I'm Too Sexy.

2007 and 2008 were rough years for me. My family moved to Maryland, USA from Harrogate, England where I had lived for as long as I could remember. I missed my town, I missed my friends, I wasn't making friends in my new school, and I really really hated the new school where I had no friends. It was emotional. I also wasn't getting along with my parents. We were waiting for our visas to come through for us to move to Russia, but never knew exactly when they would be coming. Everyday hinged on a question of if and when we would be leaving Maryland to go to the next assignment. I was acting out at home and not being a very pleasant daughter. The fact that my parents didn't throw me out on my butt is a testament to their genuine goodness in itself. 

While I didn't love my school, I had one class that I really did enjoy. My U.S. Government teacher was eloquent and motivating, and his class was the only one I was in where the students were being truly engaged and challenged. One day he was covering unlawful search and seizure, and I was selected to help do a role play for the class. In this role play, another student and I were found in the girls bathroom with a lit cigarette. When asked if we were smoking, I confessed that yes I was while the other girl denied. My role ended with my being handed a referral and told to sit down. 

The referrals at my school were A4 sheets of paper with two carbon copies. They were handed out for any form of disciplinary action to take place. A troublemaking student would receive one, and be sent to the office immediately to get their punishment. The referrals themselves contained the name of the student, name of the teacher, and a description of the reason why the student was being punished. At the office, the principal would fill in the section that said what punishment would be given. I had never received a referral myself, and so being handed a genuine (and blank) golden ticket to the office was incredibly exciting. 

The girl next to me and I decided a prank could be had. We separated the two carbon copies from the main referral sheet and traded them, so we could fill them out for each other in unknown handwriting and show them to our parents. I cannot remember what we said she did, but I remember mine very well. 

"Melece Meservy has been sent to the office for disciplinary action after she started singing "I'm Too Sexy" loudly in the middle of class. When asked to be quiet, she jumped onto her desk, and began to hop from desk to desk across the classroom while swinging her hips in a suggestive manner." 

Under reason for behaviour, we checked the boxes for "attention" and "reason unclear." Action taken was immediate suspension from school and mandatory visitation with a school counselor. 

I knew that there was no point in me trying to trick my dad into believing that this had actually happened, but I was determined that I could con my mother. I worked hard all the way home on the bus to muster up fear and panic in my eyes and voice. I walked slowly into her room where she was laying in bed reading a book. 

"Mom." I said, "I did something bad." I handed her the paper, and watched her attentively. To my disappointment, she laughed. 

"april fools!" She said, handing me back the paper. 

Nuts. 

I took my failed prank into the kitchen and chucked it on the table. I made myself a snack and busied myself with my homework (probably, actually reading Twilight or watching TV if I'm honest.) A few hours later, I heard a knock at my bedroom door where I lay reading a book (it wasn't Twilight, though, I remember distinctly.) 

"Hello?" I asked. 

My dad entered the room looking somber. I knew something bad had happened because he came in and immediately closed the door behind him before walking over to sit on my bed. 

"How was your day?" He asked 

"Fine." I answered, as eloquent and quick to share as most 16 year olds talking to their parents.

"Did anything happen?" He responded, still staring me down with the upmost danger in his eyes. 

"No...?" I said, now wondering what I have forgotten about. Catching on, I started to laugh. 

"What I saw out there did NOT seem like a laughing matter, Melece" insisted dad, now getting angry. 

"It was a joke, dad!" I laughed hysterically, "I was trying to get mom, but I NEVER thought I'd get you!" 

This is one of my dad's favourite stories to tell. From his point of view, he says that it was one of those days where nothing at all was going right. He had been faced with incompetent coworkers who really ought to have been competent, and was told once again that it would be a "couple" more months before our visas came through. He came home feeling dejected and exhausted, especially knowing that mom and I were struggling. He came into the kitchen to find an official document telling him that I had lost it. 

