"Look at mine. Look at them!" he said, closing his eyes. 

Eugenio and I just got into an argument about who has more eyelashes. For the record, I've always known he has the most luscious lashes. He's quite vain about them, too. He was admiring our sleeping (amen, hallelujah) bebe, noting with a smile, "She's got my eyelashes."

I mentioned how this lady who did my makeup once commented that I have a lot of lashes. Like, a ton.  So maybe she got them from me too. He looked at me incredulously. Who am I to think I have nice lashes. Sit down, girl.

Diplomatically, he said,"OK, but mine are longer." 

Look at them! 

anniversary card shopping

"Can I eat now?"

"No, they're about to start skating. You have to do it when they're done. You missed your chance."

Today is our three year wedding anniversary. I'm grateful to be with a man who won't stick up for himself when I forbid him from eating his damn chips while I'm watching the Olympics.

He's a loud eater, though. I get nutso crazy hearing his crunching and spit swishing. I once tried to hold in my annoyance so long that I finally combusted, screaming, "If you can't eat a chip without shaking the room, maybe suck on it a little bit first!"

I went shopping for an anniversary card this morning. I always hear Jim Gaffigan when reading cards. "Yeah, that sounds like something I'd say." They were particularly awful today. There was one with a cage of birds and the statement, "My heart didn't know how to sing before I met you." Your heart's gonna learn to cry if you keep that up.

Another one, aiming for more authenticity, started with an ominous, "I love you no matter what." Inside read a line about sometimes being crazy for one another and other times driving each other crazy. I appreciate the realism, but Jesus. They might as well have gone with:

Outside: I love you no matter what.

Inside: The illogical chemicals in my brain that caused me to marry you may have worn off and I'm left with that choice, but I will always begrudgingly love you.  Happy anniversary (period, no exclamation point).

Or...

Outside: I love you no matter what

Inside: I'm kinda lazy, so....

Come to think of it, maybe with a little editing it would have been perfect for me.

Outside: I love you no matter what.

Inside: Even though we're always one chip away from a trial separation. Happy anniversary!

Tidbit from last night's conversation.

Eugenio: You should listen to I'm Not a Human Being II. Some songs you'll find offensive but on other songs there's like, piano. *Mimes piano playing* You'll like it.

 

It is my birthday. This is on the table but I have instructions not to open the gifts until I get home from work tonight, so Eugenio can be there too. He left for work at 7. So far it's been a great day. I slept a full 8 hours. Sleeping through the night after days of not doing so is such a cosy relief. 

I drifted to sleep last night around 11 after Eugenio left to go to the hospital to see a patient. He was just about to finally get into bed too. He's been on call this weekend and it's been busy. On top of having to be there every morning by 7:30, he takes calls all through the day and night, ensuring that he gets little sleep. He never complains. He's a hard worker, very concerned about his patients, doesn't sleep because of it, obsesses over their charts, goes to the hospital late in the night to see them when other doctors probably wouldn't.

I have no idea when he had time to get my gifts and I feel unworthy. I was just looking forward to eating a 10 inch sandwich from Which Wich and crunching on the pellet ice that they have afterwards.

Right up there with pictures of unlikely animal friendships -- the monkey hugging the dog, the rat cuddling with the kitten, those sorts -- in heart melting factor, is watching your significant other pick out clothing for your unborn child. Among others, Eugenio chose a onesie that says, "Daddy's little girl." It's so bizarre, these teeny-tiny outfits hanging in our closet.

We were wrong. It's a girl. Eugenio didn't pick that onesie because he thought it'd look great on Nikolai. Speaking of which, I can stop antagonizing Eugenio by referring to the carrot length babe inside of me -- this week at least, I don't know what vegetable she'll be compared to next -- by the name he hates. Leading up to the anatomy scan last week, I kept telling everyone that now that we've been referring to it as "he" and telling everyone we think it's a boy, it would be perfect to learn that it's actually not. And lo and behold...

