Why aren't you wearing pants?

These are all true phone conversations I have had with my sister in the course of a Friday evening. 

Her: “Do you want to go to Winco with me?”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Her: “You know the crossdresser on the corner by McDonald’s?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Her: “He got a new dress. It has sequins and sparkles. And there’s a slit that comes up the side.”

Me: “Are you telling me this because you want a dress like it?”

Her: “No.”

Her: “I’m coming up the driveway and I hafta pee! Unlock the door!”

Me: “Hang on, I don’t have any pants on.”

Her: “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

Me: “Because it was hot.”

Her: “Do you want to do something tomorrow?”

Me: “Like what?”

Her: “You could come to the dump with me.”

Decoy Pickle: A Secret Christmas Plan

On Christmas morning, my sister and I wake up and rush to the tree to look for a glass pickle. Weird, I know right? This is how it works: my mom hides a green pickle ornament on the tree on Christmas day, and then she releases Jess and I from our racehorse chutes to go find it. If you find the pickle ornament, then you get an extra present, referred to as "the pickle present."

Only this actually caused some tears and fighting in the past, so the pickle present is actually a family gift (like a movie or board game for everyone), but the winner gets to unwrap the present. Jess and I mostly like the satisfaction of winning. She has found that stupid pickle for at least two years in a row now, and it is quite a let down for me and my 20/20 vision. Jess has contacts/glasses, so how she manages to spot that hidden ornament is beyond me. But I've got a secret plan this year.

I can write about all my secret plans concerning my sister on this blog, because she never reads it. So this is what I am going to do: I am going to go to the dollar tree and buy a decoy pickle ornament (I saw them there last week). Then what I will do is sneak over to the tree on Christmas Eve and place the decoy pickle in a more noticeable location. My hope is that in the morning Jess will spot the fake ornament first and get excited about winning, and this will buy me buy me some more time looking for the actual pickle. She'll be doing her victory dance until she realizes that I am still frantically searching the branches and that what she is holding in her hands is some cheap, plastic imitation of the real thing. Sucker.

 If you are wondering why in the world my mother decided to start this tradition, it's because she was in a shop in her German-themed hometown looking at ornaments and found the pickle hanging there with the explanation attached. Apparently this whole pickle thing is a German tradition. The pickle is supposed to bring good luck and was the last ornament placed on the Christmas tree. On Christmas morning the first child to find the pickle was rewarded with an extra little gift left by St. Nicholas. This German tradition encouraged the children to appreciate all the ornaments on the Christmas tree, rather than hurrying to see what St. Nick had left for them. This tradition encourages my sister and I to shuffle through all the branches in a mad hurry, not caring about any ornament unless it's green. We do plenty of ornament appreciation while we unpack them one by one and hang them on the tree.

Travis, my sister's husband, sits this tradition out. He is totally allowed to participate but chooses not to, probably because he doesn't want to get in the way of my and Jessy's elbows. I admit, the first year he spent Christmas with us, I was worried. I thought he and Jess would tag team me and find the pickle and both gloat over it. But Travis knows to stay outta my way when it comes to hunting for hidden objects. But this decoy pickle idea I have, I think it's going to work. I'll let you know what happens.

Stop, Drop, and Hide Under a Blanket

If someone is coming up your driveway, the obvious action that you need to take is to hide from them. My sister and I did this all the time growing up. I was reminded of these antics last Saturday night when I was at Jessy's house watching Robots on TV. Jess was working at her desk making dog collars and every time a commercial came on, Travis would change the channel back to football. We heard a car door shut outside.

"Somebody's here." Jess said. "Quick, hide!"

I laughed and we continued to joke about when we were children left home alone in our country house. Sometimes I think Travis has no idea who he married. He sure learns a lot about his wife's quirks when I'm around.

Jessamy and I grew up in the boondocks. Our private road was a half mile long and made of gravel, which made for bumpy bicycle rides. Our house sat tucked safely on the other side of the hill, nestled among mighty oak and fir trees.

People didn't drive to our house often. If an unfamiliar person made his way to our house, it was either someone who was A) lost or B) there to rob or murder us. My mother would leave us for an hour or so when she had to go to town and buy groceries or whatever and Jess and I would be in the living room playing Legos or building model horse barns out of cardboard boxes when we would spot a car driving down to the house. "Quick, someone's coming!" One of us would yell.

We would then make sure the door was locked, flip off all the lights, and go hide. Most of the time we would hide in my parents' bedroom and spy out their window, because there was a giant bush in the way and it prevented us from being spotted from the kidnappers.

[You better believe when my sister and I finally attended public school, we were experts at the armed intruder drills. We dropped to the floor out of the line of sight of the window and spoke not a word.]

We sat breathlessly listening for the knock at the door. It would come, and we would wait, wondering if the person was going to start picking the lock in order to get in and steal my mother's Cherished Teddies collection. When we heard the car start up again and leave, we breathed a sigh of relief but waited an extra minute before emerging. You know, in case it was a fake-out.

It may be interesting for you to know that I still do this at my house, even though I am a grown woman. I will be sitting at my desk (which is near the front window) typing an e-mail to an associate, when I will see someone coming down the lane. I might immediately drop to the floor and army crawl behind the couch since I don't want to be spotted. Or maybe I won't have enough time to get out of sight from the window, so what I'll do is lay on the floor and throw a blanket over me real quick. Because a long green lump isn't suspicious at all.

I don't really know why I still do this. Habit, I guess. Or maybe I just want the element of surprise. When the FedEx guy drops off my package, I want to be able to pop out from under the window and yell "Ha! I can sign for that!" Or maybe when someone is breaking into my window, I want to throw the blanket back, reveal my face, and terrify the intruder.

Basically, I blame my repeated viewings of Home Alone. I've never heated up my door knob, put pokey things under the window, or tar and nailed the steps coming up from the basement, but I fully have a protocol, should the need ever arise. I am not going to post it here, because for all I know there is a stalker who reads my blog everyday in hopes that I will reveal the location of my home and the hours in which I am alone.

I'm telling you right now, it's probably not worth your time to kidnap or rob me. My computer is a desktop from 2004, I own a very limited DVD collection, and the nicest thing I have are my couches which weigh as much as a baby elephant, so getting away with them wouldn't be easy. If you were to want them, you'd have to at least bring a U-haul because there's no way they're fitting in a pick up truck. And good luck trying to back that U-haul out of the driveway--you'll be sandwiched. But I wouldn't put it past a thief to ram through my wooden fence, mow over the neighbor's garden, and make a break for it in the opposite direction.

You don't want to kidnap me because I'd ask you for an interview on your life of crime, so that I could blog about it. Plus, I'd want to get my phone and Tweet about it as it was happening. My update would probably be something like "In the trunk of a car blindfolded, but don't worry, even though I can't see I can still text via voice commands on my smart phone." Only wait, I don't actually have a smart phone (another reason it's not worth it to rob me).

