I am honestly shocked that Marmot and I have been married for four years. Not because I didn’t think we would last this long (although there have been moments- hah!) but because it seems like we just got married. But I look back at these pictures and it just cracks me up! Don’t you ever wish you could go back and clue yourself in?? Actually now that I think about it, nahh. That blissful face is just too cute, and really, the realities of cleaning whiskers out of the sink will come soon enough.

Marmot got me a vacuum for Christmas. He’s such a dear.

In other (unrelated) news, the TV is acting up again.

Merry Christmas everyone!

My husband bought me a TV for Christmas. Because, I have been talking all year about a getting a TV, specifically a 46″ Sony Bravia LCD 1080p HCTV, because SEC football games are just amazing on this kind of screen. The three-stone diamond anniversary ring would just be a waste of money, what was I thinking?!

And it just so happens that Queen B. had such a TV, through her Finish the Basement project.  {Note: The problem with just painting and sealing the concrete floor (so trendy) when you live in the godforsaken Arctic tundra? It makes the basement colder than the Abominable Snowman’s asscrack, and completely unlivable.} So because wearing a parka was required, the TV had been watched less than ten hours total. My Dad is on a business trip, so anything in the basement is for sale.

So my sweet darling dearest husband bought the TV. For me. With absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever.

Our entire Christmas budget is blown, and its not even Thanksgiving yet. I was going to inflict Tit for Tat on him, one way or another. And the opportunity presented itself sooner than I thought.

This past weekend Marmot had the TV home, set up in the sunroom. He was extolling the virtues of the new TV, demonstrating with the latest SEC football game – look at the uniforms babe, the colors are freaking brilliant!- I made a realization. Our old TV was a Sony TV. And therefore, we had a Sony remote. And with the addition of the new TV? We have two Sony remotes.

So, while he is engrossed in the game, I tuck the extra remote next to me on the couch, out of his sight. The Bullfrogs throw the ball – all the idiots in football helmets start running – Marmot starts cheering!

And- blink! The TV goes off.

Marmot: What the f#$%.

Me: That was weird. Did you hit a button?

Marmot turns the TV back on. He missed the play, but they have instant replay.

Somebody in a football helmet kicks the ball. The idiots in football helmets split up and start running towards each other. Marmot is screaming the most important of football strategies to the idiots in the football helmets. The game is heating up!

And – blink! The TV goes off.

Marmot: Mother-f#$&!@r!?!!!

Me: Geez babe, this is weird. You don’t think some electrical stuff was knocked loose when you moved it do you?

A few minutes later, all the idiots in football helmets starting running across the field again. Marmot stand up to cheer the Bullfrogs on, this is it! The idiots in helmets are running faster! Its going to be the touchdown of the season!

And- blink! The TV goes off.

Marmot throws the remote into the living room, shrieking expletives, and kicks the side of the coffee table. The cat goes streaking from the room, the dogs sit up and look at him- and I stifle a smile.

Marmot picks the remote, and the battery case, and batteries from the other room and turns the TV back on. The camera is panning over the crowd, still cheering themselves hoarse over the most fantastic play of Bullfrog football history.

Me: I think something was knocked loose when you moved it babe, you should call Customer Service.

An hour and three calls to India later, he finds out the warranty is null and void because he is not Queen B. But Hi-my-name-is-Larry in India helps Marmot through an hour and a half of system resets and diagnostics.

They have it all figured out, everything should be fine. The Bullfrogs are in fine form this season, amazing plays. This is shaping up to be a GREAT football season.

Three years ago today, a very nervous acting Marmot came downstairs, and sat next to me on the couch where I was working on the computer.

Marmot: “Sweetie, I need to ask you something.”

Me: “Whats wrong with you, why are you being so weird? I’m working on this right now babe.”

Marmot: *pulls out ring box and scoots to the edge of the couch* “Sweetie!”

Me: “What?! Ohh!”

Marmot: *smiles at me* “I have to ask you a question.”

Me: “Ok, but aren’t you supposed to be on your knees?”

Marmot: “Seriously?” *rolls his eyes and gets on his knees* “Better?”

Me: “Yes its better, now ask me!”

Marmot: “Honey, will you marry me?”