"She's gone completely insane," he thought to himself sad, and incredulous. "This is awful. This means I have to punish her, but I don't want to. She must have had a complete psychological break." 

And thus my father entered my room burdened with the task of punishing his officially insane teenage daughter, and I got a wonderful laugh out of a tired and lonely week. 

The origins of a household psychopath

This past Sunday, Peter and I were lounging on our mattress (which we had moved into the living room area for a fun weekend adventure) doing very little. I was feeling bored and desperate for my husband's attention that he seemed very unwilling to offer me. As I lounged, I rolled and sang a song, which I can't remember now, but probably was just the words, "play with me, play with me" sung over and over to a classic children's song tune. Evidently, this strategic play which never worked on my siblings in the past, is still one that I cling to, because I am a creature of learning.
Turning from the show on his laptop Peter surveyed me calmly, clearly unmoved by plight.

"Chip?" he offers, holding out the bowl he has been snacking from. Excited by this friendly interaction from my loving husband, I agree, and reach my hand up to partake of the snack. From where I am sitting I can't see what is in the bowl, but I grope blindly with the faith and trust I have in my kind husband motivating me, only to learn that he has no qualms against calmly watching me dip my hand into queso.

"What the crap??" I scream, "What was that? You just watched me reach for dip!"
"Yes," he responds, still devoid of emotion and empathy, turning back to his show, "yes, I did."

Another dirty rotten trick of Peter has been to frequently hide the toothpaste from me. Seeing as he tries to spend a lot of time on my mouth, you'd think that he'd want me to know where the mouth-hygiene products are at every moment, yet each morning and every night I seem to be searching, dry toothbrush in mouth, for this elusive little tube.
Finally, yesterday morning I confronted him about it.

"Why do you always insist on hiding the toothpaste from me??" I demand.
"What are you talking about? It's always right here, on the shelf!" he says, picking up the tube from HIS shelf of personal toiletries.
"Just last night it was hidden under something on the kitchen table!" I yell, wandering into the bedroom to find clothes for the day.
"Oh. I'm sorry," he calls after me.
"Eez okay," I soften, "I know you don't mean to hide eet."
"No," he says, poking his head into the bedroom, "I'm sorry you found it. I'll do better next time."
*Melece issues angry animal noise while shaking fist* "Peeeeettterrrrrr!!!"

Last night, thanks to Peter's internship as an Assistant Campaign Manager to a local politician, (yes, he's political, so really these signs of psychopathology should be unshocking to me), we were treated to a wonderful dinner at Waimea Valley at the "Hawaiian Republican Party Party." Wahoo! Free food for me! A sneaky Democrat behind "enemy lines"!! (heeehee, I'm teasing, there is no enemy... EXCEPT SARAH PALIN (again, I'm joking), heehee) It was a fantastic evening, and I had so much fun feeling fancy and loving my husband, and eating FREE food. Then we returned home and begun our evening duties to prepare for bed.

I open the cabinet above the sink to retrieve my toothbrush and find both Peter's toothbrush and the toothpaste gone.
"Peeetttteeerrrrrr" I call, coming out from the bathroom to find him giggling with toothbrush in mouth and toothpaste in hand, waiting for me.
"Give. Me. The toothpaste," I say firmly.
"No!" he yells, before taking off for the couch where he jumps up on to the arm and holds the toothpaste up against the ceiling. "You can't reach it!!!"
"YOU THINK GUM DISEASE IS A GAME, GREGORY?!" I scream, climbing on the couch, only to have him jump off and begin to run around the apartment.

My husband is faster than me, smaller than me, and better at hiding than me, so within a couple minutes I'm tired and confused to how I cannot find him in an apartment that is essentially only one room. Then he emerges, smiling but sans toothpaste.
"I hid it!" he tells me proudly, continuing to brush his teeth.