Appetites are Sexy

If you didn't read the first post on this topic, maybe you should. Basically, my mother gave me a pink covered book titled How To Date Men, and I tell you what I think about Janis Spindel's advice.

Chapter 4
I'll Pick You Up At Seven: The first date
page 65
"Be satisfied. In truth, what men care about more than anything else is that you enjoy the meal. He picked the restaurant and he's hoping you'll like it. He'd rather see you eating something you love than picking at something you hate. If he has to watch you push food around your plate, he'll feel like he selected a bad spot. So order something you really want to eat and then enjoy it. Frankly, ladies, having a healthy appetite is SEXY!"


My thoughts
Janis' advice must be true. Do you know what my sister and Travis did on their first date? They went to the Olive Garden for the bottomless bowl lasagna special. And she ate. My sister devoured those breadsticks, salad, and linguini like the restaurant would be closing tomorrow. Travis sat across from her, gazing lovingly with puppy dog brown eyes, thinking "This girl's appetite is sexy!"

And then they went on a second date, which resulted in marriage two years later.

Meanwhile, I eat 12 butterflake rolls at Thanksgiving and the men folk just worry that they'll have to drive me to the hospital when I have a carb-iac arrest.

Animal Impersonations

When I was four years old, my sister locked me in the dog carrier and rolled me down the hill. She thought it would be fun for me, like a Ferris wheel ride at the fair. I'm about to tell you the story of all the animals I pretended to be, all so that my sister would play with me. You may leave this story thinking that Jessamy was cruel to me, and maybe she was, but when I now look back on those memories, I think of them fondly.

The Dog
So you know about the dog carrier thing. Sure, I ended up a little bruised, but the whole experience only last about five minutes, which was a lot better than the time I was chained to the dog house for a half an hour. Our Springer Spaniel, Senna, lived exclusively outside. She was a farm dog and had a stinky, spider dwelling, wooden dog house to call her own. Normally she was chained up to the tree near it, but when my mom mowed the lawn, she would let Senna loose. It was during our dog's free time that my sister decided I should play puppy.

"Get in the dog house, Jo jo."
"But it's dark in there and it stinks!"
"You have to pretend to be my dog or I won't play with you."

 Immediately I began to cry. I gathered my courage and two pairs of boots. I had on the ones covering my feet, but I convinced Jess to let me put her boots on my hands, so that way my "paws" wouldn't get all nasty when I went inside the pooch's home. Jessy put one of Senna's old collars on me and snapped me on to the wire cable. There was no escaping it now. I went into the dog house, tried to lay down among the matted hair, stuck out my tongue panting, and wagged my butt like I had a tail. If I was going to be a dog, I was going to be a good dog.

Four boots and walking in dirt.

Eat your heart out, Lassie.

The Duck
Pretending to be a duck was by far the best animal I've ever impersonated. Being a duck was actually fun, minus the part where I was fed stale crackers. It was a hot July day and my mother had filled up the tiny blue kiddie pool with water for us so that we could splash around. Jess and I put on our swim suits and hopped on in. I was a duck for a while, quacking and ruffling my feathers. But then I got a really brilliant idea. Or my sister did, I'm not sure who it was. All I know is there is photo-graphical evidence of me wearing yellow rubber dish washing gloves on my feet, standing in a water like a lemon colored duck with webbed feet. I was by far the most inventive human-duck you ever did see.

 The Lion
When the Lion King came out, I became totally obsessed. It may have had more to do with my already developed crush on Jonathon Taylor Thomas that it had to do with The Circle of Life and my belief that it is important to grow up to do great things. At any rate, I loved imagining to be Lion King characters. The very best part was that my sister always let me be Simba, due to the fact that I had a shoulder length brown mane with golden sun streaks in it. I have very thick hair, and I would shake it around to accompany my ferocious roar.

This one time, Jessamy was pretending to be Rafiki. She was really into Rafiki because he had an exotic accent and carried around an awesome stick. My sister had found a similar stick in the woods behind our house and had attached a few stink balls* to it with twine from a hay bale. It looked very aboriginal.
 *when I say stink balls, I mean those things that drop from Oak trees and have green must in them.

Jessamy and I were re-enacting scenes when it came time for me to receive a bit of advice.

"It's all in de past!" Jess yelled, then whacked me on the head with her giant stick.

The intention was to knock some sense into me, but all it did was knock me senseless. When I came to, I immediately began to cry and went screaming to my mother, clutching my skull. I told her what happened and she confiscated Jessy's Rafiki stick. Jess was very bitter about it, because the Rafiki stick lay unobtainable on top of the freezer in the garage for the following two months of summer.

Yes, the Rafiki stick did instill wisdom. My sister learned never to whack her baby sister on the head even if she wasn't trying to be mean. If you ever see my sister in person, you should say to her "So...tell me about the Rafiki stick." Even though it happened 17 years ago, I'm sure the memory is carved clearly in the tree that is her mind.

The Horse
My sister always wanted a horse, and until she got a real one, she forced me to be her equine. She liked to do things like feed me carrots, which sounds all fine and dandy, but not when the carrots have been plucked straight out of the garden and still have dirt and worms hanging on them.

I acted my part as horse both inside the house and outside. Jessy's favorite thing to do was to lunge me (she didn't try to ride me that often because she didn't want to hear me say she weighed too much). When a horse gets lunged, it basically means it is on a long rope and you make it run in circles around you for exercise. Lunging on the carpet on all fours is not really a pleasant experience, as it caused my knees to bleed. Lunging on all fours is also not an effective way to lose weight, and if you are trying to get in shape then I suggest running in circles on your two feet, rope tied to your head is optional.

Jess also made me walk on my hands and knees outside in the grass. Sometimes she tied rope to me and made me pull the red Radio Flyer wagon. When this happened, she'd sit inside the "carriage" and whip my butt with a stick if I wasn't going fast enough. I'm not exactly sure where my mother was in all of this. I feel like she should have intervened. Thank God my sister got a real pony when she was 11 years old.

The Cat
Surprisingly enough, when we played Cat and Owner, I did not have to be the cat. This was because my sister adored cats and wished she was one. She'd make me do things like scratch her between the ears, rub her tummy while she purred, or feed her a bowl of milk on the floor. This was by far the easiest pretending I ever had to do, and I welcomed it with open arms. Whenever Jessy suggested an animal impersonation game, I would first ask her if she wanted to pretend to be a cat. This usually bought me a little time before I had to sleep in the dog house, quack, get hit on the head, or have bloody knees.

Yes, I spent much of my childhood pretending to be something other than a homo sapien. You can see that I went to great lengths to convince people to spend time with me, something I still do today. Only difference is, I walk on my own two feet and no longer eat dirt.

Night Time Activities

When I was a kid, my sister would hide behind the door of our bedroom in the dark and try to scare the crap out of me when I came into the room. She mostly did this when I got up to pee at ten-thirty or whenever. I mean, can you imagine this?

