How-To's n' Stuff.

Last night Peter was criticizing me trying to hurt my feelings help me be a better blogger.

"Yeah, our conversations are hilarious, but in order to broaden your reading pool you need to do something to appeal to more people. How-to's are big in the blogging world. Start there."

This morning I was considering what How-To things there are right now in the blogging loop. One thing I have been seeing a lot recently is "My Beauty Regime"

"That would be easy!" I thought for a moment, "I could totally do that!" But then I remembered,
"Wait. I can do that because I don't HAVE a beauty regime. If I made a How-to-Replicate-My-Beauty-Regime post, everyone would read to know what NEVER to do."

Then these pictures happened.

You're welcome.

The end. 

Death and the DMV

Yesterday Peter and I took a trip to the DMV. It was unpleasant and inefficient as most trips to the DMV are, but we still had a good enough time because we were together. In fact, we had a conversation about our future funerals and dead bodies which was entertaining to the people next to us. I know, because they all made no effort to hide their laughter.

It begun when I commented that the Organ Donor posters that they have at the DMV are so forward. "Check the box. It's the right thing to do" is their slogan, and while I do agree with them, it still feels slightly alarming that someone is telling me so self-righteously (while I'm standing in line in Purgatory) that I should allow people to harvest my organs ASAP once I'm dead. Cool.

Me: I am torn between wanting to donate my organs, and wanting to donate my body to science. Do I save a couple people immediately? Or potentially save lots and lots of people in the long run?

Peter: That is a tricky situation.

Me: I'll probably just donate all the good stuff to people now, then donate my brain and bones and skin and what have you to science. You can keep my hair, though.

From here we discussed what our parents' wills say about their last wishes, which was interesting, because every one of the four has a different plan.

Me: Do you want to be buried? Or cremated?

Peter: Well, I think cremation is a lot cheaper...

Guy in line behind us: It is, by like, a couple thousand.

Me: Oh wow. But then, if you're cremated, there's no where for people to visit after you're dead.

Peter: I'll be dead. I won't care if they visit or not.

Me: But, they can't, you know, weep over your grave if you're cremated.

Peter: Let them weep in their own homes, it's much more comfortable for everyone.

Me: That's gracious of you.

Peter: Yeah, I don't care where people weep, just so long as they ARE weeping.

Me: I respect that. What do you want done with your ashes? Urns creep me out, I think I'd want to be scattered some where pretty. Then people can visit my scatter-place and possibly get me in their lungs. My last revenge.

Peter: Getting your ashes scattered is so cliché.

Me: It's not cliché! How is it cliché?? It's beautiful! It's like, I'm becoming one with the earth!

Peter: It is SO cliché.

Me: That is so rude! When I die I'm putting it in my will that my ashes are to be scattered as far away from my husband as possible because HE DOESN'T APPRECIATE MY DEATH WISHES.

Peter: I'll just have my ashes divided and put in like five different urns around the world so that you'll never avoid me no matter where you're scattered.

Me: What?! That's crazy talk! If I want to be scattered away from you I should be able to!

Peter: Nope. You will always be in scattering distance from my dead ashes.

Me: Gross. Then I'll have my ashes buried under the sea! Hah. There. Ooh, or you know what? Better yet, I'll have a Viking funeral! Send my body off in a burning boat into a lake. That's not cliché. I'd have the coolest funeral of anyone!

Peter: Okay, would you like me to fire a burning arrow into your body from the shore?

Me: Honestly, I'm imagining you as 80 years old with shaky hands, and you've never really used a bow and arrow, so definitely not. You'd probably kill one of the people at the funeral instead.

Peter: Wow. Thanks. I actually have used a bow and arrow.

Me: You can do a flaming Nerf gun bullet!

Peter: I'm imagining that backfiring big time. I'm trying to load up the bullet, and it just destroys the gun making it explode in my face.

Me: Hehehehehehehe

Peter: Glad my death-by-Nerf-gun at your funeral amuses you. Well, if you're going to have a Viking funeral, I think I'll have an Egyptian funeral. You have to build me a-

Me: I am NOT building you a pyramid. If cemetery plots are out of our budget I DEFINITELY think pyramids are as well.

Peter: You could just dig a cave into the side of a mountain. I'd settle for that.

Me: You know that if you're having an Egyptian funeral, that would mean that if I'm still alive-

Peter: You'd have to be buried with me. Exactly. heh heh heh

Me: You are sick. I refuse. You can have a full sized Melece doll instead. Plus, if you have a pyramid you run the risk of being grave robbed.

Peter: *rolling his eyes aggressively* that's why you have GUARDS hired to protect my burial site. Gosh.

Me: and I'M too cliché.

