair wasn’t grey, I’m fairly certain no one would suspect he’s older than he is. He’s not incredibly wrinkly. He’s healthy and fit and 20 pounds lighter now than he was when I met him. Wash out that grey hair and no way does he look older than 40. But, with it, people are going to suspect he’s at least 50, if not older. Steve is not vain, though, so he’d never color his hair. I suggested it about ten years ago and he shot the idea down immediately. He’s stuck.

I feel bad for Steve. I do. I can imagine how much it would suck to have people assuming you were a decade older than you really were. Luckily, I will likely not ever have that problem because I am vain and I refuse to age “gracefully,” whatever the hell that means. If anyone ever implied I looked ten years older than I am, I’d be at the hairdresser, dermatologist, and plastic surgeon so fast I’d leave a Road Runner-like white swoosh mark behind me. Incredibly shallow, I know, but true nonetheless.

Steve was telling me today in the car that he wholeheartedly believes in karma. I told him I think karma is what unlucky people believe in so they feel better about their misfortunes. But, then I thought about it for a second. Maybe it was karma that gave Steve his grey hair? You see, I am 18 months older than he is. Every year on my birthday, my accountant husband acts like he can’t do the math and questions my age. (“Wait…so now you’re TWO years older than me?”) Funny guy, right? Truth is that although I may be 18 months older than he is, until I decide to go grey (sometime years and years from now) I will never look 18 months older than he is. Maybe there is something to this whole karma thing after all? 😉

I hate spiders. Hate them with a passion fueled by the equivalent of a thousand suns. They freak me out something fierce. My general rule for spiders is that any spider under the size of the quarter is a creepy nuisance that I will dispatch accordingly. Any spider larger than quarter size is best left to my husband because otherwise I will not be able to sleep. True story. Because of my arachnophobia, we’ve had exterminator service every three months for the entire time we’ve lived in our current house. I don’t want to take any chances. You see, because our home is adjacent to open space, we often have large, prey-hunting wolf spiders hanging around. And, oh, how I hate they.

What makes matters worse for me when it comes to arachnids is that I seem to have a sixth sense for spotting them. It’s like my own personal spidey sense. If there is one anywhere in the garage or the yard or on the porch, I will spot it. You know how a dog or cat will gravitate toward the one person in the room who is most allergic? Spiders are like that with me. They love me. They seek me out simply to torture me. This just makes me hate them more.

Today after I pulled the car into the garage and came around the other side, I spied a large wolf spider. Seriously? It’s MARCH! Wolf spiders already? Ugh. It’s gonna be a long summer. If Steve had been home, I would have sicked him on it but he was not. I thought about it for a while and decided I could not knowingly let it stay in the garage. So, I picked up a shovel and not wanting to leave a mess I would have to hose down or forever stare at I tossed him out into the yard. But, that wasn’t good enough. I knew he would come back. So, I took that shovel and beat that ugly, eight-legged alien until I was certain it would not ever crawl again. Then, I calmly replaced the shovel in its usual spot, walked up the stairs into the house, and then slammed and bolted the door and let out a shudder and a squeal that I’m certain measured on the Richter scale. Did you feel it?

Last spring I knowingly and willingly let a tarantula crawl across my hand in an attempt to overcome my aversion to spiders. Today I found out it did not work. Calling the exterminator again tomorrow for a repeat spraying of noxious chemicals, which they assure me will not actually kill the wolf spiders (only a shovel can do that, apparently) but at least the spiders “don’t like it.” At this point, I’m willing to settle for something the spiders don’t like because the day I find one of those wolf spiders in my home is the day we move to Alaska. And, you should know that I hate the cold almost as much as I hate spiders.

 

 

The other night at dinner, I nearly had to bring out Mama Bear. Those of you who are moms, have moms, or are married to women who are moms, know how serious this is. A woman only brings out Mama Bear when someone disparages or hurts her child. I very rarely bring out Mama Bear because she is sacred. Like the spot in the wall marked “In Case of Emergency,” you don’t break the glass and pull the alarm unless you’re absolutely in need of assistance. Mama Bear doesn’t go away easily once unleashed.