You are the oldest child. Responsible. Mature. You share a bedroom with your little sister. The two of you have been lying in your separate beds on separate sides of the room, completely silent, trying to fall asleep. You hear the floor boards creak and see a shadow move. You're all snuggled up in your bed, but when you hear the toilet flush, you think "Oh man! I gotta hide behind the door and scare the shit outta my baby sister when she comes back in!"

I mean, really. I would be padding back into the room, tip toeing and trying to be as quiet as possible so as to not wake her up, when I hear a "boo!" I'd give a blood curdling scream, hit my sister, and crawl back into bed angrily. This happened often, and one time my mother came storming across the house in the middle of the night to tell Jessamy never to do that ever again, because some people were trying to sleep.

Another thing that would happen frequently after bed time is that I would sleep walk. I would climb unconsciously out of my bed and walk around the house, ramming my head accidentally into tables or door frames. I don't know if you've ever tried to walk anywhere while sleeping, but it's hard work. Your eyes may be open, but everything is all wonky. It's worse than trying to not fall over when you are drunk, which I know absolutely nothing about.

I know you've probably heard that it's not good to wake up a sleep walker, but my mother always did. She probably hated me and wanted me to become even more messed up than I already was. What she would do is get a cold washcloth and press it onto my face until I snapped out of my trance. I would immediately forget anything I just did or said. I do, however, remember the time I hit my forehead on the dining room table (I was very short), because it hurt so stinkin' much. I also recollect the time I asked my dad if he could hang a tire swing from the filing cabinet in the office, which makes a lot of sense if you think about it for a long time. But which file would you tie the rope to? T for tree limb, R for rope, or B for brilliant idea?

Now that I think about it, I speculate that my sister was actually jealous of my sleep walking habits. It's not something just anybody can do. Maybe every time I got out of bed to go potty, she thought I had begun to sleep walk. And her kind way of bringing me to reality was jumping me like a gangster in the dark alley ways of Compton, only you, in a floral printed nightgown.

This one time, though, I swear Jessamy was sleep walking. Only she wasn't so much walking as she was sitting up in her bed in the during the night, howling at the moon, growling at me, and then laying back down. It really freaked me out. I thought she was turning into a werewolf, and this was before the days of Twilight and Jacob Black. I was so terrified that I ran into my mom and dad's room, told my mother Jess was turning into a monster, and refused to go back to bed alone. I was eleven years old.

Mom came back to my room, turned on the light, and had to practically shake Jessamy awake. Jess had no idea that she had sat up in bed and howled like a lone coyote in the desert. I knew she wasn't faking it either, because she honestly was so surprised. She only did it the one time (that I know of).

During the summer nights when it was hot and still somewhat light outside, we would tell our mom we were going to bed, then we'd shut the door and pop the screens out of one of the windows. We'd climb out of our makeshift exit and continue to play outside in our pajamas, climbing trees, chasing skunks, and catching bugs. 

When I was 12 and my sister was 14, we would listen to Desperate and Dateless every night at ten o'clock. Our bed time was nine, but our room was clear across the house from our parents. So at 9:55 Jess would tune the radio to Z100, and we would listen to the desperate calls of Portland singles for half an hour. We would guess out of the three date options who the dateless caller would choose. It was typically whomever had the hottest voice. Jessy and I were very disappointed when Desperate and Dateless stopped airing, because where were we going to learn all of our pick up lines after that?

Sharing a bedroom with my sister definitely made for a fun childhood. Just so you know, the entire thing was painted a dusty pink--a color that we both abhorred by about age ten. But we were stuck with it.

Neon Signs Lie

I don't know about you, but if something is advertised in a glowing pink neon sign, then I think that establishment better have what they say they have. It's incredibly annoying when they don't. Let me explain. 

I once again participated in Friday Night Dinner with my sister, fake brother, cousin, and cousin's girlfriend. The designated restaurant of choice was Rockin' Rogers on Commercial Street. Heidi and Jess were both a bit concerned that I wouldn't be able to find anything to eat on the menu, what with me being an herbivore and all. I assured them I would be fine, because I was remembering back to the one previous time I had been at Rockin' Rogers, and how I ordered off of the breakfast menu.

I really love waffles and french toast for dinner, because usually I am much too apathetic to make them for either dinner or breakfast on a regular day. Which, you know, is probably a good thing, considering they are not exactly the star item on the food pyramid.

On the way to Rockin' Rogers I begin to plan everything I want to eat. It's already two hours past my regular meal time, I've just got out of the gym, and I am starving. I think about how I am going to order a whipped cream covered waffle and a side of fries and a milkshake, even though I fully had eaten a piece of cake at lunch. I was in the "Who cares if I gain three pounds over the weekend?" sort of mood. So we get to Rockin' Rogers and sit down. I thumb through the menu looking for greasy, fatty goodness.

I finally see what I want: a Belgian waffle with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. I ask my sister and Travis if they are planning on ordering any fries, and if so, did they think I could eat a few? Maybe, eleven? They are like hungry wolves, so they growl at me and tell me no. So I thumb through the menu to see if I can get a side of fries on the cheap...just like, a toddler sized portion. I've gotten over my milkshake craving by this point.

Our waitress, Amber, comes over and greets us. She's wearing the typical 50s diner outfit: white shirt, black skirt, pony-tail, and a bubbly smile. She asks everyone what they want. When she gets to me, I tell her I want the Belgian waffle (I've gotten over my fry craving by this point). She tells me that the cook actually stops making waffles after two. I look at her with an expression someone might have if you've just told them that the Federal Reserve is out of one dollar bills. Amber asks me if maybe I want a burger instead, because everyone else at the table has ordered a burger. I tell her I am a vegetarian and thus do not eat beef. I begin to go into a panic over the menu. Amber's standing there, waiting for me to make up my mind, and I've got four pairs of hungry eyes staring at me, urging me to hurry up so we can get our order in. I half think about getting the veggie omelet, but I reflect on how I really wanted that deluxe carb-loaded waffle.

"Can I get french toast with whipped cream and strawberries?" I ask. Amber says yes. Because they make french toast after two, what a concept. Then she asks me if I want just the french toast, or the french toast combo. I ask what the difference is. Apparently the combo comes with eggs and a side of bacon or sausage. I state once again that I am a vegetarian, and thus do not eat pig. My fry craving starts to return. "Can I get eggs and a side of hashbrowns instead?" I ask. You'd think I was asking her to peel the potatoes herself, because then she tells me "I could, but I'd have to charge you extra." I would just like to note that meat fully costs more than potatoes do. Come on. I decline and stick just with the french toast.

Next, Amber asks us if this is all on one check. Everyone at the table is quick to point out who's together. "Us two are on one check, and they're on another, and she--," they point to me "--is by herself." You know, like last time at Applebee's. But then things start to get funny.

