I'm Going To Take A Nap

Every morning for the past, oh, as long as I can remember, my husband has awakened at six. Weekday mornings, fine (gotta get to work on time, right?) Today is Saturday (which is a 'not-weekday'). He awoke like clockwork at six o'clock, got up and made some pancakes, ate them, and eventually got back in bed with me.

At this point, it was about eight and I had, as I most often do in this situation, been lying awake the entire time.

I'm a bad sleeper. When I crawl into bed at night, it takes around an hour for me to fall asleep. Then if I'm awakened in the middle of the might, it takes about as long to fall asleep again. Let's say my sleep is interrupted at six in the morning after getting in bed around eleven or midnight... You do the math; it's enough slumber to have gotten a night's sleep, but after not getting much sleep the previous week (or previous weekend) it's just not enough to satisfy a grouchy, morning-challenged person such as myself.

This morning was no different from the rest. This morning, our humble home was filled with the sleepy, scratchy-voiced, profanity laced rantings of a woman in desperate need of "just one %#@& good night's sleep".

I'm amazed at how friendly James is in the mornings. He's his usual self, teasing me and being cute with the dogs. He thinks it's funny when I'm grumpy in the mornings and most of the time is able to make me smile or laugh instead of groan and throw a tantrum. Any given weekend, he's more than happy to get up, whip us up some breakfast, watch a soccer game, and then fall asleep for a couple hours. I would love to be able to say, "I'm going to take a nap" and then actually accomplish just that. But my brain will not shut off and napping only comes on those rare occasions when I'm running on absolute empty.

Thankfully, my adoring husband is being patient and understanding with me this morning. He's currently snoozing in our bedroom with the dogs. At one point, he even jumped out of bed to come to my aid when a rogue ketchup bottle leapt to its death from our fridge and onto my foot.

I'm in a much better mood now though. My belly is getting full, I'm more awake, and I can laugh at myself. Life goes on, and of course there's always hope that maybe tonight will be the night I get a %#@& good night's sleep.

El Drama De Los Tacos

Last night, hubs and I were channel-hopping and landed on a Spanish soap opera entitled La Rosa de Guadalupe. We caught it maybe ten minutes into the show. A mother was in the hospital, her three children surrounding her bed. "Why," we wondered, half-interested, "was this mother in the hospital?" We soon learned the reason. Every few minutes her husband would appear out of nowhere and beat the crap out of everyone in his family.

I know this kind of thing isn't funny, but we had a great laugh watching it happen over and over and over. I mean, a couple of them would just be having a nice conversation and then he'd rush up and start throwing punches for no apparent reason. Like a mentioned, abuse isn't funny, but the frequency of it in this show pushed it to the point of ridiculousness.

I dunno... maybe it was just one of those "You had to be there" things.

'Papa' was the stereotypical male abuser, wearing the appropriately named "wife beater" tank top under an open white short-sleeve, button-down shirt. Jeans, stubble, and constant yelling. How could he be calm when each person in his family couldn't serve him his dinner without accidentally spilling it all over him? Idiotas! (This happened two different times, by the way).

The mother just couldn't bring herself to tell the police about him. While she was in the hospital, due to one of his drunken rages, I'm certain - you know what, I take that back; I don't think he even needed alcohol to become absolutely enraged over the slightest thing - he started beating the oldest daughter. She plotted to put rat poison in his tacos, but dropped them before he could dig in - she's so clumsy!

James was making me laugh, saying the show should be called Los Tacos de Guadalupe. He kept bringing it up over and over, and I giggled and giggled every time. Even as I type, I'm laughing uncontrollably.

Unintentional comedy aside, I was so enthralled with the story I had to watch it until the end. I could only pick up on a little Spanish here and there, but I could still figure out what was happening due to the "Oscar-worthy" performances. Papa ended up going to jail, only after the daughter poisoned him on her second attempt but then had some mercy and called 911. The family was better off without him and the show ended with all of them (minus Papa) laughing and thanking Saint Guadalupe for helping their family.

I was also laughing and thanking Los Tacos for a fabulous and entertaining close to my day.

Give Me Chocolate Or Give Me Death!

About a month ago, I decided I was going to eat better and exercise more and read labels and love my body. I'm trying to avoid high fructose corn syrup and anything with trans fat (FYI: "0 grams of trans fat per serving" does not equal "zero trans fat"). I've been trying to lay off sugar. Especially chocolate. But it's so hard! I've found that I'm addicted to the stuff. Out of desperation, I've turned to semi-sweet chocolate chips as a little snack when I feel the need.

But then I ran out.

A few days ago, I dramatically announced to James that there was no chocolate to be found in our house and I was now going to give up and die (well, no chocolate except for the reject Whoppers that came in the variety bag of candy I purchased for myself the trick-or-treaters. I'll never eat them; that'd be like someone lost at sea desperate for water and settling for sea water). He just rolled his eyes. How could he possibly understand the personal anguish I was experiencing?

