Day 7 - Completion of the Studio

G'Day Wifers!

First off, let's get one thing straight.  I understand that my "studio" is actually a glorified cinder block room in the basement no one else wanted.  I get that.  But in my carefully constructed fantasy world, this is my studio.  It is where I do my little mosaic thingies, and my bad sewing and writing, and where I hide to drink when everyone upstairs is fighting.  The Bloggess and The Edge and The Black Keys are all down here waiting with some peanut M&M's and a case of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for me to show up and party.  All groups or individuals with "The" in front of their name are welcome to pretend party with The Wife, who will be disappointingly unable to drink more than 2 beers without needing to take a Prilosec and go to bed.  But in my head?  Twenty-two and stone cold fox.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, the pretend studio.  I'm a little proud of my little room I carved out on a little budget.  It is truly The Little Studio That Could.  Here is a picture of the dark, spider-infested room when I started putting a claim on it a few months ago:

I had already painted the walls with Dry-Loc, which if you've ever painted with that stuff you know it's like painting with sand.  That is icky old tile on the floor, and I've started painting the walls green.  Here is more ugliness:

All of this activity drove George the Superpet nuts, or as we like to call him around the house, Curious George.

He kept coming downstairs to check on me, and would often lie down in the middle of what I was doing, like, "You aren't doing one more thing until you tell me what the hell is going on."

I painted the walls and ordered some fun vinyl flooring, got a work table in, some shelving, and five strands of mismatched white party lights, and voila!  My fort is complete:

The lights are my favorite part.  It looks dark in this picture, but they actually light up the whole room.  One strand I bought at a kick ass shop outside of Kalona, Iowa, called Sister's Garden, if you can get there, by all means DO IT, but they are tiny white lights with these beautiful fabric flowers taped to them so the flowers glow.  So pretty!

Blogger won't let me put any more pictures in this post, so I will post more pictures in a second post tonight.  Scroll down and read the next post, which is actually the second post tonight.  I'm like an effing magician.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Resolution #3

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Lady Love

I love The Bloggess. I love her rollers. I love her taxidermied hog, James Garfield. I love her ability to use the word f*ck in her blog. (I SAY the word, but every time I try to type it in the blog, the ghost of my deceased Methodist Republican grandmother pours a can of Boraxo in my mouth.)

When I say I love the Bloggess, I feel a little guilty, because I also love Jen Lancaster and Stephenie Meyer and Jane Austen and Thisbe Nissen and Lorrie Moore and Pam Houston. And those are just my writer crushes. What about Chelsea Handler? Gwen Stefani? Julia Roberts? My high school friends? My local posse? These tough questions bring me to my next New Year's Resolution:

RESOLUTION #3: Decide if I am a latent lesbian.

I'm only 18 years and three kids into my relationship with Current Husband, so obviously there is still time to switch teams. And it's not like I don't still love men (other than CH, who is obviously the love of my life, and I am banking on the fact that he doesn't read this blog) ((but if you do, honey, you are still legally bound to me, capiche?)). There is The Edge, obviously, but he's married and I have principles. Gavin Rossdale, also married, and rumored to have been bisexual, so that doesn't help my case. And I do love David Sedaris, but HELLO, he's gay.

How would CH react to this news? Let's harken back to the night I called a friend, only to find out from her husband that she was at a Melissa Etheridge concert. "I let her do her lesbian thing, as long as she doesn't bring it home," he said, to which CH responded, "I have the exact opposite take on that."

I've always been able to understand lesbians. What's not to get? It's two guys together I don't understand.

A night at home with lesbians:

GAL 1: "Let's get in our pajamas and watch A&E's Pride and Prejudice!"
GAL 2: "Okay! I'll get a bottle of wine and some nail polish! Let's do our toes!"
GAL 1: "Can I get you something to eat?"
GAL 2: "Oh, let me get YOU something! You're such a nurturer!"
GAL 1: "No, YOU are!"
GAL 2: "No, YOU are!" Giggles. Wine bottle opening.