"Do you think you could find a table of cute guys to buy her meal for her?" somebody asks Amber. My sister then points out the table of four guys who are sitting about eight feet away. Then Heidi and Jason are like "yeah, ask one of them, please, Amber? I'll give you a dollar if you just ask."

"I'll also give you a dollar to ask one of them."

"Hey, wait a minute, if you do that, you could pay for about half my meal," I say. But then my sister says, "If you get all of them to buy her dinner, then they each would only have to pay like two bucks."

Our server is starting to laugh at this point. I'm pretty sure she's fresh out of high school, and all of this is really entertaining for her. She's up for a bit of mischief.

"No, don't ask. Just tell the guy in the hat that he's buying her meal," my cousin Jason says.

Our waitress is in on the conspiracy, because she goes over and talks to the table of guys. I'm 99 percent sure they already know what's happening, on account of how we were all really loud and they probably overheard everything we just said. I try not to look at the other table, but the rest of my family is gaping at them.

"Now look over there and smile," my sister says. It's a good thing I was more amused than I was mortified, because I actually turned to look at them and gave a cheesy smile. If I could get someone else to pay for my dinner, what the heck? After I smiled at the guys, we all started laughing. By we all, I mean the people sitting at my table only.

After Amber was out of earshot, I lowered my voice, because I was still peeved about the whole no-waffle-after-two thing. "You should not have a pink neon sign glowing in the front window stating that you serve breakfast all day, when, in fact, you do not. Unless they added another neon sign that says in parentheses 'except for waffles after 2pm.' I mean, is making a waffle really all that difficult?"

Later, after Jason's appetizer has arrived and I've mooched a mozzarella stick and an onion ring off of him, I notice that the table of guys has left. I point this out to my compadres. "Wait, is one of them going to buy my dinner or not?" I joke. Amber hasn't come by since, and we never actually overheard what the guys' response was.

When our waitress refills our water glasses, we ask. She says, "Well, they did say that the two on the end were single, and one of them left this."

I added that mustache so you wouldn't be able to see his number and call him to tell him about this blog. Notice the reflection of the lying neon pink sign?

Thanks, Keith, but I didn't want your number. I wanted my meal paid for. Travis, Jess, Jason, and Heidi all start to analyze the receipt, and they're like "Look, he only tipped one buck! No wonder he didn't pay, he's cheap!"

I cut my losses and consumed every slice of french toast and every spoonful of whipped cream. I would also like to point out at this time that Rockin' Rogers' advertisement of "fresh strawberries" literally means a load of strawberry flavored sauce with two actual strawberry halves in it. This was an additional disappointment.

As the meal was winding down, Jason gave me his plate with leftover fries on it. I ate some of  them and was glad I had not ordered any. They were the super skinny type fries saturated in grease. I prefer the fatty sized fries. You know, the ones that are 1/8th of a potato? I ate a few more, nonetheless, just to show you the sort of self-control I have.

Jess/Travis and Jason/Heidi apparently go to Rockin' Rogers a lot, and I told them that this just wasn't going to work for me, due to the restaurant's lack of good food. I really appreciated Heidi's enthusiasm to have me keep coming to Friday night dinners, because she started to brainstorm with me a list of better places we could go to eat. We'll just have to wait and see what happens next time.

Applebee's Invasion

So I finally attended Friday night dinner last evening. Friday night dinner always occurs at 7pm and it consists of my sister Jess, her husband Travis, my cousin Jason, and his girlfriend Heidi. I finally found out about it two or three weeks ago and was like "why have you never invited me?" And okay, I get it, sometimes fifth wheels can be awkward, but not with your sister, brother in law, and cousin. So I weaseled my way into an invite. Then I was unable to attend due to prior obligations and sickness. But I went yesterday.

The chosen location was Applebee's. We show up at 7:02 and the place is packed. Like I'm talking packed. You know those Styrofoam peanuts that come in UPS boxes? Well, there were more people in that restaurant than there were packing peanuts in the box your Great Aunt Marge sent you for Christmas. We think about turning around, but we ask the guy at the front how long of a wait will it be? He says something, and then I am all "Oh, just two hours?" But he actually said twenty minutes, which is a long time if you are hungry and didn't eat your 3:30 after school snack. We stand in the door for a while contemplating our stomachs, and then Brenden (I'm a name tag reader) says, "Actually, it's only ten." To which I'm kind of like "are you just saying that because you want us to stay?" So I check the time on my phone and tell Brenden it is 7:04. Then Heidi says, "so we expect a table by 7:14." She's pretty demanding. I would like to fully note that we waited for 18.5 minutes until we were seated, which rounded up is closer to twenty, not ten. But whatever, maybe Brenden failed math class. Most of my fourth grade students can't round either.

After we were seated, we decided to give our server hell. By hell, I mostly mean we talked a lot and asked a zillion questions, like how much the beverages cost because we're all tightwads. That's the thing I hate about restaurants. Why can't you just say how much your margarita costs? Is it a secret? I mean, it's not like the margarita is a woman who will be offended if you ask her how much she weighs. Though I was fully asked by Heidi at dinner how much I weigh. I told her if she were a more observant reader, she'd know, because I fully revealed it in my vegetarian diet post. Apparently every Friday night dinner begins with disclosure of everyone's weight, though this is anything but Weight Watchers.

I really struggled over the menu because I don't eat meat, and Applebee's took away the spinach pizza they used to have like four years ago. Which sort of leaves me with salad. I don't really go out to eat a salad. I prefer to purchase food that I am too lazy to make at home. I ended up getting mozzarella sticks and a salad, because every Friday night sort of requires greasy goodness. I would just like to fully note that Applebee's does not do half order mozzarella sticks, but Red Robin does. This is because Applebee's knows I have no self-control and can't order a full plate of mozzarella sticks and only eat half. They're trying to fatten me up so I want to return every Friday night.

Heidi ordered raspberry lemonade or ice tea or whatever. Really, she wanted pomegranate lemonade, but our server, Robert, was honest with her and told her that pomegranate tastes like used berry mouthwash. Actually, he didn't say that at all, but I could tell he was thinking it. So Heidi got raspberry. On her third glass, she promptly complained that she could not taste the raspberry flavoring. This glass was brought by the general manager. I should back up.

Partway through our meal, the general manager (Corey...not that I'm naming names) and some woman came to check on us and bring us refills and whatnot. I am fairly certain that the only reason they did this was because Robert told them how completely needy and annoying we were being. So the manager had to check and see just how bad these customers were. Our group pretended to be pleasant, and Heidi even put in the good word for Robert so maybe he could get a raise or something and finally buy that dream car he's always been wanting.