Me: “Yes yes yes!”

And we lived happily ever after...

I have literally been gagging. This show makes me retch. And I’m a nurse, so you know what it takes for me to have to work at suppressing the gag reflex? A lot. (And just so you know, smiling suppresses the gag reflex. A really handy little tip for debriding an infected wound or cleaning the fridge.)

So anyway, we’re sitting and watching the show Hoarders, and there was one about a woman hoarding expired and rotting food. OMG. Microbiology background here, I was grinning (see the above tip) and trying not to think about the petri dish that is that woman’s house. And also making mental notes about taking more stuff to Goodwill. Like my entire basement.

(So I have to admit that I’m an anti-hoarder and a cleanfreak/germaphobe- everything is either useful and has its place, sentimental and stored, or gone. And I don’t think that much is sentimental. I’m a little freakish about it, which is why the show Hoarders sucks me in! Keep that in mind as you read on.)

But anyway, we’re watching the show and at one point Marmot leans back, and says well I think we’re okay Honey, you’ve got hoarding tendencies but we’re alright.

WTF?

And yes, that’s a direct quote from me.

Upon hearing that I demanded to know where in the hell he got that idea sweetly asked him to please elaborate on why he would think that.

He tells me I’m a packrat, and that my (home) office is messy and I really need to get a handle on it, throw more stuff away.  Huh. As if the three bags of Goodwill that he hauled to the truck two days ago didn’t register.

Furthermore, this is coming from the man who has the Man Room which features a sushi-making kit, along with clothes that he hasn’t worn since high school, deer antlers, and a reindeer costume from the 3rd grade.

Hoarding ‘tendencies’, seriously. I rest my case.

Let’s talk snoring. Depending on the source, snoring is prevalent in 30-50% of adults, and in men more than women (duhh). We all know someone. And if you’re really lucky, you’re married to him. Marmot was a light snorer when we first got together. Once in awhile it would wake me up, but I’d elbow him and it would stop. Worse when he’d been drinking, but nothing awful. Well…pack on the Newlywed 15, and the story has changed.

Let me just say that yes, I am a light sleeper. Too many years on trauma and transplant call, my brain is wired to wake up for anything sounding like a pager or cell phone. Or the dog farting. It takes me anywhere from 30 minutes to over an hour to fall asleep. Marmot? Sleeps like the dead, and reaches the dead state within 15 seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

And its bad. I have Bose In-Ear Headphones that are supposed to block the sound of an on-coming freight train. Add in Nickelback with bass booster, and I shouldn’t be able to hear a nuclear bomb in the city limits. And yet, the snoring penetrates.

We have a nightly routine. I will oh-so-optimistically not put in headphones, because I don’t sleep all that well after falling asleep with them in. We snuggle into bed, and fifteen seconds later I hear the all-too familiar pre-snoring sounds….and then 30 seconds later, we’re into full-on throat scraping nasal reverberations.

-I give him a nudge, and he says What! I’m not even asleep yet!
-I say Yes you were, you were snoring.
-He rolls over in a huff. Someone farts just to make a point, but we’re not saying who.
-A minute later, snoring starts. I give him a shove.
-He says WHAT! I’m still not even asleep yet!
-I say Yes you were, put a damn Breathe-Right strip on!
-He makes a big deal of turning on the light, and putting a nose strip on. I giggle because he looks like he has a giant bandaid stuck to his face, and he gives me a dirty look.
-Lights out, we’re going to sleep.
-Ten minutes later, I hear the snoring sound start again. I kick him in the back of the calf.
-He half sits up and is like What the hell, I’m *trying* to *sleep*, I have to *work* in the morning.
-I then move into Evil Wife Mode. EWM makes me sit up straight, and start enunciating my words really well and the tone in my voice starts changing. That’s usually the time when I speak so passionately that I spit at least once while talking. My sweet response to Marmot is along the lines of Ohh right, because I’m going to stay at home and SLEEP all day tomorrow! I have a job too asshole, and I’d like to be awake while I’m there! Ok that last part is a lie, but that’s not the point.
-He realizes that he has 15-seconds to stop the Evil Wife Mode transformation, gives me a kiss and says I love you sweetie, I’m sorry I’m snoring.
-I say I love you too, but please sleep on your side.
-We lay back down, lights out, we’re going to sleep.
-And the snoring starts again.