After debating in my mind whether or not to bake some brownies from a mix (we had that too), I ultimately decided I was stronger than that. I could beat this thing!... (Could I just eat the mix without baking it..? NO!)

I went about my un-chocolate-filled business the next few days. Just today after work I went to the grocery store to get some pies for Thanksgiving, and I didn't buy any treats for myself. I told myself I could live until the next day, when I would allow myself to eat whatever I darn-well pleased - hydroginated oils? Ok!

I arrived home, triumphant and proud. My hubby greeted me and marveled at how I hadn't bought any candy while I was there. I beamed. "That's right," I said, "I'm being good!" He then told me he couldn't believe it, but he'd found a lost Kit Kat hidden among the hoards of terrible, terrible Whoppers. "What...?" I asked, "Really?" I went to inspect the contents of the rejected bag and found, to my shameful delight, two Kit Kats, Two Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, a Snickers, and a Crunch Bar, all of them King Size. He had picked them up for me while out and about because he loves me and can't stand to see his woman without chocolate. Or he just wanted me to shut up about having no chocolate to eat. No, I think it's because he loves me.

You better believe I pounced on that candy like there was no tomorrow. As I type, half a Kit Kat lies beside my keyboard. At least I waited until after dinner. I don't care if I'm going to stuff my face tomorrow. Today is for chocolate. I've been good!

Nuh nuh nuh-nuh-nuh nananananananuh nuh-nuh-nuh!

After spending countless hours researching online, and making numerous trips to various music stores, my Jamesie got an electric guitar as an early Christmas gift. Apparently, he had wanted one last year, but I must not have thought he was serious about it because he (obviously) didn't receive one. About a month ago, he revealed to me that he was getting one for Christmas this year. (Are we that "married"? He can just tell me, not what he "wants" but, what he's "getting"? Ugh. Whatever.)

So, the search began. We made a trip to Music World or something [insert generic guitar store name here]. There was a van parked nearby that was black with flames painted on it. We were greeted by a sales clerk with a thick surfer dude accent. He knew his stuff and was very helpful. He knew countless facts and trivia about Metallica. I came to the conclusion that the van belonged to him.

Next, we visited a Guitar Center. We met an employee who was very helpful, knowledgeable, and eager to help us out. I quickly warmed up to him because he was nice and he was the least-creepy person working there. While making sure my 10-year-old nephew wasn't destroying anything and avoiding the leering stares from several employees, I learned, along with my hubby, a little more about guitars, guitar accessories, playing guitars, and, of course, Metallica.

We looked around, thanked the helpful employee, and left. After doing a lot of research and soul-searching, James wanted to return to this same location to make his purchase. He tried out a few models and did a lot of looking and figuring. And more looking. As he wandered through the store I followed loosely behind, acting interested in this or that. Half the time I actually was interested in 'this' or 'that', but as time wore on I was ready to leave with a guitar and all accessories needed to be awesome at it, and never, ever look back. Plus, I was hungry.

After an hour and a half, he had it narrowed down to two - what was all the hours researching online for? - but struggled to make a decision. I tried to assure him that whether he got this or that model, it would be great. I gave my two cents on the one I liked better than the other (it did help that this particular one was cheaper than the other, but it also suited him). But he couldn't make up his mind. So, I did the only helpful thing there was to do, and casually pointed out a third party that I'd had my eye on since we arrived at the store.

It really was a beautiful instrument. The body was a glossy, deep red wood with an interesting pattern to it that faded to black. The neck was embedded with mother of pearl detail. Here he was, basing his decisions on the quality of the pick-ups and the reliability of the brand and such. I liked this one because it was pretty.

He'll never, ever admit this, but he values my opinion and seeks my approval. All of a sudden, this guitar seemed like a good choice to him. It was made by a reliable brand, and it even had excellent pick-ups. Our helpful employee had good things to say about it, and so the decision was made. After acquiring all the necessary accessories to rock out, we made our way to the counter to pay. As we were concluding the purchase, he turned to me and said, "Well, since I got something today, we can go to a store and get you something, too." I can't believe I turned him down, but we had been in that Guitar Center for two hours and I was weary.

Now our home is filled with the sounds of electrified strings being strummed carefully, and slightly more profanity than usual. He really is getting quite good at it though. As I type, various riffs are flowing out of our spare bedroom. Black Sabbath, Nine Inch Nails, Deftones, Metallica (of course). He even played around with Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin'', just for me. He's learning fast, and loving it. I grabbed it at one point and played around with a few songs I knew back when I was motivated to play guitar. Some Coldplay and Dave Matthews Band songs are all I could remember off the top of my head. I started practicing a Deftones song he had gotten the tabs for, and he told me I was not allowed to learn it before he did.

Hmpf.

I get it; it's his new toy. But I still picked it out!

The dogs aren't quite sure what to make of it, although they're handling it better than I anticipated.

I'm proud to say I'm his #1 fan.