Later in the meal, my brother in law Travis spilled his Coke all down his pants because he was trying to flick a chip at Heidi and his plan went horribly wrong. So then we all had to scoot down the circular booth so that Travis could sit in a dry spot. I passed him the plastic barf bag that Applebee's provided us with prior to our meal, so he could use it as a bib. It may have actually been a bag to put your take out food in, but it was likely in case anyone ordered the pomegranate lemonade.

Early into the meal, I made a puzzled expression. My sister asked "What are you looking at?" I had that look of confusion that you get when you realize you've seen someone before, and they look familiar, but you have no idea where you've seen them. I noticed another one of the male servers working in the area, and I knew that I had seen him on several occasions, but I couldn't place it. I knew it wasn't at Applebee's, because I rarely go to Applebee's on account of how all I can order is dessert, salad, or fatty mozzarella sticks. He also didn't get close enough for me to read his name tag, so that was of no help. More on him later. But it drives me crazy when I recognize people and don't know where I've seen them before.

Part of the entertainment of the night was provided by some people Heidi knew. This couple sat at a booth that was positioned for optimal viewing. We were fascinated by this couple, because mostly the date could also qualify as a felony. The girl, whom I will refer to as "Minor", and the guy, whom I will refer to as "Old Fart" (even though he was actually my age), spent time gazing into each others eyes. I am sorry, but if you are 9 years younger than your date, and you are still in high school, that is wrong. I am a mandatory reporter, so I sort of feel like I should have called DHS or something. Part of my fascination was with their conversation. I really wish I could have eavesdropped on it. I mean, what do you talk about if you are still in high school?

I asked Heidi where Minor and Old Fart had met each other, and I found out they met at church. So like, maybe Old Fart was teaching Sunday School and Minor fell in love with him because of his flannelgraph presentation. But this whole mentioning of church totally jogged my memory and I remembered where I had seen familiar-server-guy. He goes to my church. I have seen him at church. So mystery solved. Though the name tag thing is still bugging me. I think it was like, E--ooy---w--or you know, Edwardo. But not Eduardo, which would make more sense spelling wise. My eyesight wasn't that good though, and I didn't even have on my fake glasses to give me a vision boost.

When Robert came by later to listen to our complaining, he revealed to us that his manager is a pretentious jerk...er, I mean...I could totally tell that his manager was a pretentious jerk without even asking Robert. The manager totally did not pay attention to detail. For example, when he brought Travis a new Coke to replace the one he spilled down his pants, he forgot to bring a straw. Obviously, Travis really needs a straw, or like, a sippy cup. Plus, he failed to give Heidi the shot of raspberry flavored high fructose corn syrup that she so desperately wanted.

Eventually we had to leave, because my sister had ODed on penne pasta. In fact, she named her food baby Penny. Plus, you know, Travis needed to change his diaper. We apologized for our behavior, paid, and then left the premises, at which point our server Robert said "Oh thank you Jesus." Only I left my blog card on the table, so that way he could read this post and relive everything all over again, from our perspective.

So Robert, if you're reading this, I apologize again. We had a fun time even though we were bothersome and you had a zillion other people to take care of. Also, I am totally still going to fill out that manager complaint on-line. Do they give you coupons? Because Panda Express totally gives you a coupon code every time you answer a survey about your visit.

Adopt a mother-in-law

I am unsure as to whether or not I will acquire a mother in law in the next ten years, but I guess it’s okay if I don’t, as I already have an awesome mother and an adopted mother in law, whom I will refer to as my AMIL. I didn’t adopt my AMIL so much as she adopted me. My AMIL is Judy, and she is actually my sister’s mother in law. However, despite the fact that I have not married any of her sons, Judy is really nice to me. She gives me fresh organic eggs, and sometimes when my sister and my brother in law go over for dinner, I go with them. She makes these killer barbecued mushrooms and tasty potatoes.

Another thing I really like about my AMIL is that she taught me how to make awesome cupcakes. I've loved making cupcakes since approximately Junior year of college, but I was struggling to find a fabulous frosting recipe. Well, Judy makes wedding cakes and cupcakes too, so one day she had me and my sister over to show us how to make them. I got all of her secret cake and frosting recipes, and I finally learned how to successfully use a pastry bag and tips for decorating. My life changed that day. Oh, you know what else Judy did? When she went to the cake supply store, she bought me some of this really nice vanilla and almond extract. I didn't even ask her. She just picked it up and sent it along with my sister. 

It's nice when people adopt you. 

P.S. If you haven't e-mailed me your mailing address, I still want it so I can send you a valentine. I was super excited when I found people in my inbox who are willing to let me send them some love. Send your address to TheRealPretend.JJG@gmail.com. I promise to not sell your information, send you junk mail, or refer your name to a telemarketer.

Rottstiff or Mastweiler?

I present to you a Saturday evening phone conversation with my sister, Jessamy. We talk about a lot of important things.

Me: Hey. What are you doing right now?
Jess: Watching Animal Hoarders. This woman has 97 dogs.
Me: 97 dogs?!
Jess: Yeah. And she keeps them all inside her trailer. But they're small dogs.
Me: Because that makes it okay. But 97? Are they all sick and starving?
Jess: No. But the woman is basically broke.
Me: Is this show sponsored by the same people who air Hoarders? Like it's Hoarders: Animal Edition?
Jess: I don't think so, because it's on Animal Planet.


Blah blah blah we talk about some other stuff.

Jess: Sarah was at a drive through coffee place and on the window they were advertising Mastiffs for sale. Only she didn't get the number, so she told me where it was and I drove there to get the number.
(Please keep in mind that my sister already owns 3 giant Rottweilers. The biggest one weighs more than me. By a good fifteen pounds.)
Me: So did you call?
Jess: Yeah.
Me: What does Travis think of all this?
(Travis is forever having to tell his wife no to her desires for more pets. If she had it her way, she'd already have a fainting goat, an alpaca, a pot bellied pig, a miniature donkey, and like six dogs).
Jess: Well, he said in like two years. After we get our second house. The plan is to get a female Mastiff and then breed it with Squishy.
(Squishy is the 120 pound Rottweiler that was the offspring of their other two Rottweilers. He was named Squishy as a puppy because he was so fat.)
Me: Is there a large market for Mastiffs bred with Rottweilers?
Jess: Oh yeah. There's a breeder on the west coast who only breeds the two together. If we did this, then we'd have a Mastweiler.
Me: A Mastweiler? Why not a Rottstiff?
Jess: That's what Travis said.
Me: Well Rottstiff sounds a lot better. (I repeat it again with a British accent). I would actually name one of the puppies Rottstiff. It sounds like he would attend an all-boys prep school and wear a tailored jacket with the school emblem stitched on.
Jess: But then of course we'd have to keep one of the Mastiff-Rottweiler puppies. To keep the legacy going.
Me: So then you'd have three Rottweilers, a Mastiff, and one Rottstiff?
Jess: Yep.
Me: Well, whatever. As long as you don't appear on an episode of Animal Hoarders.

