Nope, Nothing Sacred Here

I’m losing my edge. Wes and I faced off for a brownie this afternoon and we ended up splitting it. Just typing that out makes me feel vaguely soiled.

You see, back in the sweet halcyon days of newlywed bliss, Wes and I had a bit of an understanding about the chocolate in our household. The only thing he needed to understand was that I had needs he would never be able to fully comprehend and, as such, I had full rights to any chocolate that might survive long enough in the kitchen to be contested.

This chocolate monopoly began long before I even knew Wes. I was so famous for inhaling any chocolate within my reach that my mother began hiding her chocolate in a fruitless endeavor to preserve it.

She hid it in the freezer, the garage, the back of the pantry; she even tried buying 70% cocoa baking chocolate in an effort to turn me off the stuff (it didn’t work.) Eventually she had to face the facts and ended up buying a Costco box of Carmellos that we split with the mutual understanding that we would only go through one bar per day. An uneasy peace was had by all.

I might mention that this battle royale was waged in a house also occupied by two young boys and my mom’s husband. They were lucky if there were any crumbs left when my mom and I were through. Heaven help them if they touched our chocolate, though. We made shark feeding frenzies look like brunch at the Ritz-Carlton and any men who got in the way were considered collateral damage. The broken eggs to our omelette, as it were.

Anyway, I have a precedent for being rather, umm, shall we say “protective” of the chocolate in the house? Wes learned this painful lesson early on in our marriage when he bought two candy bars, ate one, and thought he’d save the second one for later. It was never seen again and, when he asked me about it, I shrugged and mentioned that there was no name on the bar and, as such, no rightful claim.

He was smart and left it at that.

Fast forward to this afternoon, though. There was one brownie left and Wes had the temerity to ask me if I wanted to split it. Truly I am losing my touch if my husband feels safe enough to ask me if I want to split the last remaining piece of chocolate in our house. I, being the mature adult I often appear to be, consented to split said brownie but obviously I’m still rather perturbed.

I mean, I forsee only terrible things as the result of this breach in my iron hold on all things chocolate in this house. What’s next? Will he suddenly rebel against my no-dirty-laundry-on-the-floor rule? Will dirty dishes start snubbing their noses at me from all places forbidden (meaning not in the sink)?! Will there be dirty shoes all over my carpet?!

Perhaps he’ll go for the trifecta and eat the last piece of chocolate right in front of me while plopping a wet towel in a corner of the bathroom and rubbing muddy shoes over the freshly vacuumed stairs. Oh my, I think I may have just ruptured something…

Sue-icidal

No, no, don’t start calling all the Sues you know and warning them that a rampaging blogger seeks to snuff out the candles of their lives. My rampage is not even a rampage. I’d say it’s more a blip, a quark, a passing anti-fancy.

I read a blog post today that referenced a court case between a woman named Ledbetter and Goodyear. Apparently this woman worked happily for Goodyear until she received an anonymous letter informing her that the other people doing her job, all men, were receiving a lot more money for their efforts than she was.

So, she subsequently sued the company for backpay, damages, and all sorts of crazy stuff. WTF?! Originally, she won the case and was awarded a hefty sum of money for her troubles. Then, the Supreme Court got a hold of her case (thanks to an appeal by Goodyear) and shot it down and now she’s appalled, saying she never would have believed this in America.

Oh. My. Goodness. You’re darn right this is America and this stuff happens. If you don’t negotiate a higher paycheck for yourself at the outset, heck yes will you make less than other people. I’m so frustrated reading about people who sue companies for this kind of foolish crap.

Doctors are leaving practices because of the ridiculous lawsuits they’re faced with all the time (What do you mean elective surgery can be dangerous?!), people are suing restaurants for making them fat (Since when do restaurants force you to stop exercising and eat too much?), and all the while we’re all sitting there watching from the sidelines like it’s a tennis match. I imagine lawyers are fine with it, though.

I’m just so frustrated that this woman feels the company owes her something because she wasn’t paid as well as the other employees. Yes, the other employees are men and yes, women in this country earn pennies to a man’s dollar, but no one stopped this woman from investigating what her job should have been paying her and then negotiating her way to top dollar.

Honestly, when people participate in stupid lawsuits like this I get pretty steamed. America is the land of opportunity, yes, but should it really be the land of this kind of opportunity?

He Said She Said

So, I know this will probably be shocking to you at first but bear with me ’til the end. It may not be worth it but you’ve started reading this post and it’s always best to finish strong, yes? The shocking comes now: Men and women don’t communicate very well.

