shoesonwrong

Five

Surprise! We survived five years of marriage without appearing on any major news outlets for domestic homicide!

Actually, last Friday was our anniversary, but I thought that delaying a post about it would build suspense. And also: I was really lazy. 

More people called to wish us happy anniversary than called to wish me happy birthday, but whatever. I'm not bitter. I'm not that bitter. For our anniversary present, we got books. Not, like, books for each other, we just went out to a bookshop together and bought books. Call me unromantic and selfish, but I really prefer shopping for myself rather than other people -- so much more gratifying, you know? YOU GET TO KEEP THE STUFF.

Then we had a fancy but homemade dinner and watched movies all night. Our anniversary coincided with game seven of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and downtown was too packed to move. Plus, had the Red Wings won (they did not), downtown would have erupted into total chaos. So we decided to just stay in.

Five years of marriage has taught me so much. Things like someone has to clean the toilet and it's probably going to be me, if you wait long enough the other person will run out of underwear first and have to the laundry, and don't go to bed angry because you'll just wake up even more angry due to a lack of sleep.

Happy five years, Ryan. Love you.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and we didn't quite do the usual full boycott. Ryan got me the chocolate miis from Paul Pape's store. In order to stay true to my anti-Valentine's Day sentiments, I first plucked off their little red hearts and threw then away (cinnamon? ew!), then nommed their bodies. Finally, I ate their decapitated heads while laughing manically.

Quite fitting for us, really. Plus, I have a tiny paper box in the shape of a wii. It's adorable.

I talked to the Peace Corps recruiter on Wednesday. If we end up accepting an assignment invitation, we'll probably be teaching math and science in Africa. In Africa. That's crazy and sort of frighteningly real. Of course, my medical history could still throw up some red flags and put the kibosh on the whole thing, so nothing is even remotely definite yet. But still, teaching in Africa.

Now it's finally Friday, and I finally have my group theory homework done. It only took about 16 hours to finish those 6 problems. He handed out another assignment today that's due next Friday. Shoot me now.

23

Today, Ryan turns 23. He should start looking like the Crypt Keeper any day now.

I got him a binary watch, which means that I clearly love him and have forgiven him for leaving me standing outside of a Krispy Kreme on Dupont Circle in D.C. for over a half hour while he went to find parking but got lost instead, leaving me just standing there, holding a box of Krispy Kremes, and looking so pathetic that homeless people were giving me sympathetic looks.

Well, the watch at least means I'm working on forgiving him, right?

Tonight, we're gorging on Mexican food and then going to see a movie. Whoever says white people don't know how to party... is absolutely right, actually.

Confessions of A Morning Rage-aholic.

I truly believe that the only reason my marriage has not resulted in divorce is because my husband and I never have to interact in the mornings. If we did, he would leave me so fast my head would spin, and he would be completely justified. I am MEAN -- and not just a cranky, don't talk to me, let me wake up kind of mean.

It's more of a I hold you personally responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened in the history of the world and you will PAY because I am out for blood kind of mean.

As it is now, he is usually long gone by time I wake up. He's at school, or work, or hiding out in the neighbor's dumpster. (He's never actually fessed up to that last one, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's true. Mainly because that's what I would do in the mornings if I was married to me.) So when I wake up, the full extent of my rage gets taken out on the dog and household objects. I just kind of stalk out of bed, throw open the cupboard where the dog's food is, pour it for her, and slam it down. By time I get out of the shower, she's finished her food and usually has it all over her face. Do I wipe it off for her? No, no I do not. I just glare at her and snap, "YOUR IDIOTIC TENDENCIES BOTHER ME."

Then I sit down and glare at the TV for awhile. Because Bob Denver died, and if I had cable and turned the TV on, I would not be able to see anymore live interviews with Bob Denver. So I glare at the TV.

I have no idea what we're going to do when Ryan and I have the same schedules. He'll probably take one look at me and push the dog in front of him as an offering to my anger, or maybe he'll just keep hiding around the corner in the neighbor's dumpster.