Happy New Year! Party hard-I guess?

We’ve never really celebrated New Year’s-at least, not like they do on tv. I have always romanticized what it would be like to be in Times Square watching the ball drop, bundled up in a very stylish white winter coat, with my one and only.

However, to spend that amount of money to get to some place I’ve been a zillion times before on tour, to be around that many people I don’t know (or trust), knowing it will be freezing cold…

…my pj’s, bed and fireplace sound pretty good. My New Year’s memories may not compare to a New York one, but they’re mine and they’re of course-weird.

One of my favorite New Year’s memory was the night the phone book burned. Why do phone book companies insist on not only forcing me to take their phone books-but also leave a total of 4 books on my two front porches? I had had enough of the phone company’s shenanigans.

So, a few years ago, my little brother, his wife, my dad, Biceps and I loaded up into their tiny white car and drove to a vacant lot. We sacrificed one phone book by lighting it on fire. We then drove in circles around the phone book as we watched it burn, screaming and hanging out the windows until the fire was out.

Beat that Times Square.

And many years ago, after spending hours putting on the tire chains, my sweet father loaded us kids up in the wagon-just so we could drive into town to attend a church friend’s party. It took us at least an hour to go a couple of miles, but we sang songs the whole way and still made it in time to eat way too much candy and be sick and miserable the next day.

I call this the year of the “Candy Hangover”.

And last but not least, Bicep’s band was hired to play a New Year’s show one year while we were out on tour. It was for a lock-in at a large church-complete with awkward teenage flirting, pizza and nerf guns. They paid us well, so we couldn’t turn it down.

But as the world wore sequined dresses, tuxedos and drank champagne-I was watching my hubby on stage, as he entertained screaming pubescent fans. I enjoyed my orange Fanta from a red plastic cup off to the side, knowing cold pizza awaited me for dinner.

And I loved it.

So, while the rest of the world is getting krunk and doing things tonight they’ll regret tomorrow…Biceps and I will attend a small party and then come home to our two kitties, our fireplace and our pj’s.

Call me lame, but this is how I party hard. And, I don’t wake up the next day with a hangover or regrets. Unless it’s a “candy hangover”…and then yes, I am guilty of such actions.

How to fight with your spouse (and win)

After almost 12 years of marriage, I’ve learned how to fight to win.

I am not a licensed counselor, nor do I have anything remotely to a psychology degree. In fact, I am the furthest from touchy-feely as you might get, if you are merely looking at my credentials.

I am of German descent, took on the beautiful German language as my minor and majored in International Business. I like repairing old vintage cars, chopping crap up and using my physical strength to demolish lath and plaster.

I was determined to own at least one Fortune 500 company or if nothing else, take over Richard Branson’s Virgin empire.

Snuggling was foreign to me until I married Mr. SnugglesExtremeMan, hugs had to be forced until they were normal and I don’t kiss anyone on the cheek.

All of that said, when we were first married, I had no idea how to properly fight with my husband-other than fighting to win. It was my nature to be right, to protect my rights and to win. I learned very quickly just what “winning” does to a marriage.

It divided us, it alienated us from one another and it caused barriers. When I “won”, or when he “won”, we both lost. I remember once being so angry that I threw a pair of wet jeans at him that I was hanging up to dry.

They plopped onto the bathroom floor about a foot in front of me. He just stood there, open-mouthed, unsure of what to say. I felt like a little girl who had just had a temper tantrum.

It was embarrassing.

Sometimes I could manipulate him with guilt, sometimes I would use a few tears to sway him my way, or maybe I would just bring up all the mistakes he’d made in the past. It seemed to temporarily win the argument-but we both knew what I was doing and the problem was never really solved.

One day, the thought popped into my head that perhaps my way of fighting was inappropriate. After all, Biceps never raised his voice to me. He never reacted to my insanity. He calmly and rationally explained his viewpoint and then waited for me to talk in circles for the next hour, riding the roller coaster of my emotions.

He is a very patient man.

So, I started thinking. Was “winning” the argument really worth it? Did it draw us closer together when I proved that I was right, or did we not talk to each other for the rest of the day?

Were we a “team”, the two of us becoming one like we had promised in our vows-or was it me against him?

After reading this scripture, “…Rejoice! Strive for full restoration, encourage one another, be of one mind, live in peace. And the God of love and peace will be with you.” 2 Corinthians 13:11, I realized during our arguments, there was NO ROOM for God within the mess I had just made.

Ew. Gross. Ick. I stink.

Years later, I have come up with a system to ensure that both Biceps and I “win” when we argue. I (try to) run it through this filter before I approach a subject that is causing our relationship friction:

1. Is what I’m about to say helpful and healthy, or is it hurtful and harmful?
2. Am I reacting to something or have I committed it to prayer first?
3. Am I putting Bicep’s well-being before mine and am I honoring him by wanting this issue resolved or is it just so I can “be heard”?
4. Do I have a solution to the problem that I am bringing to him?

And if I can’t check off these four things confidently from my list, I don’t bring the subject up until I am able to do so.