Jess' first Rottweiler was a girl named Cinderly.

Then Cinderly grew up and met her husband, Thor.

Cinderly got knocked up and had a lot of puppies, including the chubby Squishy.

Jess would hold Squishy, even though he was a fatty.

Pretty soon Squishy outgrew both his parents. It gave his father a complex.

Christmas Tree Acquisition

Before you read this post, you really should read this one. It will help you understand everything much better.

Part of today’s post is really epic, but we have to get through all the back story first. If you are really impatient and just want to get to the adventure part, then scroll through until you find the heading EPIC STORY.

So last Saturday, December 18^th, I found out that my parents still hadn’t gotten a tree. I wasn’t surprised, based on the fact that my dad really dislikes putting the effort in to get a tree to the living room. My sister called me, and we did a whole 4-way conference call and had everybody in the family chatting about the situation. Well, except for Travis. But he doesn’t count since he’s a fake brother. My sister said that maybe on Sunday she and Travis could drop a tree off on their way to a Christmas party. But we talked more and Dad said he’d get one somewhere. You know, considering the neighbors right across from my parents have a field full of Christmas trees.

Then Monday rolls around. My mom calls me and tells me that neither Jess and Travis nor I will be sleeping in the spare bed on Christmas Eve. You’d know what a big deal this is if you had read this post. She also informs me that they still don’t have a Christmas tree, and won’t be getting one either.

I’m kind of like “Okay, what’s happening?”

What happened was my parents spent about five hours at the doctor’s/hospital because my dad dropped a giant sheet of metal on his foot at work. And now his left foot is in a cast up to his knee, and he’s on crutches. Thus, he can’t do any heavy lifting.

The reason nobody can sleep in the spare bed is because all that is in that bedroom is the bed frame, since the mattress is still at our old house. And my dad won’t be going to the old house to lift the mattress into his pick up, on account of how he’s playing Tiny Tim on crutches for Christmas this year. He can’t get a tree either, since he’s all incapacitated.

I sort of had a feeling both of these things might happen. I was gonna have to sleep on the floor anyway, so I’m sort of glad Jess and Travis don’t get the bed now anyway. Equality is better. But the tree thing is sad. How can we have Christmas without a tree? What are we going to put the presents under? A twig? Jess and I have each managed to get trees put up in our respective houses, but to spend Christmas Day in a house without a tree? That’s just pathetic.

So Jess calls me Wednesday at eight in the evening. We talk about how we are going to get a tree. We’re both supposed to be at my parent’s house at four on Thursday, because some of our relatives that we never see are going to be there. Only Jess works till four-thirty. She wants to know if we should get a tree tonight and put it in Travis’ pick-up which she will then drive to work and then to our parents. Or should she drive the pick up to work and then I can help her get a tree at four-thirty when she’s done with work? Only then I’ll have to rudely leave the relatives to help her. We also aren’t sure if our parents are planning on reimbursing us for this tree or what. So we conference call them. We have another four-way conversation. I won’t share all the details but a lot went down, including some whining.

Basically, my dad (who claimed he was drug free and not on Vicodin anymore) said that we had two brains and we needed to figure it out. He’d pay ten bucks for a tree, not a cent more. Me and Jess tell them “it’ll be a mystery tomorrow whether or not we arrive with a tree” and hang up. Then Jess calls just me back and says let’s go look for a tree right now, even though it’s 8:42 and totally dark outside. So I put on my boots and wait by my front door for her to pick me up, because we live only two blocks away from each other.

EPIC STORY STARTS HERE

Jess arrives driving Travis’ pick-up. I ask her if she brought a flash light, because how are we going to find a good tree in the dark? She doesn’t have one, and neither do I, so we leave without one.

We’re driving down Lancaster and I’m like “The Church of the Nazarene used to have some trees.” And Jess says she saw a place down State Street. So we head down Lancaster first, and we pull into this practically barren lot. It’s all fenced in and there are two trees sitting there, along with a trailer. The light in the trailer is off and I’m guessing no one is there. We stare at the two trees on the opposite side of the fence. I spy a piece of paper tacked to the post.

“Let’s get out and see if that’s a sign,” I say. We jump out and find that the floppy sign (written on notebook paper with poor penmanship) says Free Trees. Well, it’s perfect, of course. Free is much better than ten bucks. The only problem is that the trees are fenced in. Jess tries to lean over and lift the tree up over the top of the fence, but it’s too heavy.

“We need somebody on the other side,” I say, and stare at her, because I don’t want to be the one who has to do it. “The gate is padlocked but I bet you could just climb over.”

So what does my sister do? She goes to the gate and fits herself through one of the slats. Then she goes to the tree and hoists it by the base and heaves it over the five foot fence. I catch it and drag it over. The truck is still running in the parking lot, it’s completely dark, and right now we’re nabbing a free tree from a fenced in field. I pray that no one thinks were criminals, because the sign fully said free trees. Like someone is going to stand around wasting their time just to sell the last two trees.

I start to drag the tree to the truck, and Jess squeezes herself back through the fence and helps me stuff it into the back of the pick up bed. The whole tree acquisition deal takes about five minutes total. We’re in the truck driving back to my house, and Jess tells me to call Mom and tell her we got a tree. I ask Jess wouldn’t it be better if we just surprised them tomorrow? And then we could tell them in person the whole story of how we nabbed a free tree in the dark from over a fence? So even though we are excited, we decide to wait and share the story the next day.

Jess drops me off at my house but calls me about fifteen minutes later.

“Yes?” I say.

“We could tell Mom and Dad the tree cost us ten bucks.”

I laugh, because she is totally like Dad. Out to make a profit. Our tree was free, but we could each make five bucks if we make Dad pay for it.

“If we do that,” I say “then we couldn’t tell them the true story of how we snagged a free one at night.” We weigh our options and decide that it’s worth five bucks to tell our parents the story about how we saved Christmas and brought them a tree.

Christmas Traditions: The Nativity

Once a year my sister and I would race to find our Lord and Savior. Many people spend their entire lives searching for God, but I always knew where to find him: wrapped in newspaper and nestled in a cardboard two-gallon evaporated milk box.

The nativity set that my family has is very special because it was hand crafted by my great-grandparents. My great-grandpa sawed out and stained the barn, and my great-grandma cast the figurines that are all white, which also sort of have that rainbow oil color over them. There are three camels and wise men, two shepherds, sheep, cows, Mary, Joseph, and of course baby Jesus in his manger. These fragile pieces are wrapped tightly up in newspaper and tissue paper and stored in a cardboard box.

The day that my sister and I got to set up the nativity set was also the day the Lord chose one of us to be his favorite for the year. See, we would race to be the one who got to unwrap baby Jesus. For some reason, we felt really special discovering him all nestled up in that ancient newsprint. We always knew to look for the tiniest bundle. The other figurines about his size were the sheep. Unwrapping the sheep was also a favorite, because they were so cute. My sister and I could care less about finding the shepherds or the cows. Baby Jesus and the sheep were typically tucked into the bottom of the box, so we had to unwrap everything else first.