The other night I kept Mama Bear concealed not because I had nothing to say but because my son didn’t realize he was being teased. I did, but for the sake of not becoming snarky at the dinner table I let it slide. Why point out something to my son when he was so happily oblivious? Someone (who shall remain nameless) said, “Luke looks positively Romulan with that haircut.” Now, I’m not saying that my son’s hair does not resemble at times something out of Star Trek. For some reason, the poor kid’s sideburns do seem to grow toward a point when they get longer, but it’s not his fault. He’s got a thick, coarse mop of hair. It is unruly and does what it wants. Normally I would not care that a crack like this one had been made. Heaven knows I tease the kid a bunch myself, but that’s my job. Not someone else’s. To make matters worse, this is not the first time this particular person has made this same comment about my son’s hair. Mama Bear growled inside me, but I locked her back in her cage and ignored the remark. A birthday celebration is never the time or place to release the bear.

I don’t harbor any ill will towards the person who made the comment. Perhaps they thought they were making a clever and astute observation, a harmless and amusing remark. And it would have been nothing if it it had been made anywhere other than within earshot of the poor Romulan’s mother. I’m letting it slide because I know this person loves my son, crazy hair and all. Still…it would be best if I don’t hear this particular remark a third time because Mama Bear does strictly abide by the three-strikes rule. The first two strikes are gimmes. The third strike brings out the claws.

 

 

 

 

I am a Netflix junkie. It’s true. Even when they separated their business parts and started charging more, I stuck with them. Why did I stay when lots of others jumped ship? It’s simple. I don’t watch television. Or, rather, I rarely watch television. So, to fill the space where television would be, I watch movies. Lots of them. And, although I’m too impatient to wait a week for a new episode of a television show, I love to rent four seasons of a show at once and become addicted. It’s the epitome of instant gratification. Sad, but true.

Last night as I was flipping through Netflix on my laptop, in the Recently Added section, I noticed something interesting. They now had the new Battlestar Galactica for instant viewing. Are you kidding me? A couple years ago we discovered the show based on recommendations from some friends. We whipped through the entire series in record time, getting four hours of sleep a night sometimes so that we could watch the series finale in real time (ie., not on DVD for once). We were obsessed, not unlike the couple on Portlandia (another show we watched on Netflix). Pathetic.

“Hey, Steve? Guess what? Netflix now has the entire series of Battlestar for instant viewing.”

“Get out!” he replied.

“No. Look.” I showed him the laptop. The kids were downstairs watching The Adventures of TinTin, so we couldn’t get to the Apple TV down there to watch Netflix. “I guess we could watch it on my laptop up here,” I ventured. I looked at him sheepishly and tossed the bait. “OR we could get one of those new Apple TV units for our bedroom so we could watch the entire series over again up here.”

“I’ll get my shoes,” he squeaked. I’d just made his dreams come true. Only one thing excites Steve more than a trip to the Apple Store, but I can’t talk about that here.

Forty-five minutes later, he was back with an Apple TV unit and a quart of Founder’s Favorite ice cream from Cold Stone because I am the best wife ever. It took him five minutes to get it set up and we were ready to go. Despite still being exhausted from the yearly spring-forward debacle, we stayed up to watch the pilot episode, knowing perfectly well that we were about to begin another period of sleep deprivation. Even though we’d seen it all before, we were ready to do it again. It’s all good. It’s a really great show.

So say we all.

 

 

 

 

My amazing sister-in-law is turning 50 in a few weeks. A couple days ago, out of the blue, she texted Steve and told him she had gotten a tattoo. This was a shock. Such a shock, in fact, that his initial response was a simple but appropriate, “What? And where?” He had no idea she was considering a tattoo. Apparently she shocked herself by doing it. We haven’t yet inquired as to her sudden motivation to bear a lotus flower on her forearm. (I blame that on shock too.)

Hubby and I have debated off and on ever since we’ve known each other about whether we should get tattoos. So far, we’re still uninked. Many of our friends have them, and now all three of our siblings do. About fourteen years ago, we discussed it after meeting our now good friends Robb and Rebecca. Robb and Rebecca are infinitely more hip than we are (proof of my unhipness: I still say “hip”). If they had tattoos, then maybe we should too? So, we began seriously considering it. It went like this:

Me: If you got a tattoo, what would you get it of?

Steve: I don’t really know, which is why I’ve never gotten one.

Me: I can’t think of a thing that I want permanently on my body.

Steve: It should be something that means something to you, right?

Me: In theory, yes, especially since it’s yours for life.

Steve: Well, then, I guess I could get a basketball tattoo.

Me: You mean of like a player or a logo or something?

Steve: No. Of an actual basketball.

(This is where I looked at him like I had no idea what I had married.)

