Adventures in compromise

Mr. Sweetypants and I recently moved out of the hipster dump I bought 10 years before we met.

The house was tiny and 63 years old. The fixer-upper charm had long since passed and we were tired of being terrified we'd both get food poisoning at the same time with just one small bathroom to share.

So, we bit the bullet. We found our perfect grownup house in the same neighborhood, went through rounds and rounds of post-bust bending over with our bank, giving up pounds of flesh and the rights to our potential offspring, and moved.

As the old house was only 740 square feet and I'd been in it since the mid-90s, we needed new furniture for the much-bigger Frinkenplowman residence. MSP and I have very different tastes in, well, everything. So we struck out furniture shopping with a plan: We made a list of deal-breakers each of us could not stand. For MSP, it was old-people busy; for me it was overstuffed and clunky.

We were in and out of the furniture store in just under an hour.

Yesterday, our fabulous dining room furniture was delivered. We didn't have a dining room in the old house and were ecstatic to have a place for six friends to sit and have dinner with us. But the plan was to leave out the insert and only use four of the six chairs for everday use, as the full set overwhelms the room.

The delivery guys set up the full set as is and left. No problem, they did a great job. I arranged it the way I wanted it, put the extra chairs in the corners like my Sainted Southern Mother directed me to and asked MSP to take the leaf out. He tugged on it from several directions and couldn't get it out.

MSP then crawled under the table and examined the bolts from underneath. He messed with them for a while before starting to complain about having to take the entire bloody table apart to remove the insert.

He was still under the table when I decided to go outside and enjoy a cigarette on the deck swing. He came out to retrieve his tool kit from the storage room and I said, "(Our friend) is coming over later, maybe he can help you." MSP replied, "Honey, I'm an engineer. If I can't figure it out, no one can."

I took that as my cue to just shut up. So I smoked another cigarette and listened to the English cursing escalate from the dining room.

Without a word, I tiptoed past MSP on my way back into the house. I came upstairs and logged onto the interweb. I looked up the manufacturer of the table and found their customer service number. As I was on hold, listening to "Dust in the Wind," MSP declared that he was too mad to mess with it and would figure something out later.

Friendly customer service guy picked up after MSP went into the bathroom. I explained the problem and asked if he could direct me to the assembly instructions on the Web. He told me there weren't any, but asked me what the problem was. I said we couldn't figure out how to remove the insert.

"Oh, that's easy," he told me. "Just look for the butterfly clips underneath and it'll pop out. If that doesn't work, I can have a technician come out next Friday or Saturday and show you how."

MSP walked out of the bathroom at that minute and I said, "Do you mind if I put you on the phone with my husband?"

Our table looks awesome.

That thing we do

So today:

The fire alarm at the place that pays me was tested for five... long... minutes at 8:35 a.m.

Steve and I are pretty sure the underwriters are just making up things to request at the last minute. (Seriously, borrowing money since the bust is a million times harder than it used to be.)

Steve, the underwriters, our realtor and I furiously emailied and faxed documents to be able to close Thursday morning.

All this was going on while I was trying to get all my work for current projects done so I can be out of the office for a week without missing deadlines.

The movers called and cancelled.

My Inspiring and Understanding Supervisor waved me into his office. I gritted my teeth and used every ounce of my Southern charm not to yell, "For the love of God, what do you want now?" But he writes my reviews for HR and is super awesome.

He said, "You have to see this video." And I really wanted to say, "I don't have time to watch videos."

He hit play. Seconds later as I watched, I did that thing my Sainted Southern Mother, sister and I do exactly the same way. I teared up, clutched for my pearls and made that gasping sound we make when something touches our hearts. (I can't spell it, but if you know us, you know the sound.)

So I sent it to both of them and told them it made me do that thing we do. They both replied that it totally made them do it.

Watch this good Southern boy create the awesomest wedding proposal ever.

It may be the sweetest thing ever. And I was in a much better mood after watching it. Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.

Where do we sign up for Storycorps on NPR?

Seriously. Give me 15 minutes with my Sainted Southern Mother and a live mic and we could blow even this lady out of the water.

From: me
Subject: Re: Yum!
To: My SSM
Date: Wednesday, May 4, 2011, 7:31 PM

So answer me this to confirm that I didn't dream it. Did you go see Cowboy Junkies at the House of Blues?

