Pickles & Dimes

Move heavy stuff
It’s nice that my husband considers me to be a strong, robust woman adorned with an abdominal wall of sculpted muscles, but the truth is that my abs are sculpted out of bubble wrap and pop in agony anytime I pick up something heavy. Jason always wants to move things in one giant, back-breaking swoop instead of using my preferred method of hiring burly, unshaven men to do it. It doesn’t help that whenever we move something heavy, the object never has a handy handhold, so I am always shuffling downstairs, hunched in half, while “supporting” a 500-lb. object with four fingertips. The entire time we’re moving something, I am complaining about how heavy the object is and suggesting alternatives that don’t involve my presence, and Jason is helpfully yelling for me to “Just lift it!” Result: it takes us forever and then we usually don’t speak to each other for at least 30 minutes.

Hang pictures
We have a laser level, but have never used it. Because we are idiots. Instead, we hang pictures by relying on our eyeballs. This means I proclaim that something looks “good,” and Jason responds to my statement by activating his OCD and staring at the picture for 15 minutes until he’s convinced himself it’s not 100% straight. The situation then devolves into two separate debates: one over whose eyesight is worse, and the other over “good” vs. “good enough” and whether the difference is that big a deal in the grand scheme of things because maybe one of us is hungry and could go for some pizza right now. Our worst fight centered around us hanging our wedding photos – OUR WEDDING PHOTOS, for the love of God – and arguing over the placement. Unbeknownst to us, one of us (he claims it was me; I will claim to my dying day that it was NOT) had set down the felt-tip pen we were using to mark nail placements on the wall. While we were loudly disparaging each other’s eyesight, the pen — which had been left open by the as-yet-agreed-upon-person — bled black ink onto our futon. The Discussion Level then shot up to SHOUTY BLAMENESS and resulted in me stepping backward into the open toolbox, scattering hammers and wrenches and screwdrivers and nails everywhere. Good times.

Ask questions while the other person is on the phone
As a little kid, I never understood while my parents shushed me all the time when I talked while they were on the phone. Then I married Jason. Whenever I’m on the phone, he is constantly popping into my line of vision and interrupting me to demand, “Ask so-and-so this…” or “What did she say about X?” or “Did you mention Z?” and it is MADDENING. If I shake my head or turn away or make an ominous throat-slitting gesture in an attempt to shut him up, he gets irritated that I’m shushing him and ramps up his questioning even more. So in retaliation, I do it to him when he’s on the phone. That way, we both win.

What are your silly, spousal argument triggers?

Blocks away from home when I got into a car accident: 4

Number of lanes other driver crossed before T-boning me: 2

Seconds I had to react after seeing him out of the corner of my eye: .00000037

Pieces of car debris that showered over my car like a NASCAR-branded snow globe: 157

Pieces of debris that were from my car: 0

Swear words I said after impact: 3

Times other driver said, “I didn’t see you there”: 1

Times I said, “Well, I was RIGHT THERE”: 1

Times I wanted to say, “What the HELL, dude?!?”: 4

Times other driver made vague mentions of “not going through insurance”: 2

Number of seconds I waited after he drove away before I called my insurance company: 12

Date I discovered other driver’s insurance “lapsed”: January of 2011

Estimate to repair my car: $2,307

Amount of my deductible: $250

Approximate cost for rental car: $50

Times I’ve cracked my skull on the rental car door: 2

Minutes it took me to figure out how to dispense windshield wiper fluid: 37

Times I have used my car’s automatic starter this winter: 3

Days this week I could’ve used my car’s automatic starter if only it wasn’t still in the repair shop: 3

Times I happily reflected that my insurance company is going after the other driver to recoup their costs (including my deductible, which will be refunded to me): 17

Phone calls/messages I’ve received from other driver conveying his vague disappointment that I’m going through insurance: 3

Times I’ve believed that had I done that, the other driver would honor his assurance of paying for everything in a timely manner: 0

Times I don’t care what he wanted because I had the right of way, he hit me, he has no say in how I choose to do things and oh yeah, it’s against the law to NOT HAVE INSURANCE: 5

Amount my premium will go up: $0

Times I have been glad I have Liberty Mutual for my insurance company: 25

Hours until I can pick up my car and stop giving myself car door-induced concussions: 26

Have you guys ever had a stress dream? One of the “forgot to study for the big exam” variety that leaves you in a panic? Usually mine involves me pulling out giant, ragged sections of my teeth and gums, which is horrifying, but I’ll gladly take that over the dream I had last night.

Actually, there were four of them. FOUR. I’ve never been so glad to hear my alarm go off as I was this morning. Each dream had me feeling horrible and apologizing for my shortcomings as a human being. Being a bad friend: Sorry I missed your mom’s funeral! Being a bad student: Sorry I forgot about my swimming test (that I then failed because I was wearing clothes instead of a swimsuit)! Being a bad party guest: Sorry I broke your brand-new and extremely expensive camera! And the kicker, being a bad babysitter: Sorry I killed your child!

In that dream, another person and I were babysitting a little boy, about 18 months old. He was standing on a chair and I was showing him a cardboard box. Every time he’d see it, he’d happily slap his hands on it, laughing and smiling. I’d pull it away and then show it to him again so he could repeat his playful drumming. Back and forth we’d go – laughing and drumming and smiling. Only I pulled the box away, and in anticipation of reaching for it again, the boy lost his balance and suddenly leaned over the now-backless chair. And fell.

His head hit the edge of the table and then he landed headfirst on the floor: CrackCrack. The other person was gone. The boy’s eyes were cloudy. And even as I picked him up, begging, “Please start crying. Please start crying,” I knew he was dead.

Delightful, right? I still feel awful about it, and that was 10 hours ago.

What stress dreams have you had?

My newish haircut has many layers I don’t remember requesting, so it closely resembles a mullet if I don’t spend time on it, much to my lazy chagrin. As a result, I’ve been trying to curl it more often. The first time I did, it was HORRIBLE. Just awful. I could not have looked worse if I tried. I had no idea what went wrong, so I resorted to watching online tutorials — on how to curl my hair. Now it looks great until my stupid, fine, limp, straight hair decides it’s too weak to hold a curl, so even if I leave home feeling and looking good, I always return home defeated and disheveled:

We have a queen-sized bed and lately it’s been feeling a little cramped. I’ve even been waking up with numb body parts (today I woke up, got out of bed and almost fell to the floor because my entire left leg was asleep). I think maybe it has a little something to do with this: