Saturday, October 13, 2007
He Couldn't Get Much Nicer

I am a terrible person in the morning. There are many reasons for this, and none of them are very good reasons. Mostly, it has to do with my severe displeasure in creating a whole morning routine centered around the goal of leaving my snug bed and going to work for ten hours. When I think of mornings like that, it is difficult to be cheery and light-hearted. Another problem is lack of sleep. Every night, I get to bed around midnight and think to myself, "I should really go to bed earlier." But every evening, I also tell myself, "This is your only bit of freedom during the week. Don't waste it on sleep."

The third and least valuable reason for my sheer grumpiness in the morning is related to the fact that I do not wake up with an IV of coffee leading directly to my brain. The absence of the coffee is like missing, oh, I don't know, a limb. It hurts. It tingles. It infuriates. Doubling this annoyance is the fact that I make horrible coffee in the morning, because my vision is always blurred, my motor skills are droopy, and my breath is cause for immediate hallucinogenic behavior.

None of this would be so bad (well, except for having to go to work) if no one was around to witness and/or fall victim to this cruel side of me. Unfortunately, my husband is very much around to witness and fall victim. Since I am nothing more than a petty individual, the whole affair is made worse with the knowledge that my husband doesn't have to awake as early as I, and even when he does, he may not have to go anywhere. He works from home, as I did. It's almost like the Universe conspires to taunt me.

After three mornings in a row, with me stomping around our tiny house, shaking the floors and walls, screaming obscenities for no apparent reason, and sighing at my breakfast cereal (soggy, sad, and insulting), my husband could not take it anymore. That evening he told me, "I like you. But I don't like you in the morning." Because I have the emotional sensitivity of a seven year old with PMS, I immediately began crying, saying, "I j-j-j-just h-h-hate mornings! I have nothing to look forward to!" Yeah, I know. Pathetic.

Any other man would have lost it at this point; the lesser among the species may have hauled off and thwacked me on the back of the head. An average man would have said, "Oh, quit your whining". But Michael is not any other man, and for this I am glad. He gave me a hug and I apologized, telling him that I would try harder in the future to not be such a horrible person in the morning. All was fine.

The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee. When I got into the living room (I was sluggish but not biting), Michael presented me with a fresh breakfast of eggs and toast and a hot cup of coffee. I ate my delicious breakfast in silence, slowly allowing my mouth and body to wake up. And that was the first morning in a long time when I was happy about what I had to do that day. Ever since that morning, I have awoken to fresh coffee and breakfast. While I certainly don't expect this from Michael, I cannot tell him (or you, apparently) how much it means to me, how much brighter my day is, since the breakfasts began.

I'm telling you; either Michael is my girlfriend in a man's body, or he was sent to Earth to shame all other men into acting right. All I know is: he's not getting away, and I like my eggs just a little runny. For any cynics who may think otherwise, Michael is not 'whupped'; our house runs like a well-oiled democracy. Where I mostly get my way, but not all the time. But then again, Michael and I hardly disagree about anything. (I just turned and asked my husband if we disagree often; he shrank into the chair and meekly said, 'No, dear.' See? He's not whipped at all).

(Also, Michael was at shopping the other day and picked up these items for me, for no other reason than a couple weeks ago I mentioned I liked velour pantsuits. Humbling of me to admit, no?)
Written by FRITZ
| Link | 7 wise cracks! |

Monday, October 08, 2007
Little House On a Budget

Remember Laura Ingalls Wilder and her memoirs? Her books were so quaint--oranges in stockings for Christmas, scarlet fever, murderous Indians and poplin on sale. Her Little House on the Prairie books transported me, a middle-class kid with two working parents, into a simple time, where little girls did grown-up chores, and families were poor but clean and industrious and most importantly, happy in a regimented Christian-Westward-Expansion way.

Well, look. If you substitute "Little House" for "rented shitbox" and "Prairie" for "The Most Unstable Economy in the United States" you'd get "Rented Shitbox in The Most Unstable Economy in the United States".

And that's where I live.

Yes, we've been hit hard with the financial woes of being overspenders and underachievers. And living in Detroit. You'd think that two folks making decent money could like, you know, handle it. But we can't. So, we've had to simplify. Like, a lot.

First, the dog went. Ka-ching. Then, Michael's motorcycle. Then, Michael's camera. Now, my motorcycle is up for the kill. Then, the Infinity speakers. Probably, the guitar. Tivo? Gone. Sirius Satellite? Gone. Starbucks? Gone. Smoking? Well. Let's be honest--cut back. Fabulous salad bar at the liquor store where I get lunch everyday? Forget about it. Subway? No way. Yarn? Done. Fresh market? Too pricy. Friday night dinners out? Hasta la pasta. Say hello to the simple life. And say hello to it while still being in debt up to your eyeballs (with the goal of being out of debt in four years).

Now, I'm not suggesting the meaning of life is wrapped up in TiVo, Starbucks, and rockin' music coming through superior speakers. I'm only suggesting that a good portion of my life is wrapped up in these things, so the weaning process is not going to be entirely enjoyable.

It's way boring on the prairie. I don't know how Laura and her blind sister ever made it through the winters on basic cable and macaroni and cheese. But I guess I'm going to find out. Someone get me some wood so I can whittle Michael a Christmas present.

Written by FRITZ
| Link | 4 wise cracks! |

Sunday, October 07, 2007
I Am My Own BlogAd
But it's for a good cause.

Wanna check out some awesome photography? Possibly purchase a picture of a stunning landscape or a portrait of a handsome woman? Knowing that you are supporting a struggling artist (and his wife) is an added benefit of such a purchase. I can't tell you how much it would mean to my overdraft protection an artist.

Edit: Never mind, we don't get any of the money through SmugMug. So, just email me and we'll arrange a purchase. Or, just go look and ignore my blatant exploitation of my husband's talent.

No, really. Go look at my husband's new website. It's fabulous.
Written by FRITZ
| Link | 0 wise cracks! |

Name: Fritz

Location: Detroit Rock City!
Where the weak are killed and eaten

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    What I Live By:
    We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. -T.S. Eliot "Little Gidding"

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