At this point, I am tired and I am rapidly realizing that I will never win. Throwing what small remnants of dignity I had away, I advance on Peter.
"I don't have it!" he says, laughing, yet still backing up against the wall in fear, "you have to find it!"
"No. I don't." I say, and in one quick movement I yank the toothbrush out of his mouth and place it in my own.

Suddenly, this game isn't funny to Peter anymore, but disgusting, and he follows me saying, "no! Wait! It's right here, I'll show you! Just give me my toothbrush back!"
"I will give you this toothbrush when I have the toothpaste in my hand," I say, but not very distinctly, because, you know, I'm brushing my teeth with his toothbrush and all.

The moral of the story, Peter may be trying to be a psychopath, but I have very little fear of germs and grossness. Next time he offers me a bowl of queso, I'm smearing it on his face.

My husband is dangerously close to mysteriously dying

A struggle of living in a feminist marriage is that I have no power or authority over my husband that he doesn't have over me. This means constant war, and Peter and I take our battles seriously.

For the past month TVA has been warning us about upcoming cleaning checks. They were finally supposed to happen yesterday between 7 and 11 am. I have many criticisms of this school, and the decision to do cleaning checks in married housing on a Saturday morning between 7 and 11 am is just about the dumbest thing I've ever heard.

Peter left to take a practise LSAT around 7am, and returned around 11:40. Meanwhile, I slept peacefully with the whole bed to myself until he returned. This was fantastic, but it meant that if any cleaning check happened, it was while I was unconscious and drooling. Still, we didn't see any indication that anyone had come in to assess our level of slobbery (can I use that as a noun?)
At first we tidied the apartment to make sure that if our RAs arrived on Hawaiian Standard Time, we would be prepared, but still no one came, so we had a wrestling match instead and messed up the apartment in the meantime.

Around 1:15pm, Peter left the apartment to go to the temple, and I went to the bathroom with the intent of taking a shower afterwards. Here I am, sitting pretty on the toilet, sans clothing, when I hear five fast and loud thumps on our front door. There is no way that I am going to answer the door, in fact, there's no way I CAN open the door, but this doesn't matter to my visitor, as moments later I head the key card click and the door open.
"Oh, heeeeeeeyyyy no" I think to myself, "They are hours late and they think they can just come into my home??"
Assuming the intruder is unaware of my presence, I quickly flush the toilet and turn on the shower, figuring the only way I can maintain dignity is to take my shower and wait for them to leave. The whole time I wash, I spew an angry inner monologue about the fail we are sure to receive on our cleaning check because SOME PEOPLE can't come when they SAY they'll come, simultaneously afraid that when I do leave in my towel, I will awkwardly be faced with a stranger waiting in my apartment.

When I do leave the bathroom minutes later it is to find Peter at his computer chuckling.
"Was that you??" I demand.
"Mmmmaybe" he responds with a smirk.
"I thought you were the RA!" I yell.
"Oh, I know," he tells me still smirking.

YOU SNEAKY HUSBAND.

In the middle of the night last night I awoke to Peter laughing in his sleep. I chuckle and nuzzle closer to him, tying to make sure I can hear anything he says so I can mock tell him in the morning. He continues to giggle, then suddenly whips his body and arm around to roll on his side, fist making strong and painful contact with my nose as he does so. At the time, Peter awoke and said, "sorry sorry sorry!" before falling asleep again as I went to get ice for my face, but now he says he has no recollection of such a thing. Uh huh, sure you don't. I'm on to you, you night giggle-puncher.

This morning as I got pretty for church with a sore face and a grumpy disposition, I found that Peter had been possessed by the spirit of Speedy Gonzales with a exhibitionist fetish. This means that while I sat on the couch immersed in my makeup bag, Peter was running around the apartment giggling and lifting up his shirt to flash me his chest at random intervals, laughing, singing, and dancing when I would look up to see. We are mature adults in a mature adult relationship.

So maybe these aren't great example of our war battles, but they're funny stories, and I'm still butthurt about Peter's RA knocking to scare me, so the Speedy joke could be taken as a short crack too.