Happily Wedded Chaos

Those who say 'wedded life is bliss,' clearly don't recall the first few months of said wedded bliss. Or they just started out a completely different way than the Garretts.

We've been married a whole five months now and so far it's been adjusting to two new jobs, two long-distance commutes and now the sale of our first home. Wedded life, while it really is a bit blissful, is really more chaotic than anything.

Yes, we're under contract to sell our first major purchase as a couple and the home where we became Mr. & Mrs.

While I have done a better job (see last post) of holding up my end of the wedding vows - we had pizza on Saturday, Derek is also holding up his - to stick by me - even when it means selling a house and moving more than an hour away.

It didn't take much convincing though, we are after all moving to the recreation capital of the Show-Me State - the Lake of the Ozarks. But when it hit The Man that he'd have to pack up and move his two prized saltwater fish tanks, life got a bit more chaotic.

"We can't live there, where would I put my tanks," became a common argument against whatever amazing abode I'd discovered.

Then came the tools.

"That one has a garage, pick that one!" But never mind that it was way out of our commute.

While tricky, compromising with The Man became a simple task in comparison to the conversations I would have with the potential landlords.

 "Your listing says 'pet friendly.' We have two."

Silence.

"They're great dogs. Both are six years old and fully trained."

Silence.

"Will that be a problem?"

...

"How big? One is 10-pounds on a fat day. The other is 80 pounds of love." That was a stretch by all accounts. Currently, at his winter weight, King Ace is a whopping 90 pounds. But 80 sounds so much smaller than 90. Ha.

After being told that pet friendly places were only friendly to dogs under 20 pounds, or being asked to pay the equivalent of my first car in deposits, our search continues.

Husband - 1
Landlords - 3
Megan - 0

The Life of A Wife

Man, I'm behind. And several of my good, old loyal followers let me know it in the last few weeks.

*******

Believe it or not, it finally happened. The Man proposed and after 10 months of stressing and planning, we are now husband and wife.

The day was perfect. And if it wasn't, I don't want to know about it.

In my usual form, I requested we break from tradition. Imagine that. So we wrote our own vows.

Standing under the sun and the beautifully handcrafted alter made by The Man and His Dad, I poured my heart out. After pledging to be his equal and stand by his decisions, no matter how dumb - or something like that, and to make sure warm meals were always in his belly, I wrapped it up.

"I promise to always do half of the laundry. But I vow to always fully love you. You’ve helped me vow to be the best parts of me that fit perfectly with the best parts of you."

And somewhere in there was a promise The Man will never let me forget.

After giving him one of my friendly text message reminders of why he married me, it was met with, "and for pizza, which I haven't gotten yet."

Pizza? I don't recall anything about pizza.

But it was too late. I was hosed, like Davey.

In my googley eyed, love struck state of mind, I had promised to make him his beloved homemade pizza, several times a month in fact.

Damn that love thing.

It might be what makes a Subaru a Subaru but it's also what will have me stuck in the kitchen.

Following the matching of just half of his socks, you can find me at mixer.

The abominable snow dog

It's been far too long and for that I apologize. I think it may be good for my soul to get on here and stab away at the keys for bit. So here goes. (Lord knows I've had plenty of life happenings to write about lately.)

****

Standing where I could keep a constant eye on my entire garage roof, I had a firm grip on the cell phone in my pocket. You know, in case I had to call 9-1-1.

My new fiance, saw in hand, was standing in near knee-deep snow on top of our house. But it wasn't just snow. We were in the middle of the "Snow-pocolypse" and as if a foot of thunder snow wasn't enough we were currently getting an additional 6-8 inches of a "wintry mix."

The king mutt reigning over our household took my attention from my death-defying future husband long enough to take out both knee caps as he whizzed by with one of the near dozen downed tree limbs in our yard.

Son of a .....

Yes, the weight of snow-pocolypse had gotten the better of neighborhood trees and the only being truly enjoying the outdoor happenings was our taker of knee caps, the abominable snow dog.

Bringing my focus back to the rooftops, I narrowly escaped what was sure to be bruise or two as branch crashed at my feet.

It may not have been our brightest moment, The Man tossing large branches from a slick, snowy rooftop with me dragging them into a pile below. The snow dog would be our chance at rescue should anything go wrong.

