Miffed Auras

It appears that S and I both have tempers. Those of you who know me have figured out that it takes a pretty good amount of nonsense to push me over the edge. We have a WiiU at home, and it is the source of fun and decompression – along with our pup, Reynold – after a long day of work.  I’m not sure if the amount of hours we’ve spent playing Mario Kart 8 and Splatoon is embarrassing or impressive. Yes, the machine actually tracks the amount of hours you play each game, and provides dates and times; in case you wish to deny your gamer status.

We both have gamer rage when something doesn’t go our way during a race or a battle session. “JESUS CHRIST…. COME ON… GOSH” are regular exclamations when we’re both on the couch. I tend to be more of a slow-cooker when I’m getting frustrated with a game, while S will vocally rage during the first minutes of playing. I find this hilarious and I had to think to myself, where has this been? This fiery, competitive, passion that had manifested just a couch cushion away from me had gone unnoticed, by me, for the longest time. Whenever he’s playing a game and I hear outbursts of objection, I quietly chuckle and ask “…are you okay? It’ll be okay.”

Let me apologize to you now if you’re a biking enthusiast, or regular cyclist. It drives me beyond crazy when I get stuck behind someone on a bike, traveling on a one-lane road, and there’s no possible escape. Whenever this happens to me, there are always cars coming in the opposite lane, and I can’t get around the individual on the bike. Apparently it’s a law in Indiana that no bicycles are allowed on the sidewalks. Are you kidding me? I appreciate the fact that these people are out exercising, but jeez! I just want to get home at the end of the day. Are there no other biker friendly routes? My car horn is broken, so there’s not even the slightest bit of a chance that I can angrily honk at the unaware nerve-crusher. I usually scream profanities in the car or send rude Snapchats to my friends to share the annoying moment.

Where does our rage come from? Was it our parents that did this to us, or are we just those people who are instantly set off in these specific situations? After sending my angry snaps to my followers on Snapchat, I laughed at myself. “Wow, is it that serious?” Rushing is usually what gets drivers into accidents, so the fact that I was forced to focus on something other than getting home, was probably a blessing in disguise.  From now on I’m going to make it a point to focus on my zen, and harness the rage. When it comes to S… Well, I’ll just leave that alone for a while. He’s entertaining as all get-out when he’s screaming at the television screen, and teammates who can’t hear him.

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A New Kind of Date

Mother Nature gave us a bit of a scare over the weekend. Earlier in the week we’d planned to have a Starbucks date, where we’d both work on personal projects or career focused activities. Indianapolis did get rocked by a little weather, so our Saturday cafe productivity session got moved to Sunday.

 

We’ve been holding ourselves accountable, so far, in 2018. S and I have plans and feel that it’s time for the both of us to take control of our professional and creative futures. Making time for dates during the week can be challenging when you’re fighting the weight of the day’s work, so a weekend dose of productivity with each other felt like a great move for us.

 

The important thing here is finding a way to make time for each other and to support one another. We pinpointed a newer location on our side of town and stuck to our commitment. I got a ton of PR work done and S made some major moves on the career front. I’m hoping we can make this a regular thing.

 

The both of us are so motivated and energized about what’s next right now, and harvesting that continued support of your partner – of each other –  just puts us in overdrive.

 

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Sure, dates are supposed to be sexy and romantic, but the idea of fueling each others’ professional and creative drive is kind of a turn on, right? Even if you’re single and only focusing on you at the moment… find your support system. Parents? Siblings? Your own circle of VIPs? Who is that person that will help you hold yourself accountable at the end of the day?

 

Think outside of the box and get that productive, quality time in 😉

Loser

I’m such a bad loser. Most of the time I can feel myself getting angrier if I’m not doing as well as I’d like to be.

Back in high school I was on the varsity bowling team and I would be so annoyed if I scored anything lower than 175; my highest game bowled is 257.

 

I can remember every sour note and terrible solo performance from my high school band days and still haven’t revisited those recordings since then; I graduated in 2005.