At this point the line moved forward and we moved on to other exciting conversation. Right now Peter is sitting next to me, (I needed to have him clarify that our conversation was accurate). He wants you all to know that when we first entered the line, we placed bets on what time it would be when we reached the front of it and he was right exactly to the minute. It really was pretty exciting.

YAY PETER

Not pictured: Peter in flames on the shore with the remains of a Nerf-gun.

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.

Oh, dating.

There is a deep dark time that most everyone encounters in their life: dating time. Granted, there are some incredible fun times that come when you're dating, but there is also a lot of dark murky crap that all of us have to wade in to try and cement some great and worthwhile relationships.  

When I was engaged, I felt as though I had outsmarted the dating world by pairing off with someone indefinitely. Never again would I have to worry about when or what to text, what to say, how I looked (oh, poor Peter, the effort I put into my personal appearance exponentially decreased lightning quick once we started dating. I should work on that), if my smile looked flirtatious or mildly threatening, holding in my farts... All the really stressful things that gives everyone stomach ulcers and headaches. Truly, I was right, and for a glorious eight months I had alluded dating. Then we got married and I learned a new fact: DATING NEVER ENDS. 

I'm sure for some people it genuinely does, but for Peter and me, it is still going on. Luckily, this time we know we're always going to be heading home with the person we love after every date. So there's that, but I digress. 

So, let's first discuss the ritualistic doings of dating culture. 

Step one: You find someone who you are attracted to. That attraction can be for their physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, financial, fertile, pet-owning-al, comedical... state, whatever you want. This attraction is super exciting! There is someone who you like and want to be around! Then suddenly emerges the first and most common dating dilemma: do they want to be around YOU? Sometimes you get lucky, and they do want to be around you all the time, and eventually want to kiss your mouth aggressively and possibly sign a legal document saying that they will continue to aggressively kiss your mouth and your mouth solely for the rest of their lives. However, even in cases where they do want to be around you, sometimes they just don't know it straight away. 

Herein many find the tango and sadistic game of dating communication. 

I have recently had a few friends turn to me for dating advice, surely thinking, "ah, here we find the all powerful and wise Married Woman in her natural and knowing habitat. Let us have her reveal all things unto us." Sadly, I have to disappoint them, because often I have no good advice to give. 

If you think about it, no one will ever be a fully successful dating expert. The people who have 100% of successful relationships aren't actually that useful to turn to, because they have, statistically speaking, only ever had ONE successful relationship (we're discounting polygamists here). Everyone has had a relationship end, many people have had a relationship go terribly, and most everyone has been rejected, those who haven't, clearly are way too privileged to matter at this point. So, does that mean it is better to receive advice from someone who has had a dozen break ups? Clearly that person must be terrible at relationships! They have had twelve relationships end. There simply is no winning. 

I can always tell anyone who wants advice what worked for me, but what worked for me was to refuse to be his girlfriend yet simultaneously depending on him for everything, get really over emotional and unreasonably angered when he leaves for two years, write him obsessively while he's gone, then get engaged immediately when you're reunited like there is no time to waste EVER AGAIN. Definitely something that doesn't sound even close to being a winning formula, but yet here I am with a ring on my finger and legal "Bet I Can Love You Longer" document signed. GUESS I'M A DATING GENIUS, GUYS. 

My original point that I was attempting to get at was how stressful it can be to communicate with someone who you're ridiculously attracted to, while simultaneously not being sure how they feel towards you at all. You don't know where their head is, so you don't know how they are going to respond to your advances. Will they find your banter endearing? Or worthy of getting a restraining order? The sad fact of life is that with the same exact behaviour and words you can simultaneously repulse one person while seducing the other. It all depends on how they feel towards you, which is ultimately completely out of your control. Whether you find someone's advances creepy, or romantic depends solely on how attractive you think they are.  

So here I am, married, thinking, "I have vanquished that foe Dating once and for all! Never again will I stare at my phone screen feeling like I may vomit and have violent diarrhoea repeatedly if that certain someone doesn't respond to my flirtation ASAP." The sad truth of the matter is the dating continues after marriage. Now Peter and I have become one person seeking after another couple to do fun things with. He definitely doesn't freak out over the possibility of rejection like I do, but we do have that same "getting to know you" awkward first dates and encounters just like the good ole' single days. We also have discussions of, 

"Do you want to text them?" 

"No. You text them, they never respond to me. They like you better."
"They like us both the same. I'll text them. What should I say?" 

"I dunno...." *suggests a text* "No wait!!! That's a terrible idea! Stop. Delete! Delete!" 

"I sent it." 

"Nooooo." 

"Calm down." 

"We'll never have friends." 