If I can remember to do this and not attack during the heat of battle, we calmly and rationally discuss the issue at hand. It has single-handedly put a stop to the hour long (or more) fights, the ridiculous Rebekah rants and the non-solution endings to our arguments.

And it draws us closer to each other and closer to God. Pretty simple, but I’m pretty stupid sometimes and have to learn the hard way…

And that’s how we both “win” our arguments with each other.

Christmas is over-what’s next on the list?

Every year, around August, I start thinking about and planning for Christmas. Biceps and I begin discussing that year’s Christmas photo  and I begin gathering costuming and necessary accoutrements.

And, I have a theory about Christmas:

Lists rule, disorganization drools.

List for 2012 Christmas Card Photo:

1. Angel Wings
2. Large Tighty-Whities
3. My “dress”-a white sheet
4. Halo
5. Red Jeans
6. Cape
7. Devil Horns
8. Triton

Totally normal Christmas Photo shoot list for most families, I assume.

And sometime after Thanksgiving, I start scheming for Bicep’s birthday-(also known as my “pre-Christmas”), because he’s a Christmas Eve baby.

List for Bicep’s Birthday:

1. Egg pancakes for Birthday breakfast (Greiman tradition)
2. Some sort of weaponry present
3. Some sort of clothing item present that he will probably return
4. Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting with chocolate ice cream (plus more chocolate options, just in case)
5. Back-up Chocolate

Now, if you know anything about Biceps and I-you know that we are frugal. Christmas is budgeted throughout the year, with a little set aside each month. That way, when present making (or for this year-present buying) comes around, we don’t go into a sticker-shock-induced-coma.

Usual List for homemade presents:

1. 95 Ripe Bananas (boy, do the cashier’s give us a weird look)
2. 8 Bags Pretzel Rods
3. 4 Packages Almond Bark
4. 5 Bags Flour
5. 5 Bags Sugar
6. 3 Jars Molasses
7. 2 Bags Peppermint Candy
8. Etc….

And then there’s the Thank You Note List for Gifts Received (past, present and future):

1. Golden Toilet Lighter from Daniel
2. Self-Adhesive Mustache Pack from Christy
3. Portrait of a Sheriff from Beau
4. Inappropriately Shaped Pine Cone Ornament from Carisa
5. Pooping Penguin from Justin
6. 1966 Ford Mustang from Biceps

But now, the carefully planned out lists have been fulfilled and thrown away. The presents have been unwrapped, the meals have been eaten and the house is silent.

And, it’s time to put all the Christmas cheer back in its appropriate box, wrap it up in tissue paper and store it-once more-up in the attic, until next Christmas.

And I am left with a “Christmas-less” house-until next August when the planning begins again. I don’t have a list anymore. It’s a little disconcerting.

What’s next on your list?

Not Letting Go-Pathetic Brown Mouse

Everyone has that weird sweatshirt-chock full of nostalgia and memories-and so full of holes, that leaving the house with it on would be a travesty. However, giving it away, throwing it out, or even cutting it up for rags is a horrible thought.

I have one of those in my life. A K-State, long-sleeved, 17 year old shirt, with blown out armpits, a barely hanging on collar and with sleeves I have to carefully insert my hands into for fear of tearing them off completely. The shirt is so embarrassing I won’t even take a picture of me in it or just “it” for that matter.

Maxwell, the cat, has the same thing going on with Brown Mouse. This was Brown Mouse just a couple of months ago. He was already pathetic-missing an ear, splitting at the seams and covered in disgusting-ness.

And this is Brown Mouse presently.

Brown Mouse was one of Maxwell’s first toys. The two instantly bonded over a game of fetch-which is one of Max’s favorite past-times. I know, it’s weird for a cat to play fetch. But, Maxwell has never been normal.

Brown Mouse used to rattle, but is now silent. The rattle has been rattled out of him.

He has been baptized (sloshed into the water dish and then transferred to the food dish) almost every day. We have no idea why Max does this, but it’s become commonplace to find Brown Mouse, along with Q-tips or whatever else Max can find, floating in his water dish or covered in sticky food. Ewww.

Brown Mouse isn’t the only mouse we’ve purchased for Max. However, it’s the only mouse Maxwell chooses to play with.

For a few weeks, we couldn’t find Brown Mouse. Maxwell refused to play with Pink Mouse, Black Mouse and Gray Mouse. Then, one day while cleaning underneath the stove, I saw two little beady black eyes staring at me.

Brown Mouse.

Just like my K-State shirt, Maxwell just can’t let Brown Mouse go. It’s awful when friends stop by and ask, incredulously, “What’s that?”.
I answer back, “Oh, that’s just Brown Mouse.”
“It is?”
“Well, it used to be. I guess it’s just a weird pile of fur and plastic now.”
“Why don’t you just buy a new one?”
“They quit making them and Max has refused all of the new toys I bought him.”
“Your cat is weird.”
“I know.”

Let it go, Max. I’ll give up the K-State shirt if you give up Brown Mouse.

What? Ok. I’ll keep my shirt, then.