Flash forward to today. The people playing Mario Kart online today are ruthless and I’ve been stuck at the back of the pack.

As mentioned above, I could feel myself growing angrier with each shell that met my cart; with each explosion I run into. My subtle bitching turned into silence. Still doing my best, I could see it just wasn’t happening for me today and I’d lost way too many points.

 

I could feel S looking out the corner of his eyes to gauge how agitated I’d become. I suppose it was my turn to be full of rage because of a video game today – usually it’s him!

Oh well. We like to have a couple drinks and play video games to decompress when we’re hanging out at the house. Maybe I’ll do better later.

He’s still playing at the moment. I had to step away.

The Little Things Interlude

It’s the little things.

Like watching him get ready and realizing

How handsome he is right before a night on the town.

Damn.

Can’t we just stay home?

He never wants to skip anything productive with me.

That says more about me than it does him, ha.

But, come on…

Who is this monster?

Crispy button-up shirt and fitted jeans,

Appropriate accessories and casual Vans.

I did that.

And don’t forget the coffee.

(A queen’s gotta survive the night and keep the Zs away.)

Homie didn’t drink coffee OR eat spicy food before me.

(Enter dramatic sigh here)

It’s the little things.

But seriously…

Netflix and chill?

 

My Small, Grilled Victory.

I win. Want to know why? I successfully started a gas grill with no supervision! To be completely honest with all of you, I have this ridiculous fear that one day I would have been so clumsy to the point that I’d influenced complete devastation around everyone in closest proximity to me; like catastrophic levels.

 

Ever since I was a kid I’ve had the roughest time with accomplishing any task without getting hurt in some form or fashion.  Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. The last handful of posts probably have some reference to my shoulder injury I’ve been dealing with all summer. It’s just turning fall in Indiana and I’m JUST now able to hit the weights again. I feel so behind, but what can you do? Always listen to your body…

 

…it’s a kind of intuition, right?! Well, my intuition has always told me “stay the hell away from that explosive-ass’d propane tank! Are you crazy?!” S has shown me at least twice how to turn the gas on and off and how to ignite the grill. Growing up with charcoal grill skills in Alaska, I have a way different set of grilling knowledge – we never let snow stop us from throwing down on the grill. Slay, I say! So when the time came for me to fire up the monstrosity on my own… I had to take a few deep breaths and tell myself “maybe this isn’t the end.”

 

I open the hatch exposing the propane tank resting undisturbed in its home under the burners. “Here goes” I think to myself as I reach for the knob. “Turn counterclockwise…” I close my eyes as I perform the simple action. “Alright, we’re in the clear.” I quickly close the hatch as if to race a bomb, seconds away from reaching zero. Turning the knobs and pressing the ignite switch was way less stressful. My neighbors have already seen me do hot yoga on the patio, have the occasional cigar and bourbon in nothing but short-shorts and a tank, and now, probably the gayest-victory-dance ever invoked by the lighting of a grill.

 
I’m most proud that I didn’t need to wait for S to get home, out of fear of burning down my home. Let’s face it… there’s always a glass of vodka or bourbon not too far away from me when I get home, so I’m sure that would help fuel the fire that inadvertently would have started. My husband has taught me a lot in the almost five years of being with him – more than I can write about, for sure. Starting a gas grill without help proves to me that fear with S is non-existent.

Morning Paper

This dude… I swear. Looking down at the bare cardboard tissue roll, I sigh silently with an eye roll towards the bedroom. Does he think no one else will need toilet paper after he’s completely emptied the roll? Is it so hard to just bring more tissue up to the restroom? Or is going all the way downstairs to use the fully stocked restroom counted as exercise? In a zombielike state – it’s 6 o’clock in the morning, mind you – I travel down the chilly, air conditioned stairway and fetch a fresh roll of Charmin. The next time he does this, I’m NOT replacing the roll. I will stay strong and see if he puts the fresh roll of tissue paper in it’s proper place. I’ve thought this to myself countless times since we’ve lived together, and the joke’s still on me. The closest he gets to refilling the tissue is sitting the new roll on the counter; leaving the emptied roll on the holder. Wowzers. All I can do is laugh, as I’m positive I have a number of at-home-habits that drive him insane.

