on gifts and (monocles)

People think Y and I are odd. For starters, we enjoy driving across the country. We bake our own pizza dough. We carry reusable bags to the grocery store, which has attracted the attention of every employee at SuperTarget and pretty much made us ST celebrities. We don't celebrate Valentine's Day. (Or Christmas, for that matter, and if I had a nickel for every person that's said to me, "Wait- since you're Jewish, does that mean you don't celebrate CHRISTMAS?")

I say this because it seems like every married blogger I follow is showing off their 1 year anniversary gifts. I wanted to play, too, but I felt like I needed that disclaimer. Unless of course, it's perfectly normal to receive a card shaped like Michael Jackson's white glove.

Not that the card isn't one of the top five gifts I've ever received (#1 being Samantha).

Sorry, Y, none of your gifts could top my velvet-hat wearing, pink coin purse toting, Victorian friend. (Just so you know, I wrote that sentence before I found the picture. I have Samantha's accessories memorized.)

The shiny glove's purpose was to commemorate the 1 year anniversary of not only our marriage, but the two weeks we spent driving around Ireland, unable to escape from the endless Michael Jackson tributes (the Irish took it much harder than we did).

We exchanged gifts at 2:30 a.m. after our anniversary, after we got home 4 hours later than expected from New York (thunderstorms in Dallas, 2; DandY travel plans, 0). Since I was practically delirious at that time, I'm not sure if I ever properly thanked Y for his gift, and would like to do so now in our favorite mode of communication.

As for my gift to Y, I made him letterhead...which he had actually asked me to do months ago. I guess it ruined the effect that my first anniversary gift was actually a long procrastinated favor.

When I showed some friends my design to get some opinions on my "manly letterhead" (FYI: Googling "manly letterhead" for stationery inspiration doesn't work), one said she could imagine Y sitting in a big leather chair, smoking a cigar and writing a letter on his letterhead with a quill while Ike sat at his feet wearing a monocle and a top hat.

How funny that she said that, because we love to imagine Ike in that getup -- we're pretty sure that's his alter ego. In fact, when Ike was a puppy, Y even made this:

Y has yet to use his Manly Letterhead, and for his next guest post on this blog, I propose he tell me why via http://www.bureauofcommunication.com.

Samantha picture source: babble.com

Dear Samsung,

I've been reading online reviews of your "Magnet" phone. Apparently, you guys are very proud of this phone because it has a qwerty keyboard. Well let me just say congratulations, you made a phone with a qwerty keyboard... FOR CARNIES.

What follows is a text message conversation. The two texters are in their mid to late 20s (meaning they don't typically TyP3 lYk3 d1S) and have had their phones for about a year and send at least ten text messages a day. Oh, and one of the texters is me, and I am confident enough in my typing skills to know that this is not normal.

The scene: Dog swallows a chicken bone.

It wuz delicious, guyz.

I call Y and ask what he thinks I should do, we agree I should call a vet. And the texts begin.

y: my friend josh says it may r may not be vas [bad]. wing or leg?

me: thigh. ive called tree vets. boarding place im waiing on.
y: ricr
me: vet says i should induce vomiting
y: you cab try
y: if you cant, theb bring hi. In.
me: 60 dollars later, no chicken bone. she disnot sound too wirried.
y: great. now what
me: watch his oop.
y: what? happens i there is blod

me: bring him in. surg?

Did you get all that? Because I sure didn't. Neither did my husband. Y spent his day wondering why i would call a tree vet when our dog was the issue. And he did a great job of watching Ike's oop, but later admitted he had no idea what he was looking at all afternoon. And I
still have no clue what "ricr" means.

Later, Y needed to know what time he was picking me up from class so he could start making dinner.

Y: Wheb am i getting you. nt goig to cook till yuo get hurr.

Samsung, you may be wondering why I'm writing you this letter. First of all, it's to tell you that the keyboard on my Magnet is IMPOSSIBLE to type on. Finally, I would like to thank you for getting "Hot in Hurr" stuck in my (and probably, now, all of my readers') head.

Not A Carnie.

Mr. McGee

Since a year ago today we were on our honeymoon in Ireland, I feel like I should do a reminiscent post. I could go on and on about the views, the food, and the nonstop Michael Jackson tributes; but I would rather tell you about our "Frank and Beans".

Just like Pam and Jim made some friends on their honeymoon, so did we. Our friend was in the audience at a pub where the band put us on the spot for being on our honeymoon.

Okay... that's not quite true. We never actually met our friend. We also don't remember seeing him in person. But once we looked through our pictures, oh, he was there. And he was really, really, really happy to see us.

Luckily we were able to figure out his name named him: Smiley McGee. Smiley McGee is an often discussed subject in our house, and has even appeared in a birthday card. He also has a voice -- which, now that I think about it, sounds suspiciously like Ike's inner monologue - that we use to say his catch phrase. Which, appropriately if not creatively, is "I'M SMILEY MCGEE!"

In our house...

...this is what happens when you finish a big test:

Brown paper packages tied up with floss...

1. You get a gift that doubles as a passive aggressive commentary on your flossing habits. Not that Y doesn't floss -- sometimes I kind of wish he didn't -- but he tosses his floss wherever he feels like when he's done. And yes, I have found it on me before. And before you tell me how immature and ineffective my tactic is, I would like you to know that I haven't seen floss in any place it's not supposed to be since. Hmmmph.

