My husband, the size queen

I always thought it was a few hormones and genitalia. But it's not. The difference between man and womyn is much more simple than that. It's not biological, hormonal or genital.

It's electronic.

All my life I could have cared less about a TV. I mean I watched it. I enjoyed it but I could care less about the size. Twenty inches, twenty five, twenty seven, whatever. I was fine with it. My whole freshman year of college I lived without a TV. I remember if we wanted to watch 90210 we all crowded around my friend Marcie's 12-inch tv.

I had no issue with my TV since my parents got me the one for my first place. It fit into my beloved entertainment center (the recipient of MANY compliments) and life was good.

Until.

It took a couple of weeks after the boy moved in for him to start dissing my TV. The one he had at his place was enormous. I gave up my office so he could make it into his den and fit his TV. His TV would simply not fit into my entertainment center and I wisely chose my entertainment center over that monstrosity of a TV. I was not sacrificing Pottery Barn life for a corner of Best Buy. No way. I got my satisfaction when the mother of a Halloween trick-or-treater poked her head inside my crib and said, "wow, what a beautiful entertainment center." I closed the door, looked at Stew, who by the way was dressed like a pirate, and said, "did you hear that. She called it beautiful. It took her breath away." He immediately dismissed her as "a broad' and said my entertainment center lacked entertainment. he went on to trash the fact that it only had two outputs and I committed the sin of all sins by adding to my crappy TV a DVD/VCR combo which he practically threw up knowing we had to watch a movie on it. Geeze, don't hold back. He told his friends about my small TV and my combo and they ridiculed me incessantly. I fed into it by sending them pictures of how my crap-tastic TV would somehow change to Spanish subtitled around 9 p.m. every night. It annoyed Stew but i loved it. It helped make me bi-lingual and that comes in handy.

So. It was no surprise when Stew's parents gifted us with a check ear-marked for a TV on our wedding day. Anticipating this I put an entertainment center I found comparable to mine on our registry. I knew nobody was going to buy it for us but just having it on there would earn us 20% off when we did purchase it. The week after the wedding we sat in Fortunoff's as the saleslady went nuts trying to figure out how to discount it. Sadly enough we didn't have the TV yet but I knew it was just a matter of time. I pushed the delivery out as far as I could go and within a couple of weeks, Stew happily wrote me an email saying he picked out his TV. He sent me the link (like I actually had an input on it) and I pretended like I actually cared. I only cared about one thing, how much was delivery of this thing going to fuck my day up. When he got home he told me how pissed his friends were because his Tv will be two inches bigger. TWO INCHES. That is when I realzed, a man's TV is like a how a girl compares her boobs with those of another girl. Size does matter.

The entertainment center came first. Actually, we cheated a bit. The one I had was vanilla distressed wood and so was the new one so we just bought the expandable stand and the bridge saving ourselves about $1000. I did a little returning, some gift card schmoozing, "what do you mean that promotion had an expiration date, nobody told me. Can you go get your manager?" It ended up costing us a lot less. I never take no for an answer. Unacceptable. When the entertainment center came, Stew literally sat on the couch in front of the new and improved LOTSAENTERTAINMENT center with a huge smile on his face. I swear if he could have put his hand down his pants at that moment, he would have. I quickly put my 20 inch TV in the massive void. I thought the smile was disappear but it didn't. He was thinking ahead.

We both played hooky the day the TV got delivered. They gave us the generous window of 12-6. Stew "worked from home" and I just took the day off. I actually did work at home tho'. Stew spent the day pacing, perking up and running to the window every time he heard a truck. We live next door to a shopping center and trucks are always making deliveries so stew's hopes were dashed - A LOT. The TV came around 5 like we suspected. As soon as he confirmed it was the right truck he quickly (seriously, I never saw him move that fast) pushed the door open and waited there like a kid at Christmas. As soon as the guys left he quickly got to work with the wiring (special cables only), hooking up the Blu-Ray dvd player. We had some minor set-backs with the cable box but as soon as everything was done, his world was complete. He misses the TV more than me during the day now.

I guess he won't miss me then when I reclaim my office so I can get some work done since the TV is always on. I need some compensation tho', he made me get rid of my beloved L-shaped desk and that's going to cost a trip to Ikea.

Pie in the sky . . . or trash

The sugar free "pie" lasted until this evening. It's Wednesday for you late comers. I decided to give it another whirl when I walked into the kitchen to get some Cadbury mini-eggs.

Now, I know what you're thinking:

1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?

The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.


2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."

Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.

Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.

Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.

Sugar Free Pie

Okay folks, let's face it. Sugar free and pie are two words that should NEVER go together in the English language. Pie without sugar, may not affect your glycemic levels while giving you the illusion of eating pie but the fact of the matter is Sugar Free pie tastes like shit.

Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.

In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.

But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.

Spiders in my ear and Triscuits in my eye

So. Imagine this. You are me and you have NO insurance. None. And you're eating Triscuits and you finish the box and you get to the best part. All those yummy salty crumbs in the bottom of the bag. You run into the kitchen, grab a scissors and slice off the crinkled messed up part of the bag so you have a smooth, straight sailing, easy slide right into your mouth. How many times have you done with a bag of chips? many. You don't think that this particular time will be the time that may cause you great embarrassment and shame.

I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.

I panicked.

Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.

I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?

Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.

"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."

You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.

"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."

Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.

"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.

Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.

Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.

"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."

He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."

Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.

Love, Honor and What . . . .

For those of you wondering, I do not feel any different. I probably would if Stew and I did not live in sin for almost two years before we got married. But, it's not like I'm suddenly picking up his dirty boxers off the bedroom floor. I've been doing it far too long to admit. However, strategically placed hampers have now eliminated that problem.

The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.

Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.

A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.

However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.

I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.

He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.

And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.

He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.

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