We’re More Than Friends from School. We’re Married.

The four of us sat in a group at the front of the funeral hall. It was visitation for my husband’s late grandmother, Mae, who’d passed peacefully at her nursing home a few days earlier. The mood was somber, tense, and was haunted by all the happy memories Grandma Mae had left behind. I’d only met her a couple of times, but those moments were enough. “…and this is my husband, Jamal.” There was a power in that introduction, and because of it, I’ll never forget those first few minutes of meeting Grandma Mae. My husband and I had been together almost four years, and I’d never heard anyone from his side of the family refer to me as “husband.”

Time and small talk took a moment, as my husband’s mother and father approached.  “Come meet the kids! You remember David, and his wife Alice…” His mother continued with a smile. “…and our youngest, Stanley, and his friend from school, Jamal.” I smiled, gave a polite nod to the cheerful strangers, and felt phantom burning around my wedding band. I’d come to expect this introduction in any situation that involved meeting friends of my parent-in-laws. In the past I’d let it slide – chalking it up to their old school ways, and not really knowing how to introduce their son’s husband to familiar faces – but this time, the word “friend” really got me thinking.


I wondered why being referred to as “friend” was bothering me now. To villainize my in-laws is not my intention. The number of favors and help they’ve provided my husband and I, is beyond anything I could ever imagine for us in any time of need. Was I being introduced this way as some subtle form of protection? Is the term “husband” one that is uncomfortable for them in uncharted social territory? I still don’t have the answer to those questions, and they’ve haunted my curiosity ever since.

That Thing You Do…

Looking into warm, honey-toasted eyes, I witness an endless scrolling of scenes from our relationship in movie montage form. I’m not sure if he notices when I drift away in my thoughts; stealing every little moment he presents at any given moment. I devour each morsel with subtle excitement. If only he could see himself, and enjoy his “isms” with me. “What?” He’s caught me looking and privately chuckling.   “Oh, nothing…” I skip past the television, doing my best not to interrupt his round of whatever he’s playing on the Xbox One. If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. He always finds a way to catch my attention, and keeps me on my toes; even when he is unaware or doesn’t mean to do so. It’s the rage he conjures when a video game isn’t going his way. It’s the look on his face when he’s paying attention to every word coming out of my mouth. It’s his curiosity when he asks me if the outfit he put together looks good, and if the shoes he selected will match. I’m often reminded of, or discover, the ingredients that make up S. Like a good gumbo, these ingredients may change or vary, and like a good gumbo, the recipe only gets better and better as the time passes.

Password, please.

I corner S at the refrigerator after he’s changed out of his work clothes, and is on the hunt for a snack. With lips puckered, I bombard his personal bubble with a kiss. “Hiiiiii, how was your day?” Thinking he’s slick, he turns a cheek to my still puckered and eager lips, letting me have a few more quick kisses before attempting to force me out of his face. “Nooooo” is the message he wails as I hold him in strong bear hug.  I laugh and feel him squirm; desperately trying to free himself, and secretly getting a kick out of my attack.  The only way out of my bicep prison, is for him to give me the password.  With lips still pushed out and intruding, I murmur “what’s the password?” He throws his head back – probably reaching his physical contact limit in this moment – he lets his face fall to mine, gives me an I-will-kick-your-ass-if-you-don’t-let-me-go kind of look, and gives me what I’ve compelled.  My grip loosens as I laugh and return to the dishes. He knows the password, and no matter how many times I torture him with belly to belly, chest to chest bear hugs, I get the cheek for more than a handful of attempts. The last kiss is the password, and for now, I’ll leave him alone until we meet under the sheets, and say goodnight.