2. You get a [really, really, ugly] cake.

This is why I should never write a food blog.

pretzel wars

Well, it's official. Y and I have run out of things to talk about. Since he's been studying for his boards, we both spend our days locked in closet sized rooms with no windows. He could tell me about why practice question X was unfair or too hard, but I try to discourage that since I don't speak medicalese. And I could tell him how many times we change one little sentence in something we're editing at work, but well, that's boring.

So when we meet for lunch outside of the med school where I work and he studies, the conversation is pretty much nonexistent. The other day I was checking my Nalgene bottle for leaks while he was reading the back of his bag of pretzels. "Snyders of Hanover," he read, "Not to be confused with Snyders of Berlin. I wonder why they need to put that on the bag." I shrugged. "Probably some tragic, pretzel-based Romeo and Juliet." We spent the next 15 minutes discussing theories of why Snyders of Hanover didn't want to be associated with Snyders of Berlin. And then we went back to our caves.

All in all, a successful lunch break. Join us next time as we debate whether PBJs should be cut into rectangles or triangles (triangles).

the oatmeal fairy

Y and I have developed a really mature way of dealing with each other's habit of leaving stuff out on the counter.

The first time it happened -- okay, this was probably the 800th time it had happened, but the first time it bothered Y enough to confront me -- he yelled into the other room, "What, do you think the OATMEAL FAIRY is going to come by tonight and put away your oatmeal?"

Since then, here are a few conversations that have been heard around our house:

Me: Oh, I didn't realize we were having guests over today!
Y: What? Who?

Me: Ooh, I can't wait to meet this one. I bet she's hot.
Y: Uh, who?

Me: Oh, this will be nice! I bet they will really get along.
Y: Who?

Me: Did you leave the door unlocked?
Y: What? Why?
Me: How else is the SPLENDA PACKET FAIRY going to get inside?

I bet he is so sorry he started this.

The Passive Aggressives

Y gets, in my opinion, unreasonably angry about many things. Maybe you've heard how much he hates the game Apples to Apples?

I guess usually my laid back attitude complements Y's, well, not laid back attitude. But yesterday, we had a bonding experience when something pissed us both off equally.

We were standing by the gate to enter a set of two tennis courts, one of which was occupied by a group of pastel clad women playing doubles. As we waited for them to take a break so we could walk behind them to get to our court, one woman adjusted her diamond tennis bracelet and snapped at us, "You need to use the other gate." We didn't realize there was another gate, so we probably gave her a look like this:

She looked at us like "our kind" was the downfall of her beloved tennis court. "You're going to cross our court while we're in the middle of a point," she pre-accused us snootily. This made us angry.

As if we were so dumb that we were going to just walk in the middle of their court as they were playing?? Please. Look lady, my tennis outfit may just be a pair of random leggings and a men's Hane's v-neck-- and that's only because my tennis skirt was in the dryer, but even if I had been wearing my tennis skirt, it has two holes in it and it's from high school 10 years ago and my high school was --gasp-- public, and there was a stabbing outside of my homeroom and people were busted for drugs 2 streets over and my husband might be wearing my dad's polo shirt from the 70s and is in dire need of a haircut and our tennis rackets might be from Wal Mart but THAT DOESN'T MEAN WE DON'T HAVE BASIC COMMON SENSE.

That's what was running through my mind. Y told me his was brimming with all kinds of really clever insults: "I hear that being a raging bitch is the leading cause of early menopause." Not quite as well spoken as his Apples to Apples rant, but I would have loved to hear him shout that across the court. And then ran and hid.

So what did the dynamic duo to retaliate when our intelligence was questioned? We used the other gate. And went on with our match. And passive agressively ran really fast to grab our stray balls, heaven forbid they cross the other court in the middle of a point. And in Yoni's case, made up really awesome insults that would, sadly, never see the light of day.

Go team.

dandy math skillz

Have you seen what they're planning to do to Monopoly?


I remember when the current electronic banking version of Monopoly came out, Y and I rolled our eyes and said something the effect of, No cash? No math? These kids are going to grow up without the math skills of our generation.

Well. Let me tell you a little story.

A few weeks ago, we decided to play Monopoly - the old geezer version. I crushed Y, ending the game with thousands of dollars. He had to give me Boardwalk, mortgage all of his properties, and ended up with maybe $2. All this because I owned both of the utilities.

"If both utilities are owned, rent is 10 times amount shown on dice."

This isn't fair, Y whined as he forked over $1200 after rolling a 12. And again, after having to pay $500 after rolling a 5. The game lasted about 15 minutes. It was amazing because a) I have NEVER won monopoly and b) I've never seen anyone win so FAST. I was pretty sure I had uncovered some kind of secret real estate strategist talent and needed to change careers asap.

Fast forward to maybe a week later. Ask Y, I constantly have random thoughts that come out of nowhere that I verbalize to him. Anyone else would think I was crazy, Y tolerates them for some reason. That day's random thought:

Me: "Um. Y... what's 10 x 12?"
Y: "120. Why?"
Me: ....

Apparently, having the manual version of Monopoly does nothing for your math skills, and we formally retract our statements directed toward Monopoly 2.0.

A blog about nothing.

The most noteworthy thing that happened to me today:

Y is sitting next to me, playing Tecmo Superbowl, a video game that looks like it might be from 1983. I, being the mature married lady I am, pluck one of Ike's hairs from Y's shirt and stick it up his nose, making Y miss whatever 1980s play he's trying to make*. Y kicks my shin and calls me every name he can think of.

Oh, and there were cupcakes.

I mean... wouldn't you start a blog, too? The people want to hear this stuff.

*I am told it was 3rd and long and from 1991. I still don't think I deserved to be kicked.