A night at home with two husbands:

GUY 1: "Dude, give me the remote, Ultimate Fighting is on."
GUY 2: "I thought you had it. Why don't you look for it and get me a beer."
GUY 1: "Why don't you get ME a beer and some chips."
GUY 2: "We don't have any food. Why don't you go to the store."
GUY 1: "Why don't you go to the store, and show me your tits."
GUY 2: "I don't have tits."
GUY 1: "Why don't you go get some. And find the remote. And beer."

I mean, really. Is there any room for debate here? Although that is more about heterosexual guys. The gay men I know are actually quite lovely, and would watch A&E's Pride and Prejudice and get me a glass of wine. But let's bring it back to me and my issues, because this is my blog and there is nothing latent about my narcissism. Urban Dictionary might refer to this issue as a "lesbi-non" - a straight girl who is into girls, but has yet to come out. Is it so? Could it be?

Nah.

This is fun to talk about, I love to shock my parents, and I needed a topic for Whoreticulture Friday, but really, if CH is behind Door Number One and a woman is behind Door Number Two, I'm going with Numero Uno. A sleepover is fun, but as for knowing someone Biblically? You're Number One, CH! CH? He's sleeping. Nothing surprises him anymore.

I've named my squirrel. I've decided to move to a warmer clime (I am sitting on the radiator). I'm not a lesbian. So far, 2010 has been all about definitive action.

And Edge? I'm just kidding. Call me.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 6

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Breaking (New Moon) Mom
WARNING: Potential spoilers below. Read at your own risk!

I looked across the low ripples in the water, black in the darkness, looking for him.

He wasn't hard to find. He stood, his back to me, waist deep in the midnight water. The pallid light of the moon turned his skin a perfect white, like the sand, like the moon itself, and made his wet hair as black as the ocean. I stared at the smooth lines of his back, his shoulders, his arms, his neck, the flawless shape of him...

"Holy shit! I'm in the ocean with Edward!" I said, surprised, even though I was writing it.

"AAAH! YOU Again!" Edward used his perfectly sculpted hands to try and cover himself. "How do you keep getting in this story?!? Where is Bella?"

"She's sitting on the bathroom floor, freaking out, and I think she's going to shave her legs again. You know, Edward, I'm an old pro at this. Do you want to do a test run? Just to be sure you don't kill Bella, of course..." I winked at him.

"You are actually rather frightening, and I don't scare easily," Edward said, as he backed away. "And your body is...different...from Bella's. Not as appealing. But there is a confidence there that is intriguing. Perhaps I SHOULD be sure I can control myself with her..." Edward stopped, contemplating.

HA! He was more of a man than he gave himself credit for. Now was my chance. I had to act quickly, before the Cougar venom I slipped in his post-wedding deer kill faded away.

"Ooops!" I gave myself a small cut opening the condom wrapper. (Hey, I don't care how cute Renesmee is, I am DONE carrying ANYONE's spawn, even if he is a superhot sensitive Cullen.) Edward looked suddenly ravenous. He moved toward me, and his breath came rougher now. I dropped my towel to tend to my cut, exposing myself to him. His Michelangelo-like body came to a screeching halt. The clouds re-formed and the angels stopped singing.

"No. Absolutely not. No I don't think so." Edward averted his eyes, started whistling a tune from WWI and looked up at the moon, glowing silver across the rippling water from his abrupt stop. He looked a little sick, actually. Was he okay?

"Edward? Edward are you out there?" Bella called from the house. "Who is out there with you?"

"It's a Cougar, love, nothing to be alarmed about," Edward called. "Less dangerous than werewolves, really." He then whispered to me, "Listen, I think you should go. Do you need the boat?"

"Did you say a Cougar?" Bella called. "Because the whole house is full of them. They're making margaritas and just put The Notebook in the DVD player. Something about being a part of your Team? What should I do with them?"

"Er, let them enjoy their drinks, love, I'll be in in a minute!" He turned to look at me, winced, and then immediately looked at the moon again. "How exactly did all of you get here from Rio?"

