Runnin' Out of Firsts

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Grahm and I have been together for a while now. Not so long that we're plucking the back hairs off of each other or giving one another sponge baths, but long enough that we're running out of "firsts." This isn't necessarily a bad thing; I like the "Hey let's talk about how heinous your breath is" comfortable, the I-can-fart-in-front-of-you-and-think-nothing-of-it familiar. 

And I think we'd both agree that there are a few "firsts" we didn't particularly enjoy: peeing in front of each other, sharing a toothbrush, and buying a box of tampons. Okay, that last one was just Grahm, but you get the gist.

In a "If we go to the movies again, I think I'll scream" moment, we decided to do something we'd never done together. Bowl. (Why is it called bowling? There's no "bowl." It's a ball, people. A ridiculously heavy one. Well, I guess that depends on your capabilities. If you have gummy, toothpick arms like me... you get the eight pounder, or the six pounder if you're lucky enough to find one where the finger holes are large enough for your over-cracked man knuckles.

After our fun escapade, I now know why we have never hurled a ball at some pins together... We're both easily frustrated and ridiculously terrible, like the we-should-probably-be-using-bumpers-but-too-bad-we-aren't-six-years-old kind of terrible. (Phew, hyphens!) Ironically, our bowling names were "Aces" and "SirStrikesAlot." Neither of those were true. It was more like "GutterGirl" and "CantAimStraight." Grahm is even worse than me, poor lefty. I will admit though, I secretly relished it (mwhaha!) because he kinda beats me at everything. Boggle and bowling (not really), that's all this chicka's got going on for her.

Bowling alleys are the definition of sketchville. They smell of shoe polish, questionable mozzarella sticks, and moist body odor. Unruly adolescents and grump-tastic old men, for some reason, all flock to the lanes like the gutters are lined with gold. Seriously, there was a two-hour wait on Friday night. (What?!) And wearing someone else's shoes is always an adventure -- by that I mean, it's utterly horrifying. Where has this shoe been? I, for one, don't enjoy being forced to pay for someone's leftover toe jam. (It's even more embarrassing when you have to ask for a child size, because they don't have an adult size small enough to fit your fetus feet.)

There probably won't be a second bowling excursion for a while, but we had a blast. We made fun of each other, looked like complete idiots next to the serious league players, and vowed to never talk smack about this strange game ever again.

...And did I mention I won 2 out of 3? (Don't tell Grahm I told you; I may have told him I wouldn't tell his bowling woes to a single soul. Apparently, he doesn't know me too well.)

Oh, ladies

Friday, September 14, 2012

It's something in the air. Maybe the promise of fall and cold air has puckered up my buns into a slightly more annoyed state than usual. Or maybe I'm just altogether unpleasant (probably). But some girls lately have just really been chapping me up a wall. And some things, we just need to get off our chests... right?

Girls who run in just a sport's bra. I get it. Your boobs are bigger than mine, (that's not hard)... but running with your bowling balls flapping in the breeze can't be comfortable. And it sure ain't attractive for the innocent passersby-- aka me.

Girls at the grocery store. Every. single. one. of. you. I know it's an agonizing choice between Tony's and DiGorno's pizza, but your big buns--the unfortunate result of that frozen goodness--are clogging up my lane. And don't get me started on you couponers -- are you really saving that much?

Girls who think their baby is the next Brad Pitt Einstein flying wonderchild. (See Momsters for my full rant.)

Girls who think a successful Crock-Pot recipe makes them excellent wives. Granted, I'm a big fan of the wonder pot. It's a convenient, time-saving miracle. But let's be honest. Throwing some cream-of-chicken soup on some frozen meat does not make you a great cook. Those meals are also not Instagram worthy. Like ever.

Girls who overly gloat about their husbands. I mean, I like to post a flower picture or two every now and then... but there's a time to draw the line. "Oh sorry, I was just busy watering my 453 dozen roses. Isn't he a keeper?" or "Oh my word, my husband just cleaned our house and both of the neighbors'! How great is he?" 

Girls who excessively complain about their husbands. I mean, what are you trying to demonstrate? Your husband may be one giant tooltrain two stops shy of douche town, but trust me, we think you're ten times worse than he is because of your ridiculous posts. I mean, if you got to complain just do what I do and call your mom. (Ha.)

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but I don't want you to think I'm more judgemental than you already do. So ladies, let's work on this... shall we?

First

Monday, September 10, 2012

Well, I survived.
First day of the real world was a weird mixture of exhilaration... and pain (it's the heels, man).

I gave Grahm a two-hour fashion show last night, because I obviously needed his opinion for my most important decision -- aka what to wear on my first day. Our walk-in closet turned into a weird episode of Hell's Kitchen, except for less screaming and food and knives. Strangely, Grahm had several opinions of my recent work-appropriate purchases.