I’ll give you a minute to pick your jaw up off the floor.

The latest example of this nugget of intergenderatial brilliance comes courtesy of a conversation Wes and I had on Saturday while we were driving home from dinner. We were discussing flirting (which is so much fun. People always say they miss flirting when they get married but I see nothing wrong with flirting with your spouse. If I do it just right Wes starts blushing and gets really flustered. Squee!)

Now, when Wes and I were just youngins, flirting away the Saturdays of our youth at the Red Robin where we met, we were both pretty committed to bringing our A-game to the flirting match. He flirted, I flirted, and on and on we went while my friends diligently sat there and pretended to care about what we were saying.

Up until now, I thought I was pretty charming and alluring. You see, I was never at a loss for boyfriends and the reason, to me, seemed to be because I was so good at the whole charming-and-flirty thing.

Well, Wes remembers it a little differently. When asked how he remembers my flirting he replied, “I remember you were kinda shy and really giggly.”

Huh. That wasn’t really what I was going for.

Then he topped that particular sundae with this cherry of a statement, “Oh, and you were always really impressed with everything I did.”

Oy. Can’t you just smell the teenage puppy-love from there?

So, what this essentially boils down to is a fine example of how men and women just don’t seem to meet in the same place cognitively. Ever.

What this also means is that if you’re ever curious about how Wes and I ended up married and in love, ask me. Not him. Otherwise you might become confused about how a kinda shy and giggly girl nabbed a rock star like him.

Rat Mafia

I apologize for the lack of post yesterday but we were attacked in the night and my attention was needed elsewhere.

Who were we attacked by, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. The rat mafia. Yes, they have struck again and we’re all paying the price. We keep our dog food in a sealed bin in the garage but we keep the unopened bags on high shelves until they’re needed.

The rats have had a very good time eating the food up there and have generally left the rest of the food in the bin alone. Until Wednesday. On Wednesday, Wes emptied our last bag of dog food into the sealed bin, effectively depriving the rats of their favorite food source. Their hush money, if you will.

Well, they decided swift action was necessary so they mobilized in the night and wrought havoc on our sealed bin. See below: Is that not shocking proof that the rat mafia means business? I mean, we skip one night’s payment of hush money and look at what we wake up to! As further means of teaching us a lesson, they left one solitary rat turd on my washing machine. A rat mafia version of the severed horse head in my bed, if you will.

So, today we shall go and procure a metal dog food receptacle. And some sticky rat traps. And a commercial sanitizer because Oh My Goodness Gracious Am I Grossed Out That There Are Rats Crawling With Their Bubonic Plague-Diseased Paws All Over My Washing Machine.
I proposed the idea of leaving Doc out there all night to scare them away but I think he might actually eat one and I don’t even want to know how we’d explain that one to the vet. Hay-and-hairballs and rocks and clips are one thing, swallowed-whole rats are quite another.

The Canine Cousins

This is a tale of two retrievers…

My brother in law and sister in law have a beautiful Golden Retriever named Koa. She’s about a year and a half older than our dog, Doc, and they are best friends.

This was not always the case. When we first brought Doc home, we were all certain that Koa would take Doc under her wing and teach him the intricacies of doggedness. Doc was about eight weeks old at their first meeting and he spent most of that meeting cowering or sleeping in the grass while Koa fetched and retrieved a tennis ball. She sniffed him a couple times and declared him too young to play with; essentially leaving him to his own devices (see above re: cowering and sleeping).

We brought them together again when Doc was a little older and Koa introduced Doc to swimming. He was about 10 weeks old at that time and learned a lot from watching her swim.

Afterward, they played together and Koa showed more interest in her tiny canine cousin. She played gently with him and a fledging friendship began.

It was always a tacit understanding between the two dogs that since Koa was bigger, she was the boss. Doc ostensibly respected this but must secretly have been counting down the days until he was bigger. I can just picture him using his tiny baby puppy claws to carve out in his crate the number of days until he would be full grown.

His patience appears to have paid off because now Doc has a solid 25lbs. on Miss Koa and he’s not afraid to use them. They’re both in the backyard now and, owing to their similarity in color, it looks like we have a tawny tornado just a-twirling away in the dog kennel.

Doc, being the dominant little rapscalion he is, has asserted himself over his very sweet cousin and uses every opportunity to remind her that he’s the boss.

It’s hard to imagine him as he once was: roly, poly, and soft like cookie dough. Who is that great big domineering dog and what has he done with my sweet puppy?