"We're peri-menopausal, Edward. The erratic hot flashes make the water a refreshing necessity, and the irrational rages make us capable of things we couldn't do as stable, rational 30-year-olds. The pack is here, Edward. I'm sorry, but I am a part of your world now. I can't live with you, because you are a fictitious character, and I am technically still stalking The Edge, but I can't live without you. But I can't admit to my friends that I love you, because you are, after all, in a YA novel and 17 years younger than me in human form. Thank goodness we have that 'Oh I was actually born in 1901' loophole or I'd be picking out my prison bitch with Mary Kay Letourneau!" I laughed.

Edward sighed a glorious sigh that sounded like my kids leaving for Grandma's and "here's your Cold Stone Gotta Have It" and the bean grinder at Starbucks all wrapped up in one. Oh, if only he could play "Where The Streets Have No Name" on guitar!

"How do I rid myself of you?" he asked, still naked and waist deep in water. I found myself thinking about how his skin would never pucker. And he wouldn't have that George Costanza problem in the water, either.

"Let's do one of your famous compromises - kiss me and I'll leave, I promise."

"And you'll take the Cougar Pack with you?"

"Done. Now get over here, you undead bastard, and kiss me!"

Edward moved toward me, miraculous in his erudite, sensitive vampire glory. He was a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, lettuce wraps at P.F. Changs, cupcakes from Maggie Moos. His sweet breath washed cool and delicious over my face, like a Mega Mocha MooLatte from DQ. This was it...come to Momma....

"JULIE! Are you coming to bed or not!?!" Grr. This was not Edward.

"Damn it, CH, I told you never to bother me when I'm blogging! You ruined the moment anyway. Go stick your head in the freezer for a few minutes and you might get lucky."

Foiled again. But I'll always have Eclipse...

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

Barbra says:
"You don't bring me flowers,
You don't sing me love songs."
Neil says:
"You hardly talk to me anymore,
When I walk through the door at the end of the day.
I remember when..."

I'm feelin' you, Barbra.

My Current Husband (CH) and I attended the U2 concert in Chicago Sunday night, where I made it perfectly clear that if I had a shot at The Edge, I was taking it. He is definitely Numero Uno on my "list," followed by presumable booze hound Vince Vaughn and current hottie Bradley Cooper. I don't even see those three guys drinking or bowling together, so don't ask me how they find themselves on the same list. (Vince would probably drink with anyone, but you get my point.)

Number One on CH's list? The first woman who would give him the remote, get him a beer and a sandwich, and rub his back. 'Not Much of a Talker' would probably be a big turn-on as well. 'Doesn't Blog About Him' would be even better.

We get to our hotel room in Chicago and check in at around 3 p.m. We are meeting another couple for dinner at 5, and I've found myself needing a belt. The jeans I'm wearing to impress The Edge are a little big, and the belt I brought is from college and was made for jeans that go around the waist, not the lower hips. I mention to CH that I would like to walk a couple of blocks to a store that sells belts. When CH does not answer, I look around the corner and he is asleep, remote on his stomach, the Cowboys game on TV. We have now been in the room for 4 minutes and 17 seconds. I sigh and sit down next to him. I change the channel to a forensics show about how to cover up evidence in a murder. I take notes.

CH wakes up at 4:40 and wants to know when we need to leave for the restaurant. I tell him I've been waking him up every five minutes since 4:15, and we are walking out the door in five minutes. He gets in the shower. Sadly, he is ready in five minutes, just in time to help me cinch the belt I've managed to pull through to the first hole. The belt has created a tourniquet around my hips, giving me additional muffin top and the beginnings of a rash. The Edge's wife is very beautiful and slender, so I'm hoping he's sick of all that.

We meet said couple and go to the restaurant. We eat delicious food. We drink delicious drinks. We share a fabulous dessert. We drink more delicious drinks. I start to get that "I'm king of the world!" feeling. I should remember that feeling comes just before the Titanic sinks. We go to another restaurant and have two more rounds of drinks. (In Chicago, this means we could've bought one of those cute little Cuban cars for the price of eight drinks.) The years are melting off with every sip, and thanks to the magic of vodka, suddenly I am 22!