Clearing the last limb, my heart rate began to settle as The Man prepared to make his decent.

"You know that's a metal ladder and you on have snowy boots," I warned.

The usual eye roll, snort was his classic non-verbal way of saying "you can't be serious."

... "Whoa!"

I threw out my arms in high school cheerleading fashion as if I was going to catch him mid-dismount and closed my eyes.

Nothing.

Peeking upward, I realized he'd only slipped and wouldn't be crushing me into the deep, cold slush.

Phew.

Clinging to the icy ladder I spotted his safe climb down just in time for Snow Dog to send me airborne landing on my backside in a mound of snow.

Time flies when you're burnin' down the house

It's amazing how time flies

I see it's now been more than a month since my last weekly post – but have no fear – the dialog is progressing in regards to teaming up with KRCG. I will be on the hunt for a sponsorship next week – if you're in the Columbia area and interested. Also working with techies on the logistics.

My new job is GREAT by the way and we haven't burnt the new house down yet, but we sure came close.

While re-seasoning my cast iron skillet, The Man and I chose to multitask and also make some progress on our DIY headboard.

Fabric, floral foam, plywood and staples littered the kitchen floor. The dogs took cover under the couch and pool table.

“I think we need a staple here,” The Man suggested.

“Why doesn't this fit? I measured twice.” I was getting frustrated.

According to the magazine, this was supposed to be a “free weekend” headboard project. It was now Wednesday.

The brief instructions had gone out the window and we were winging it.

Soon, staples weren't the only thing flying in the kitchen. The olive oil was now so hot it was jumping out of the skillet and onto the cooktop.

Leaving me to fend for myself armed with nothing more than scissors and a heavy duty staple gun, The Man tended to the skillet.

Looking back I now wonder what happened to my womanly instincts at that moment.

The Man, a skillet and high temperatures.

He “checked” the oil, added a splatter screen and came back to the headboard project.

“Shouldn't you shut it off if it's boiling,” I asked with moderate concern.

It was after all my favorite skillet and I was nearly sure he had little clue what he was doing to “re-season” it.

Before he could answer, a POOF came from the stove and the kitchen filled with smoke.

I raced to fan and silence the smoke alarm while The Man grabbed the flaming skillet and after a brief moment of 'oh no, what do I do, what do I do' he raced to the patio, still flaming.

Stella raced from under the couch only to cling to my feet as the smoke alarm continued to sound.

Now a bit less concerned since the fire was now contained outdoors, I did what any good girlfriend would do. I grabbed my iPhone snapped a few pictures of the The Man as he attempted to extinguish the skillet with flour and posted to Facebook.

*For the record, no animals were harmed in the making of this post and other than large amounts of smoke which quickly cleared, the kitchen was also spared.

Walk it off

This one is to keep the readers around - the handful of you around. I'm in the middle of dialogue with KRCG about running this on their site now that I'm employed there. Unfortunately, my Maryville and Boonville followers will have to get their weekly dose here.  Thanks for hanging with me all.

-Megan


Walk It Off - - - 

It seemed like such a simple idea - take the dogs on a walk in a new park.

I'd been informed of a great location which included "flat trails, off-leash areas, a cliff with great views and no chances of getting lost."

The weather was unusually warm for March and with our yard mowed just days ago, The Man and I had nothing better to do. Couple that with a pathetic attempt at playing fetch by our 90-pound couch potato the day before, and a walk in the park became mandatory.

So there we were, tennis shoes laced, dog harnesses latched and poop bags packed, standing at the fork in the trail.

"She said there was a cliff and that one trail would lead you to the barn and another short walk would take you to the dog area," I said unsure as to what was which direction.

Guided only by the overloaded olfactory senses of our four-legged walking companions, we ventured right.

Two minutes into our hike - "Wow, this park is really pretty."

Five minutes into our hike - "Look a creek."

Ten minutes into our hike - "Where does this trail lead? She said 'short'."

Fifteen minutes into our walk - "OK, really, this girl's getting tired."\

Seventeen minutes into our walk and at a strange parking lot signaling a dead end - "Don't tell me we have to turn around and do all that again."

Staring blankly at the hand drawn park maps, which lacked the universal image for "you are here," I greeted the nearest hiking couple and asked for directions.