Silly me, I thought I would walk out in my planned outfit for the morning, and he'd say "Great! You'll look beautiful tomorrow!" Nooooot. Instead, he decided to channel his inner Tim Gunn and got all Project Runway on my buns. 

"It looks good, but I think we can do better."
"How many pairs of black heels do you have?"
"What about coordinating your earrings with that teal belt?" 

After lots of trying on, I finally decided on my tried-and-true pair of gray slacks and a button-down shirt I've had in my closet for about... oh, forever. Figures. Spend a bunch of money on clothes, and the only thing I wanna wear is something I've already worn 4565.64 times. Luckily, it was also husband approved.

My eyes haven't fully adjusted to the cubicle life. It's gray. And monotonous. I really wanna play paintball in there and blast some color on the walls... But I feel legit. I haven't started the actual editing yet, but I'm sure once the training shenanigans finishes up, I'll be up to my eyeballs in red pens and Chicago Manual style books. My kind of heaven.

Since the position is only a temp (6 months), I feel a lot of pressure to do well. Guess that's why I need to strap on my I'm-a-big-girl-now panties every morning, and no, I'm not talking about Huggies.

 Don't worry, I took this in the comfort of my own bathroom... responsible and super classy. Also, I'm taking tips on how to get make-up to stay on your face for like ten hours. Ready, go.

Look out, real world

Friday, September 7, 2012

It's day three of wearing the same comfy jammies. Day three of skipping showers. Eh, who needs 'em? Day (let's no go there) of calling a rat's nest a hairdo. Attractive doesn't even begin to cover it. (Seriously, I think I could submit this top bun at the science fair.) I'm avoiding mirrors, make-up, and deodorant (you're welcome, Grahm)... and anything else that makes me feel a little more humane than this lazy woman I've become the past few days.

Technically, I'm sick. It feels like someone stuffed two giant grapes up my nose and is beating the middle of my not-so-recently-plucked eyebrows with a tiny hammer. Just call me the Smelly Green Grump-tastic Giant.

But even if I was feeling hunky-dorey, I'd still be acting like the helpless blob-wonder who is sleeping till noon, You-tubing baby videos, reading too many political articles, and is eating cereal out of the box because I'm too lazy to go buy milk. (Or am I too considerate? If you think about it, I'm actually doing the world a favor by burying my stink-nasty bod in my bed.)

 (This should be in a Great Grains commercial. I'm not technically making out with the box... but I may or may not be wearing pants.) 

Before you get all judgmental and tell me I'm a giant pile of public waste (half-true), let me just tell you that Monday... I enter the real world with my first legit post-college job! In just three days, I'll be strapping on my big-girl panties, wearing heels every day, waking up early, and doing actual work from 8-5. I'll be working for Pearson as a copy editor --- and huzzah! it's something I actually studied in school.

So yes, I smell. My apartment is a giant mess. My ginormous laundry pile is resembling Mt. Rushmore (it grew a face, and it's seriously judging me). I've skipped my marathon training... and movement altogether. And did I mention I smell?

But Monday, that all changes. The real world won't even know how to handle all of this... As excited as I am for my new job, who knows when I'll have the amazing chance to be this lazy ever again? So excuse me, I've got... well, I've got nothing to do. :)

Real

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Grahm and I are a year old today. Not so "Recently Roached" anymore. We're basically experts on this whole marriage thing; go ahead ask us anything. (Ha.)

This time a year ago, I was putting on my white dress. I was getting ready with my best friends and anticipating my new life and role as Mrs. Roach. My stomach was a jumble of nerves and excitement. I wanted everything to go smoothly; I wanted all the details I had worked so hard on to turn out beautifully. But I knew if it didn't... if my bridesmaids had set each other on fire and my cake had toppled to the floor... it wouldn't have mattered. I was still marrying my best friend. 

I'm not sure what I thought marriage would be like one year ago. I wish I had written it down. Whatever preconceived notions were in my head, however, have definitely been blown out of the water. Marriage is a wonderful pie slice of joy and struggle, where chocolate filling is happiness and the crust is all your disagreements. You can't really have one without the other. Otherwise, you'd just have pudding. Or graham crackers. That's not pie; that's not a real marriage. (This analogy probably didn't work at all, but pie is on the brain. Nom.)

Grahm and I definitely have our problems, sure. I get mad too easily; he never remembers our plans. I can't cook (a good) dinner to save my life; he rivals a four-year-old in the picky-eater department. I struggle with wanting to micro-manage everything; his middle name is aloof. I fart too much; he farts too much. The list goes on. Throw into the mix that Grahm is a male engineer and I'm a female writer and the communication issues just take a nosedive from there. 

But for all our quirks and shortcomings, we have a beautiful marriage because it is real. We are true to ourselves and true to each other. We are imperfect people trying to love Christ and love each other with a selfless love. It's not always donuts and roses, but I know our love, real love, is better than any fairytale I could ever imagine.