The Marriage of the Traveling Pants

My husband just happens to be a saint on odd occasions. My birthday is Wednesday, but on that day we'll be leaving to do some Christian volunteer work for the nonprofit where my husband works. Needless to say, we won't be doing any celebrating on THAT day. So he graciously agreed to take me to see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants this evening. I've read the books, and I love them! To be honest, I never would have read them, but a school system back where I'm from decided to ban the first book. That meant I HAD to read it. So, I love the books and wanted to see the movie. My husband offered to go, only because it's my birthday and he wanted to avoid doing housework. ;) (And Rolling Stone gave it a good review...)


I applaud him for even staying in the theatre, being the only male under the age of 50 among a gaggle of teeny bopper girls. Below is the actual conversation we had follwoing the movie:

Husband: So, did you like the movie as much as the books?

Me: Well, books are always better, but they did a darn good job for a movie.

H: Do we own those books?

M: The third one I just bought, but I checked the other two out from the library?

H: Hmm

M (Shocked): You want to read the books! That's so funny. But cute.

H: Can we go to Target and get them tonight?

M: Sure..oh, man. I have to blog about this.

H: Uh uh, no way.

M: Well, can I least say that you liked the movie?

H: Okay, but don't tell anyone about the books. I mean it.

M: Why? Are you ashamed of it? I'm proud,"My husband likes the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants." That's something to brag about.

H: Like I said, don't tell anyone about the books.



He's so cute!!

What Kind of Reader Am I?

I finally have to hop on the reader bandwagon. I am a smorgasboard reader. Grad school made me that way. I may be reading 5 or 6 books, magazines, etc. at once. Typos and misspellings drive me crazy. If it's really bad, I'm not above quitting a book and never returning. If it's a great book, I'm not above reading it a few times every year. I'm not too proud to put a few great books on my shelves that I'll never read, just for my image.

I devour fiction and other for fun reading very quickly. I can read several hundred pages in a couple hours. If I start a series and I like it, I compulsively read all the books in the series in about a week and then spend a year cursing that the next one isn't out yet. I've been known to start reading a book on the toilet and an hour later realize, "Oh yeah, I'm sitting on the toilet." I've been late for class a couple times because of that.

If it's reading for school, I barely do it. The grad school skim is my trademark. I miss a lot of really great thinking and writing because I can b.s. my way through papers on books I never read. I think the academic world revolves around such shallow scholarship, and I perpetuate it. I hate graphic novels, except maybe Maus. Too much effort to look at all those pictures. Besides, I like my own made up images better than the ones any artist can draw.

As I'm writing this, I guess I'm realizing I'm quite narcissitic in my reading style. It's all about me. Maybe that is why I have such a hard time reading the Bible.

I enjoy sociopolitical nonfiction almost as much as fiction. My favorite fiction is young adult. Sometimes I think I'm stuck in adolescence. I like sexy lusty trashy novels. I used to steal my mom's Harlequin romances when I was like, 9.

I exist mostly sleep deprived because at midnight I think, just one more chapter...then one more..then, I'm almost done...then, holy moly it's 3am and the alarm goes off at 6. I've been known to cheat and find out the ending of a novel by reading the last few pages, but I don't do that so much anymore. As I get older, I appreciate the mystery a little more.

Oh, and my husband knows his and MY library card number by heart...and I think that's sexy.

Hostile Takeover

It has finally happened. I have reformed my husband so that he finally notices the dust, the dirt, the mucky kitchen sink. He even notices, "Hey, it smells like cat shit around here." Then, he actually picks up some cleaning instrument and does something about it! It only took one year of dating, one year of engagement, and nearly three years of marriage and three moves to do it.

Isn't that what every wife dreams of? To have a husband who realizes the dirt and also does something about it. But let me tell you a little secret. I hate it! Because now I don't get to be the clean self-righteous one. He has started to realize that a lot of that messiness I groan and mumble about comes from me! So he then yells at me to quit leaving my stuff all over the place. I'm the one who never puts away my shoes, my makeup, or my keys. But when I was the one doing all the cleaning, I got to bitch about picking up my stuff. (On a side note, I just saw another hubby beating the bathroom rugs out on a neighbors balcony.)

Well, at least I can still revel in the glory that my "clean" is cleaner than his "clean." Like, I clean the tile grout. I don't forget to polish the stainless steel tea kettle. I clean the dust out of the grooves that are carved into my desk. I dust the light fixtures.

But really, why is so much of my identity tied up in how clean our apartment is? Is it progress that I have helped my husband internalize some of that to? Or is it a huge step backward? The cats really don't seem to have an opinion on the issue. Unless, that is, you don't scoop their box for a LONG time. Then they poop on the new rug. Maybe that's what I should do the next time hubby puts off the cleaning for about 6 weeks when it's his turn.

Drat, and I've been wrong all this time...

Check out this link. It made my blood boil so much that I couldn't even respond..

http://www.briceandbensa.com/WhyWomenShouldNotBePastors.htm

My Life Is Fucked Up

I haven't posted lately, because, frankly, I'm too busy. Literally, if you added up all the things that I have to do in a week, it adds up to over 80+ hours. That's not including time for sleeping, eating, connecting with people, sex, or the occasional "oh my goodness, my best friend is freaking out and needs me" moment. I don't even have time to clean my cats' litter box. (Thank you, sweetheart, for doing that.)

Recently I've been evaluating why I happen to be so busy. Sure, graduate school is hard, and an honorable thing to do. I feel called to do it, or else I wouldn't be giving up so much that I want for a damn piece of paper that says I read a lot of books. But even if this period of my life is one of winter so that I may grow, I know God doesn't want me to be a stressed out, uptight, jackass who has no time for anything extra but sleep, food, and blogging at 1AM.

So I'm quitting two of my three jobs. It's a faith issue, really. I don't trust God to provide, so I try to do it myself. My husband's pay is mediocre, and when we return from a mission trip in Europe, he'll be unemployed. So I work, and work, and work...thinking that I'm the one making all this happen. I'm a real idiot sometimes.

What is even more bizarre is that I am a therapist. I help other people get their lives back by acting like participant observer in their lives. I guess it takes one to know one.

So, if my husband and I start to starve, will you peeps out in bloggerland send us some Ramen?