Ten minutes later we'd found our car - just minutes before The Man would have had to carry both our dogs and myself out of the park.

Too exhausted from our first spring hike to cook, we snagged a large pizza from the nearest Casey's and headed home.

If chess were played with paint chips and tools

Last column as an employee of the Daily News. Look to the blog for more each week though.

"Oh, Windjammer sounds fun. What about Blue Tango or Summer Splash?"

I was whipping through paint sample cards faster than a Vegas Blackjack dealer.

"Peek-a-Boo Blue or Beach House," I asked, apparently to myself, as The Man was nowhere to be found.

Just when it looked like aliens had finally heard my pleas to beam him up, I found him -—holding a drill — a very large drill.

"Look," I demanded with the kind of urgency my three-year-old self would have been proud of. "I got these four samples for the living room and these three for the bedroom. I thought it'd be fun to paint an accent wall."

"Look what I found," he demanded, now holding drill bits.

He was uninterested in my colorful conundrum so I stuck the deck of cards in my purse and bided my time.

"We could use this to drill holes in the tile," he informed.

"This one cuts glass."

"I don't think they carry that screw driver I wanted for Christmas."

Following The Man through the tool department was exhausting, so I moved on to drapes.

Home owning is fun, at least in the first week.

Our 8 p.m. trip to the local hardware store wasn't the first, and won't be the last.

Once we returned to our castle, I began taping my paint samples to their designated walls. I stood back, hand on chin and contemplated like a professional.

"What's that for? You're going to paint the bedroom?"

Proving my hardware hunch correct, it was clear that The Man wasn't listening when I not so subtly demanded his attention. Men.

After explaining my painting plans — again — I pointed to one of the six shades of blue stuck to the middle of our wall.

"Which one," I asked.

"You're going to paint the wall blue?"

The lasers coming from my eyes said "YES!"

After a few more moments of my ESP and silence, he caved.

"That one looks grey. What are they called?"

"That's not what I asked and what names they have doesn't matter. Which one?"

This game was getting fun, like pin the tail on the donkey without pins or the threat of losing a finger.

"I don't know," as he picked up a drill.

Game over.

Marking my territory

 Daily News column for 3/9/12 


(Side Note: Have no fear "The Way It Is" fans, I have been asked to continue my column even though I will no longer be at the Daily News. So stay tuned for more of my musings.)


"Are you still alive over there?"

My male counterpart was looking a tad flush as his hand remained frozen in that clutched way you hold a pen.

We were nearly finished signing our lives away to the bank for the next 30 years. While I was giddy as a school girl, it was apparent that the reality of the situation had hit The Man.

After weeks of searching, excitement, disappointment and complete and total stress, we were buying a house — our first house.

For a solid hour, we had done nothing but sign here, date there and initial here, here and here, leaving The Man in a trance.

Knowing full well the faster I got my part signed, the faster I'd be scrubbing floors, wiping windows and unpacking, leaving the heavy lifting to The Man — It's tough being a girl.

When all 'T's were crossed, 'I's dotted and The Man brought back to reality, we swung by our tiny apartment to get the dogs. After all, we couldn't take the first steps into our new home without them, they're family.

Video camera in hand, like the mother of a walking toddler, I trotted along behind them as they verified the security of our new premises.

Sniff, bounce, sniff, sniff, spin in a circle, sniff, bounce, bounce.

Our smallest pooch, princess diva herself, Stella, could hardly contain herself. With more room to roam than she's seen in months and a whole new world of smells it was a miracle she stopped in time to miss smashing face first into the sliding glass door.

Just as their excitement began to fade along with the level of stranger danger, we flung open the door to their fenced in yard.

While they had missed their opportunity to initial here and place paw there, making the house just as much theirs as ours, it didn't matter.

Seconds later, each corner of the yard was marked, making every square inch of that section of neighborhood theirs.

Their responsibilities fulfilled, they each found their a spot to oversee the move — or sleep — something The Man wasn't going to let me get away with.

Staking my claim of the kitchen and master bath apparently wasn't enough to warrant my partaking in an early evening nap.

—Megan Tilk is a reporter who also writes a weekly column for the Boonville Daily News. She can be reached at bdnmegan@gmail.com or through her blog: megantilk.blogspot .com.