"Not if you keep acting psychotic we won't." 

Ah, romance. Do you like how I left out names so that some can believe I am the rational calm one in our relationship for once? 

It's also a lot harder to date as a couple, because you have to account for both of your preferences, as well as the like-ability of both husband and wife of the couple you want to double date. There's all sorts of losing combinations (you like her, not him, he likes him not her; you don't like either, he likes both; you like both he likes one, and so forth) with only one winning combination (*DING DING DING* COUPLE SOULMATES 5EVER!!)  

So here's to a future of double dating. I'm lucky to have a husband who I like aggressively kissing on the mouth, so even if we never find another couple to play with us all the time, playing just us two is still pretty fantastic.

Now for your viewing pleasure: modern dating. If you're feeling sad, remember: this isn't you! 

Oh, online dating, you bring me such joy even without having to try it myself. 

The Rich List

In being newly weds in Hawaii, one of which is a student, and one of us working a full-time job, there are a lot of things that you budget. Peter and I are blessed to be living so well thanks to generous parents, family, friends, scholarships, and grants, but we definitely live modestly and go without wherever we can.

Even before we were married, Peter and I enjoyed planning our dream home for when we are fabulously wealthy. On one recent night as I lay in bed, I found myself fantasising about some things that I would love to indulge in once we can afford it, and it wasn't anything that I had considered previously:

"We are going to have the BEST health insurance," I thought. "I'm going to go in and get a physical that addresses EVERYTHING, just because I CAN." I constructed this beautiful fantasy of a life with no fear of medical bills, a life that so few Americans know but yet still seem determined to stay away from (but that's a whole different issue). It was blissful.

Peter doesn't much care for our "Rich List" game, thinking that it focuses on all that we do not have currently. For me, the game makes me all the more comfortable in living within our means; I am able to easily justify saving any extra money that comes our way for our future, because our future is looking exciting.

Here is the latest written draft of the Rich List:

• Super cool shower - high powered, lots of settings, radio, lights, large removable shower-head, endless supply of hot water.   
• Big bed with nice mattress and frame, (some people say "but you'll be so far from each other!" Eh, we cuddle enough during day light hours. BRING ON THE CALIFORNIA KING). 
• Fantastic health insurance  
• Ear looky tool, nose looky tool, and stethoscope (I really enjoy cleaning and looking in ears and noses. I am so blessed to have a husband who both accepts and panders to my crazy) 
• Neat kitchen knives (for Peter. I don't cook at all.) 
• Fancy fridge 
• TV! - large, easily connected to Netflix and computer, DVD player, no cable. 
• Fun game systems for group activities - rock band, just dance, DDR, all those cool things. 
• Hot tub and pool
• Large bathtub for bubble baths 
• ***A PUPPY!*** 
• Soda on tap/bar 
• Sauna 
• Garbage disposal 
• Dishwasher, toaster, kettle (those last two really aren't that hard to get, we're just reluctant to buy things that we don't have room for). 
• Drum set 4 Peetah 
• Treehouse 
• Fireplace 
• Big, fancy fish tank 
• Deck/porch 
• Hybrid car with awesome gas milage or electric car. 
• Air conditioning 
• Fast internet that allows us to Skype people without losing the call!! 

Every day I like to think of more entries to this fun, extravagant life. The bigger the better! It doesn't matter so much if we ever have it all, I just find it ridiculously fun to plan it (additional entries include a pet sloth, jet packs, a slip n' slide, a giant, adult sized ball pit/tube town like at Chuck-e-Cheese's). Plus, these days anything that helps me fall asleep is my friend. 

My deep, dark confession.

A great deal of the happiness of my everyday life comes from my deep rooted belief that everyone has the same sense of humour that I have.

My Freshman year of University I spent a lot of weekends alone in my dorm room with nothing to do. I used that time by journalling my angst and watching Hulu while I ate junk food. On one such Friday afternoon I decided to try watching a show which had long episodes and five already uploaded. The Bachelor. I first began to watch due to boredom and curiosity, but I continued to watch out of slow creeping horror. I found the show so addictingly offensive that I even took the time to post a blog about it:

"This television show was thought up by a deranged BYU student, I swear. to. high. heaven. Premise of show: make an engagement happen by the end of season - uniting two wonderfully in love people in marriage and happiness. How?: by taking an eligible bachelor and 30 beautiful and successful bachelorettes and putting them together in a show ... and let him take two girls on one-on-one dates and 5-15 girls on a group date then kick out the 3 he likes the least per episode. At the end of the season he will propose to the girl he likes the best.
Can you not even understand how many things are wrong with this show? First, you're assuming that all of these girls are compatible with this ONE guy and want desperately to spend the rest of their life with him. What if you met him day one and thought "gross... I really don't want to marry him..."? Then! You've got the issue of the fact that all of these girls believe they have a "special connection" with said bachelor and hoping desperately that he chooses them, getting insanely jealous when they have to watch him snuggling and flirting with 29 other girls meaning that cat fights a-glory are taking place. It's just gross. Don't even."