In December, my mom would take the old cardboard box down from the shelf in the pantry, and she would assemble the three piece barn for us. She would tell us to be very careful with the figurines because she didn’t want them broken. You’d think in our yearly races to find Christ, we would have dropped a camel or a shepherd on its head or something, but my sister and I were both speedy and careful. No piece has ever been injured.

After the initial set up of the set, (which took much discussion as we had to determine the best possible placement), my sister and I would secretly move the pieces around about every other day. I really liked it when there was a sheep on each side of the manger (symmetry, hello). My sister liked it when the two of them were nestled together. I might move the camels so that they were all in a row walking towards the barn, but Jess liked it when the wise men were standing next to their steed. I think my mother had her own opinion and would move them as well.

Another thing we had to do about every year was re-glitter the star, which typically hung rather crookedly over the barn. We tried to keep it gold, but then we ran out of gold glitter and made the star red and green instead. I’m pretty sure it’s been stuck like that for the past 11 years.

During Christmas break my freshman year of college, I set up the nativity alone. It was kind of sad to do without my sister there to race me. Yes, I found Jesus, but it wasn’t quite the same. When Jess and I stopped in mid-December the next year, we were both appalled to discover that my mother had set up the nativity herself. She told us that we had waited too long to visit, and that she wanted to enjoy the set during the whole month. We told her that setting up the nativity was our job, and didn’t she understand the childhood nostalgia we indulged in every year when we unpacked it?

This may look unimportant to you, but it means everything to me.

I have my own nativity scene now, but it is not the same. It’s made out of corn husks and it was given to my mom by her aunt. When my mom was offering it to my sister and I after we moved out, Jess and I both wanted it. We agreed that we would share it joint custody, and we’d take turns every other year. I’ve had it for the past three years, because she’s never remembered to ask for it. Plus, I don’t think she ever will, on account of how she and her husband received a really neat nativity set crafted out of newspapers that someone bought for them at Ten Thousand Villages. The disappointing part about my corn husk nativity is that all the pieces are affixed to the floor of the barn, so you can’t have the joy of rearranging them. Plus, no camels. 

Did you already read Christmas Traditions: The Tree ? Because it was a little bit funny and mostly like "Wow. Your family is cool."

Check back Wednesday for the next family tradition that I will share.

Conversations with my sister

While in the car, when talking about the new detective story I’m writing

Jess: Could you put ninjas in it?

Me: Well, I haven’t. But I could if I wanted. Though so far it’s been pretty realistic fiction.

Jess: Ninjas aren’t exactly imaginary, you know. They do exist.

When asked to help come up with a motive

Me: This guy hires the detective because he suspects that someone in his nanotechnology company is leaking secrets to foreign countries.

Jess: Nanotechnology, huh? Maybe like, there could be a microchip. And you implant it into people’s brains to make them not feel hungry. Like a weight loss technique. Only the suspect’s trying to use them for the greater good and he wants to send the microchip to people in Africa so they aren’t starving. That would be a twist.

While at the store choosing fleece fabric to make a dog bed

Jess: What do you think of this brown?

Me: I like it. It’ll be good, because it will hide the dog fur.

Jess: But is it an ugly brown?

Me: No. It’ll be perfect. It’s the exact same color as your dog’s fur.

Jess: My dog is black.

Me: Oh.

While at my house, cutting fabric for her dog bed

Jess: Do you have a yardstick?

Me: No. But I have a ruler.

Jess: Do you have a long ruler?

Me: Jess, all rulers are the same length. 12 inches.

Jess: No, at my work we have some rulers that are 18 inches.

Me: Clearly they are overcompensating for something.

While at my house, looking at piece of artwork I’m creating

Jess: How did you do that? Put the words on top of the picture?

Me: It’s called PowerPoint. You just save it as a JPEG. I put a text box over the image.

Jess: No, but how did you get that flavor of text?

Me: You mean font?

Jess: Yeah, whatever.

Me: No, I like that better. Flavor of text, like you can taste it in your mouth when you're reading it.

While looking at a lomography Polaroid at my house, of a little girl in the rain

Jess: Who is this? Is this you? I know it’s not me.

Me: No, that’s you. You don’t remember that pink jacket?

Jess: But that’s not our house in the background.

Me: That was at Grandma and Grandpa’s.

Jess: Seriously?

Me: No. That’s a photo of a complete stranger.

How my sister likes to displace me

This is completely fictional, so that you know. It's from a dream I had. And okay, I know sharing dreams is super lame, because nobody cares, but whatever. I thought it was funny. It also explains why I didn't feel like eating breakfast when I woke up.

Dream:
We're sitting in my family's old camper, getting ready to go to bed. When I was little, I got to sleep on the table after we folded it down, and my sister slept on the pull-down bunk above. But now Travis, whom I refer to as my fake brother (he's my brother-in-law), is with us, and Jess and him want to sleep on the table.

"I'm not sleeping in the bunk. The table is mine. It's been mine for years. This is my spot," I argue.

It made a lot of sense while it was happening, but I typically am not one to volunteer to sleep on an eating surface, especially one made of laminated wood. And okay, I sound really unyielding, but let's just keep in mind how Christmas Eve went down last year.

True Story:
For years and years, my sister would snuggle into my bed with me on Christmas Eve. We even continued this through my college years, because what happened was my sister was living in an apartment, and I was living in a dorm room, and we would both return to my parents' house for Christmas. The only bed left at my parents' house was my old bed in my room, so my sister was forced to snuggle in next to me even when she was 22 years old. And then Travis came along.

The first Christmas he spent with us, he drove over in the morning. The second Christmas he spent with us, my mother made him sleep on a roll-out mat in the sitting room (which no one ever sits in). The third Christmas, he was married to my sister. The two of them wanted to sleep in my bed in my room, and they wanted me to sleep on the roll-out mat in the sitting room.

I absolutely refused on two accounts: 1) It was my freaking room, and 2) the sitting room is actually very eerie at night, because it is a room full of windows, specially designed to enjoy the view of Mt. Hood. And here, they want the one single person to sleep alone in a creepy room with creepy windows, so creepy elves can peer in at me during the night? Hell no. So what happened was, Travis and Jess slept on roll-out mats in the sitting room together. You might be like, why didn't they just sleep at their own house and come over in the morning? My friend, they didn't because my sister and I are desperately clinging to our childhood tradition of waking up at 6:30 in the morning to see what Santa brought. If they had to drive 40 minutes in the morning, they wouldn't have arrived until 11am or something. It's totally different when the presents aren't at your actual house. You don't want to wake up then.