Me: A basketball. A round tattoo that’s orange? That’s it? That’s the best idea you can come up with?

Steve: Well, I like basketball.

Me: Well, I like Red Vines but I’m not getting an image of them tattooed on me forever. Sorry. You cannot get a basketball tattoo. 

And that is when the whole tattoo topic was tabled for further discussion at a later date, preferably at a time when my husband would not be quite as enamored with basketball.

That is why all these years have gone by and we remain uninked. Steve still has not come up with a better tattoo idea than a basketball, and I remain vehemently opposed to that idea. I, unlike Steve, have an approved image, one that means something to me personally, but I can’t decide where it should go. So, we’re still stuck. I figure that by the time we know what we want and where we want it we will either be too saggy to be tattooed or so old that we’ll park our car near the parlor, start walking there, forget where we were headed, and turn around and go home ink-free.

A tattoo is such a lot of commitment. I suppose that’s what is ultimately the hold up. Neither one of us is willing to deal with that level of permanence. We had less concern and discussion about getting married than we have had about getting a silly tattoo. But, then again, a tattoo is forever.

(Author’s Note: Steve and I had a good laugh after I read him that last line, so no worries. My next post will not be about our pending divorce.)

I am currently not in a very zen place. It’s most likely a hormonally-based response, but right now I want to smack someone over something ridiculous. I am irked at them and even more annoyed at myself for allowing something so petty and pointless to get to me. I’m ashamed to admit that I was angry enough to finish off not one, not two, but ten Girl Scout Trefoil cookies (along with several other items, which shall not be named) in what can only be termed a feeding frenzy of anger.

What egregious infraction could possibly elicit such a vehement response? What could ostensibly send me into a Girl Scout cookie coma? I’ll tell you what. I hate it when people say contrary things merely for the sake of being contrary.

You know what I’m talking about. You’re at your desk chatting with a coworker about a great movie you saw this weekend when someone walks by and overhears your conversation. Suddenly that nosy interloper cuts you off in the middle of a movie review so brilliant that it would bring Roger Ebert to tears and drops this bomb: “I saw that movie. It sucked. It sucked so bad I walked out.” He then tells your friend to save his money, and you sit there, mouth hanging open, dumbfounded and stymied, as the creep walks away like nothing ever happened. I hate that guy.

Perhaps hate is a strong word. Maybe it’s a bit over the top. But, there aren’t words enough to describe how much I dislike it when someone sticks their nose into the middle of something I feel good about just to announce that whatever it is that I’m enjoying is nothing but suckitude. Why? What motivates some people do this? They like to rain on others’ parades? They truly believe their opinion trumps every other one out there? They suffer from Tourette Syndrome-like inability to control their obnoxiously negative comments? Their mother never taught them the adage, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”? Some of the people who are contrary are consistent in their negativity and it wouldn’t matter what you were discussing because they would find a way to send it south. Some of these people would tell you that Mother Teresa was only in it for the publicity.

Now, I know we all have bad days. Sometimes we say things that we shouldn’t. We all have our Negative Nelly moments. But to those people whose entire lives are framed with some sick need to be “right” (whatever that means) 100% of the time in every situation, especially those in which you have no business, do the rest of us a favor and simply keep your comments to yourself. We don’t care if you hated the movie or soup, if you heard the ski conditions were horrible, if you once had the same type car and it was a complete lemon. Let us have our experiences and enjoy our own things and mind your own business. That way, I don’t have to smack you or eat an entire sleeve of Girl Scout Trefoils.

 

 

Every year on Oscar Night, I host a little family get together. We make wonderful food, drink, fill out ballots and, at the end of the night, someone in our house is declared the best Oscar-winner picker. (Better than being the best butt picker, I think.) At any rate, since I’ve been busy with my kids all day and I’m going to be parked on the sofa all evening, this weak post is all I can muster. Here are my picks for the top categories tonight. I am likely hugely wrong (I never win), but I’ve got a glass of Pinot Noir in me and no pride so here goes:

Best Director:  Michel Hazanavicius for The Artist

Best Supporting Actor: Christopher Plummer for Beginners

Best Supporting Actress: Octavia Spencer for The Help

Best Actor: George Clooney for The Descendants (okay…Oscar folks, asking me to choose between George and Brad was just mean)

Best Actress: Viola Davis for The Help

Best Picture: The Artist (which I truly think deserves the honor)

Enjoy laughing at my losing ballot and Happy Oscaring!