I’m then at a decision point. Do I stay in here, or do I move to the spare bed? Now the spare bed is a twin bed with an all-foam mattress that I love. Its got flannel sheets and its on the opposite side of the house from Marmot and his nasal symphony. The downside is that the dog has realized that its his perfect size and sleeps there most nights. Which means that not only do I have to haul the dog off the bed, I have to keep him off the bed for the rest of the night because Me + 115lb Dog + Twin Bed = Not a Good Night. Why do I not make Marmot take the twin bed? Because the twin bed is more comfortable than our bed. I usually opt to take the twin bed, and get to sleep an hour or so later.

Marmot is a morning person, and always well-rested and happy when he wakes up. He usually comes in to say good morning, and ask why didn’t I want to sleep with him last night?

Violence is never the answer ladies. No matter what asinine thing he says. Really.

In honor of football season and the upcoming ‘Bowl’ games (which I knew nothing about before meeting Marmot), I’ve decided to highlight some of the unique differences that stand out when a Northerner marries a Southerner.

First Meeting: He was dressed to the nines in Abercrombie and Brooks Brothers. I’m wearing a college sweatshirt and trackpants, no makeup.

First Dinner Made for Each Other: He made Black Angus hamburgers, perfectly seasoned and grilled to perfection, served with homemade potato salad. The first meal I made him was microwaved ‘baked’ potatoes with fat-free sour cream, and bag salad with fat-free ranch dressing.

Our Accents: I thought he sounded like a hick, and he thought I was harsh and a frontrunner in a speed-talking contest.

Our Parents: We met each other’s parents about a month after getting engaged. Marmot’s parents were so sweet and polite, very traditional Southern genteel. I was greeted with a nice hug, and told that I could address them as Mr. P. and Mrs. M. When my Mom came to meet Marmot, she told me (not realizing he was behind her) that she was so excited to meet him that she’d almost peed herself. My Dad met Marmot, he invited him into the basement to see his large collection of firearms.

Our Siblings, Grandparents & Extended Families: Marmot’s grandparents and family are very quiet, polite Southerners. A visit to them in the Deep South is a lot of good food, nice conversation, and relaxation. The first meeting with my extended family was a lot of loud Italian music, and getting hit on by my crazy Aunt P. who hadn’t brushed the hair on the back of her head. Upon finding out that Marmot went to law school, Aunt K. launched into an anti-lawyer diatribe, then told me that Marmot was a helluva improvement over the last boyfriend, the doctor, who they really didn’t like anyway. All of this in front of Marmot.

Our Wedding: Southern traditions were upheld with a tiramisu groom’s cake, the wedding being very formal by Northern standards, and of course no dancing out of respect for Marmot’s Baptist roots. The Northern influences were the pine bough themed decor (‘creative’ according to my mother-in-law) and an entire branch of my family roadtripping to our wedding in a Winnebago. I reserved the hotel bar until 2am for my family who were still ticked that the only alcohol at our reception was red or white wine. And at our reception, my four uncles each went up to my poor mother-in-law and introduced themselves as Honey’s first husband, Honey’s second husband, etc.

And the differences never cease…to be continued!

I hate mornings. My husband is a morning person. I don’t know why. Although I’m pretty sure I did not know that when we got married, because that would have been a deal-breaker.

He gets up immediately when the alarm goes off. I purposely set the alarm an hour ahead so that I can curse at it, hit snooze, and then lay there half-asleep until it goes off again in nine minutes.

He gets up and makes coffee. I’m late since I pushed snooze three extra times, so no coffee unless I remember to set it up the night before on the timer. In other words, no coffee.

He has his clothes set out the night before, usually ironed. My clothes are fished out of the Take-to-Dry-Cleaners basket, lint-rolled to remove (a fraction of the) pet hair, and the front melted. I mean ironed.

He eats breakfast. Like an actual breakfast, with a fork. My breakfast is a half a cookie from the office break room.

He gets up at 6am, to be to work by 8. I get up not a second earlier than 6:30, to be to work at 7.

I really don’t even know what to say other than pass the coffee.