The points that 19 year old me makes are completely valid, and in fact are the foundation of the reason that I love the show today. What I once simply did not grasp was that the base of all great satire is to create a hyperbole of real and occurring elements of the society it wishes to mock. To me, I find the same fantastic hyperboles of amusement in shows like the Bachelor. You came on public TV to find "true love"? Awesome. You classify yourself as a "Free Spirit"? Nice. You think you have a true "connection" with this man who you have now spent 1 hour with while being surrounded by 100s of crew members? Neat. Let me grab my popcorn and joyfully laugh because I have not made these same life choices, but hundreds of people have, and have done so purely for my enjoyment.

I once had a roommate who understood this love of mine and allowed me to rant to her excitedly every Wednesday morning after I had watched the spectacular show "Bachelor Pad." It became our personal motto anytime life seemed to be taking a sour turn that "no matter what, at least we're not on the Bachelor Pad. We have made good choices." Man, I should get that written in calligraphy and paint on my home wall someday... I would inspire the crap out of anyone who comes to visit.

Truly, this all probably makes me a terrible person; I am finding intense joy over the misfortunes and bad decisions of others. Before you condemn me, however, let me redirect you to my very first point: "A great deal of the happiness of my everyday life comes from my deep rooted belief that everyone has the same sense of humour that I have." Surely these people are amused by their own unfolding lives! I am!

If, on the internet, I encounter incredible unfounded bias or someone who seems to have not been burdened with a great amount of education, I laugh because this individual has artfully mastered sarcasm and are sharing their humour with the world!  

I believe that you too can find the same joy from reality TV! And if you truly can't, I hope we can still be friends regardless.

For the love of your unborn child, please put clothes on.

I want to begin today's blog post with a hypothetical situation:
Imagine you're my friend on Facebook. You sign in to check your newsfeed and you see I have posted a new photo album. This is so exciting! What could that silly Melece be up to? You click on a photo to see me dressed in what seems to be an ordinary outfit, but I am entranced with my stomach. This is somewhat off putting, but perhaps that was a candid! You continue through the album and find that in no picture am I looking at the camera, but instead I continue to caress my midriff. You click through the album more rapidly now. Suddenly, my shirt is gone only to be replaced with a black sports bra, but still I hold my stomach. In another picture Peter appears. He also doesn't look at the camera, but instead kisses my stomach by awkwardly kneeling in front of me while I stand and smile down at his head.

What is your reaction to these pictures? I guarantee for the majority of you the reaction would be, "My eyes feel violated! I need an adult! I need therapy! This is overwhelmingly inappropriate!" Of course it is! I'm showing a lot of skin, I'm being moody and pretentious, I'm holding my body for no obvious reason, and I'm forcing you to view a very unusual and uncomfortable form of PDA.

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post:
As I come of child-bearing age, and find the majority of my friends at a similar age, I learn more about the weird customs of first world mommies. Maternity photo shoots just seem to be one more step in the road to modern-day motherhood, and I wish it wasn't so. I do understand the desire to photograph a progression of your body and child's growth, but there's a truth I wish more people would be aware of: a picture with a wholly formed human is astonishingly more pleasing to look at than a picture with an enlarged belly.  

Each time I am faced with offensive maternity photos I ache to retaliate by replicating the photos with my own seedless womb to make everyone feel like they need to repent just for seeing such things.

Here I have examples of comfortable and uncomfortable maternity pictures:

Comfortable:

Oh, you're pregnant? How very exciting for you!
You look happy, and that field is just lovely. 

Uncomfortable:

What is the belly telling you? To put on clothes and stop trying to listen to it? What a wise belly.
Stop. Please stop. 

Comfortable:

You're right. You ARE happy, expecting parents. I feel happy for you. 

Uncomfortable:

Hi, I don't need to see you naked. I don't think your future child does either.  

Cardinal rules for maternity photos: no stomach kissing, no moody staring, no naked bodies, no naked caressing. Just remember, if the child inside you will be scarred as a teenager when they see this picture, you should probably reevaluate your photoshoot.

Granted, I may just be a grumpy blogger who hates happiness, so ultimately do whatever floats your boat. Just don't be surprised when I message you an exact replica of whatever terrible belly shoot you've decided to publish. I'm naked and ready to caress myself! 

wait... Maybe not.