After a fun cab ride to Soldier Field, and a round of beers before we get to our seats, the lights go down. The Edge is coming. The music starts, and I'm standing up yelling, "I'm up here, Edge!" but he does not seem to hear me. CH and people sitting around us do. Soon, they too are yelling at The Edge, "For all that is holy, get her out of here!" but the Edge does not hear them either. I start saying things to CH like, "The Edge would leave right now to get me another beer." The concert ends, and with it, my chance to be Mrs. Edge.

So CH and I leave Soldier Field with 70,000 of our closest friends, and try to get a cab. Cab drivers are running over people who jump in front of them with their hands up. Full buses are driving past us. People are riding horses and Vespas and unicycles and roller skates and jet packs past us, while we fall into a large group of people trudging toward downtown Chicago like a bunch of cattle. My belt is cutting off the oxygen to my brain, and my shoes are starting through their second layer of foot skin. I say to CH, "The Edge would've gotten us a cab." CH isn't laughing at these jokes anymore.

Neil says:
"Was it good for you babe?
Are you feelin' alright?"
Barbra says:
"Well honey just roll over
And turn out the light.
'Cause you don't bring me flowers, anymore."

Fast forward one hour and perhaps two miles later. CH and I are on opposite sides of Michigan Avenue. It is 1 a.m. Some crazy woman on my side of the street is screaming things at him like, "You are the worst husband! You are supposed to take care of things like this!" and he is yelling at her, "What do you want me to do!?" and she is screaming back, "Well not abandon me in downtown Chicago at 1 a.m. without any money, you $&**&@#!" She doesn't seem to realize that he hasn't abandoned her, he is perhaps afraid of her. A limo driver pulls over and motions her across the street. I go, because maybe The Edge is in the limo.

Limo driver: "You shouldn't be yelling at each other like this. Let me solve your problem. I will give you a ride."
Me, bloodshot eyes narrowed: "We are at the Hyatt on Wacker - how much?"
CH: Silence
Limo driver: "$30 for you, pretty lady."
Me, jerking thumb at CH: "We have $16 between the two of us. Give him the money, CH." And I get in the limo.
CH: Silently hands over money and gets in limo. He is angry, but tired.
Limo driver: Contemplates how to get crazy/cheap woman out of limo. Decides to drive her away.

So there we are. Married 14 years. Riding in a limo down Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago at 1 a.m. with the skylight open and fresh out of a most amazing U2 concert. And we are looking at each other like two roosters in a cock fight.

Barbra: "Baby I remember, all the things you taught me..."
Neil: "I learned how to laugh, and I learned how to cry..."
Barbra: "I learned how to love, even learned how to lie..."
Together: "So you'd think I could learn how to tell you goodbye...."

I am thinking bad things about CH, which is funny, because two hours earlier I was in my happy place, thinking rainbows and ponies about him. We get to the hotel room, and he is asleep in less than a minute. I get a text from some concertgoers from the Quad Cities, telling us to come downstairs for one last drink. I am thinking he isn't bringing me flowers anymore, I'm getting those bad shoes back on and going downstairs. I take his debit card. I leave the belt.

I go to bed at 3 a.m. As my head hits the pillow, I know everything I've done for the past 4 hours has been a really bad idea.

I wake up at 8 a.m. I know we have to leave within the next 45 minutes for a 4-hour trip in the car to get our three children. I am unwell. I start thinking about all of the things I said to CH after midnight. Ouch. Suddenly, I hear a noise. It hurts my head, but I open my eyes. It is a glass of ice water and an Aleve. It is not coming from the hand of The Edge. It is coming from the hand of CH, who was so abused only 8 short hours ago. He is laughing at me.

He doesn't bring me flowers. He doesn't sing me love songs. But he brings me aspirin and water when I need it and has a short memory. I'm keeping him.