On Wed, May 4, 2011 at 8:26 PM, (my SSM) wrote:

Yes I did. K.D. had gotten tickets for the two of us and it was a wonderful surprise. I had a marvelous time, but have to admit I saw the young people doing things that were utterly evil. There were so many people that we were pushed together, but I had a ball anyway. And yes, I really love the Cowboy Junkies music!!!! And yes I love the House of Blues!

Your rebel Ma

I have found my calling

I always joked about founding a cult and quitting my job. I just never was able to find my niche super-powers. Until now.

Forget the old wives' tales about eating more red meat, sleeping to the left of your partner or making love under the quarter moon. I can guarantee couples conceiving that they will have a baby boy just by being around me.

Need proof?

I have two nephews and a stepson.

Three of my friends have recently birthed healthy boys.

Three of my friends are gestating baby boys.

My new cult/business plan involves renting some storefront property, investing in some awesome, high-end silk robes and booking hours for personal meetings. Oh, and effective signage. I'm leaning toward "XY on High."

Is it hot in here, or is it just you?

Dear Penthouse Forum: I never thought this would happen to me...

One hot, summer night when I was a single 30-something, I came home from a day in the corporate trenches, washed my face, put on a tee shirt and boxer shorts and camped out on the sofa to watch whatever was on the E! channel.

Someone knocked on my door and set off my "single woman alone in a house" panic button.

I grabbed the phone (just in case), flipped on the outside light and peered through the peephole.

There, standing on my front porch, was a fireman. A young, ripped, sweaty fireman wearing just his undershirt, suspenders, protective pants and boots and fire helmet.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

"Just a second," I yelled, rushing to get my housecoat. There was no time to put on a bra and makeup.

I opened the door and he said, "Sorry to bother you ma'am, but we had a report of a gas leak in the neighborhood. Have you smelled anything unusual?"

And these words came out of my mouth: "I smell nothing but good."

Gah!

I'm not an early adaptor

I love watching television in bed. Love it so much that I haven't curled up on the couch with Mr. Sweetypants to watch a movie in a couple of years. That sort of thing is for courters and young newlyweds. We're an old married couple.

The bedroom TV was only five years old and perfectly fine by me, especially since I paid for it and have a lot of Scottish blood in my veins. I'm still using the perfectly fine, fake-wood-paneled, large-enough-to-cook-a-turkey-in microwave I received as a graduation present.

Anyhoo, the Christmas electronic sales were too powerful for Mr. Sweetypants to resist. He bought a new, HD flat-panel TV for the bedroom. The perfectly fine TV has sat in our office for two months.

The woman who owns the house-cleaning service we use belongs to a church with an outreach service and "clothes closet" for underprivileged people. I give her bags of clothes to donate regularly. So I asked her if she knew anyone who might be able to use the perfectly fine TV.

She informed me everyone has a flat-panel now and I should have given it away before Christmas.

Tell your senator that no means no

(HUGE DISCLAIMER: This is a humor blog, but this is important.)

The GOP is fighting to restrict financial aid for abortions by redefining the legal definition of rape. Under the new definition, only a pregnancy resulting from "forcible rape" can be terminated by the victim. Pregnancies resulting from statutory rape, in women who were raped while drugged or extremely intoxicated, in mentally incapable women, or in many of the victims of date rape would not be covered under this narrow definition.

I wrote the following to my NC GOP Senator:

Dear Senator Burr,

You would never demand sex in return for a dinner date or force yourself on a handicapped or intoxicated woman. Or have your way with a mentally retarded teenager.

But some men do.

You will never experience the physical pain and never-ending shame and emotional trauma of rape: S
ex without consent. Or the agonizing experience of reliving it to policemen (if you're brave enough) or in front of a jury (if you're lucky enough).

A lot of women do.

I'm asking you, as my senator, to please explain to your colleagues that denigrating rape victims and giving a free pass to rapists is a vulgar, crass way to achieve your legislative goals.

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Please contact your Republican senators (feel free to cut and paste the above) as soon as you can.

NC peeps, go here. Under "topics," DON'T select "abortion," select "Health Care."

Peeps in other states, find your senators here.

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Thanks, kids.