Anyway. Back to the fictional part of this story, the part about me refusing to give up my place on the table. You can understand better now. I give an inch, she takes a mile. Well, the next morning, I wake up in a sleeping bag on the table, and my sister is next to me with a paper sack from McDonald's. She's munching on fries. For breakfast.
"Where did you get that?" I ask. Because, you know, we're camping in the wilderness and everything.
"From McDonald's."
Duh. "But when?"
"Last week."
VOMIT! My sister is eating fries out of a bag from McDonald's that she bought days ago. So disgusting. What I do next is wake up in real life and not eat anything until 2:20 in the afternoon.




P.S. I have no idea what is going to happen this year on Christmas Eve. My mother has turned my old bedroom into a guest room, on account of how I don't live there at all any more. She re-painted, made me clear out all my stuff, moved in new furniture, and hung up new artwork. There is one full-sized bed in there. What I want to have happen is I sleep in it with my sister on Christmas Eve, and Travis sleeps on the roll-out mat in the sitting room, where he can battle the creepy elf eyes peering in through the windows by himself. But my sister will be pushing to put me on a mat by myself so I can cry my lonely tears at night. I'd sleep in the living room on the couch where it is all cozy and Christmasy, but then you know, I'd wake up when Santa comes. Maybe I'll have to fill the bathtub up with pillows and sleep in there, because at least there is only one window, and it's frosted.

Marital Conversations with My Sister

We’re sitting around my table, eating lunch today, when I start to complain about my property taxes to my sister.

Me: Look, I have to pay $501.51 to the school district. Basically, I am paying myself to do my job. And mass transit? I have to pay $84.41 so people who don’t have cars can ride the bus.

Jess: Wait, the people who ride buses don’t have to pay?

Me: No, they do, but not that much. Our taxes supplement it. What about this one? $5.55 for the County Soil and Water Department. Here. This is the only one worth paying for. $9.07 to the regional library. Heck, they’re only getting like four bucks more than the dirt department. That’s unfair. 

Then we start to talk about bills.

Me: I’ve got a zillion bills to pay every month. (I tick them off on my fingers) Water, sewer, garbage, internet, PGE, and gas. And I'll start being broke in July. You know, when I quit my job.

Jess: Our cable and internet got shut off yesterday because Travis forgot to pay the bill. 

(My sister is forever forgetting to check her mailbox. She lets it stock up and opens it like twice a month. I could send her an announcement to let her know I was pregnant, and she wouldn’t find out until the baby was born.)

Me: Like, you didn’t check the mailbox, or he flat out forgot to pay it? (in my head I think, why don't they just set up automatic payments on-line? Then they wouldn't forget).

Jess: He forgot to pay it. I’m kind of like, whatever. It’s his bill. I don’t need TV. 

Me: What do you mean it’s his bill? You separate who pays what bills? What’s your bill?

Jess: Um, hello, it’s called the mortgage.

Me: So you pay the mortgage every month. How do you guys decide who pays the other bills?

Jess: Well, it’s like this. He has to pay the Comcast bill because he wanted it. But everything else, I hold up the envelope and say “do you have money for this one? Yes, okay, it’s yours. What about this one?”

Me: So he just gets to choose? What if he can’t pay all of them?

Jess: Then I do it. 

Me: This is all very interesting to me. Your relationship intrigues me.  

I mull everything over in my mind. It’s not at all what I thought being married would be like. I figured if you got married, you’d have a married peoples account, and pay your bills out of that. 

Me: So, you’re like his sugar mama. Or he’s a free loader.

Jess: Yeah, basically. But I pay most of the bills because he still has his student loans and truck payments to make. So it’s not like he’s not paying for anything. He just doesn’t have money left over for all the bills. In about two years he’ll be done with everything, and then we’re going to buy a different house, and he’s going to pay the mortgage for that one. And then I’ll just have to work part time to pay for the other stuff.

Me: So before you got married, did he know he wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage? Was he like, oh hey, buy this house, I’ll marry you, and then I’ll live here?

Jess: Um, well no. It was my idea to buy the house. 

Me: I’m sure it was. 

No, like really. You’ve got to know my family. It was totally her wanting to own her own house.

Jess: Basically, our conversation was like this: I buy the house, and then he buys me the ring. 

Me: So it was like quid pro quo. 

Because he did propose to her in the front doorway of her own house.

Jess: No. See, Jo, husbands are like expensive pets. You have to take care of them and pay for things, but in return they give you love and affection. I mean, if I were single, I’d be paying for all this stuff anyway. Now I just have someone to live with and love and cuddle with at night. Plus, I don’t have to mow the lawn or clean the gutters. And he feeds my dogs. They’re my dogs, but he takes care of them.

And okay, I can see her point.

Me: I have to do everything myself. I mow my own lawn, clean my gutters, pull the weeds, open all the jars—that’s why I don’t buy Adam’s peanut butter. I can never get the jars open.

Jess: That’s why you need a husband.

Me: Well, I’m wondering about this. Because it would go one of two ways. Either the guy I marry also has his own house, or he doesn’t. If he had his own house, we’d just move to whoever’s house was the nicest. But if he didn’t have a house, we’d have to live here, and I think that might be weird. Because like, it’s my house. And it’s not that I wouldn’t want him here or something, I think I’d just feel like he were another roommate and I’d still feel like I needed to do everything. Like, I’d still be out cutting the grass and pulling weeds by myself, because I wouldn't want to ask.

Jess: Well, how about when you’re married you just buy a new house together?

Me: That would make sense, because then it would be our house, you know? But I wouldn’t want to deal with trying to sell a house at the same time I’m getting married. So we’d have to live here for at least a little bit. Then back to the chores thing. When I see that the lawn is getting tall, am I like “hey honey, will you go mow the lawn?”

Jess: NO, Jo, No. You get him to do the stuff before you marry him.

Which is probably the best and most logical advice my sister has ever given me.

Jess: I got Travis to do all sorts of things when we were just dating. He even cleaned horse stalls for me.

Me: Wow, how’d you get him to do that?

Jess: You have to be like “oh, I really want to hang out with you, but I’ve got to do homework and clean horse stalls first. If you can clean some stalls while I do homework, then we can spend time together after.”

Me: Okay. So I’ll be all “I really want to see you today, but I’ve got to get this lawn mowed.” And then maybe he’ll offer to do it.

Jess: No. That won’t work. He’ll be like, “cool, see you when you’re done.” You always have to have at least two things you need to get done in order for him to help. So you say “I want to hang out with you, but I’ve got to do lesson plans and mow the lawn. If you can mow the lawn, then I can get my lesson plans done and then we can do whatever.” And obviously, he can’t do your lesson plans. So he’ll mow the lawn.

Me: Brilliant.




[Disclaimer: I hope by reading this conversation, you don't think Travis is a jerk. I really love my brother-in-law, and he is super awesome. He helps me do things like haul bookshelves in his pickup to my classroom. So I really appreciate him, even if he likes to pretend like I'm the annoying little sis.]