We didn't have any preference either way, but I'm surprised by my reaction. I cried silently to myself after the ultrasound tech announced the gender and we saw for ourselves that it was unmistakeably female. My sister Molly says she doesn't believe it, adding that our mother put a curse on all of us. She would always say, "In my next life, I'm having all boys." My niece was the only one vocal about a gender preference. She's been wanting a girl cousin for years. When I first brought Eugenio to meet my family about four years ago, the first thing she said, just breaking the ice, was, "Are you two going to have kids? I really want another cousin," by which she meant of the female variety as she was surrounded by boys. I'm not interested in all the gender reveal parties and announcements that are popular now, but I did announce over Facebook by telling Brit I was happy to announce she was finally getting that girl cousin.

Your pee stinks and it's too yellow. You need to drink more water.

This is what marriage is like. I constantly analyze the piss he refuses to flush.

"Don't they serve bread here?" I ask with not a hint of patience. At a certain point, I'd rather embarrass myself by eating two loaves of stale bread than wait an extra 30 minutes for my meal.

"Yeah, they serve the chocolaty bread here."

That made my night. My 31 year old husband, chief fellow in oncology referring to rye bread as "the chocolaty bread." He does this from time to time, renaming ordinary items, making me so so happy. He also still asks me, "Now which ones are the white cheeses?" when selecting the fixings for his sandwich, even though I've answered that question no less than 30 times now. He doesn't like "the yellow cheese."

my choice

You know how when you spend so much time with someone, you pick up their mannerisms and vice versa? I always yell, "My body, my choice!" whenever Eugenio tells me to do or stop doing something, like biting my nails or picking scabs.

Yesterday I told Eugenio I was planning on buying filing cabinets to replace the eye-sore of a desk in our room. He swears he needs that desk, but all he uses it for is shoving important documents in drawers and keeping unimportant documents strewn on top. He doesn't use it for reading, writing, studying, or anything one would need an actual desk for. He uses our kitchen table for those tasks. A filing cabinet is more in line with what we need. But Eugenio has a serious, inexplicable attachment to this big, ugly desk taking up half of our bedroom, so when I made this statement about replacing it, his face grew red, his voice exasperated as he shouted, "My desk, my choice!" hitting the table with his fist.

reflections on marriage

Eugenio and I are two months from our year anniversary. Despite my desire that we argue more, we're still going strong. Yay us. In commemoration of our being legally bound together until we're not, imma post reflections whenever they strike my fancy.

I just cleaned the bathroom so this one looms over my mind:

1. All of those dark, curly bodily hairs littering the porcelain eventually fade into the background.

2. Regular housekeeping is advised.

Neno is a lucky man

I walk through the front door, delirious from a long day working in front of glowing computer screens. I'm greeted with a kiss by my husband, decked out in his jammies, sitting at the kitchen table reading medical study guides -- which is surprising, because usually he's playing call of duty when I get home. I'm giddy and hyper, because that's what happens when I see my husband when I'm tired. I go to the bedroom to change and notice the bed is made. "Calabaza! You made the bed! Thank you! I love my Calabaza!" I shout in the childlike voice I save for my closest friends.

I wasn't looking forward to straightening up my morning tornado of reject clothes or making the bed. (I have to make the bed before getting into it to sleep again). To show gratitude, I bend over, lift my skirt, and moon Neno, displaying my pink, zebra print underwear. "Calabaza look!"

Unfazed, he briefly looks up from his book offers a pity chuckle and says, "I like that underwear."

Pointing to my hanes-her-way on the table (isn't that where you keep your underwear?), he suggests "You should only wear those for working out. Lately you've been wearing them every day. The underwear you're wearing now are better."

The underwear I'm wearing now are the cotton victoria secret variety. It's tighter, but still comfortable, than my beloved hanes briefs (hanes should pay me, or do I wear fruit-of-the-loom? I don't know, something like that, you know what I mean). I recently went to Walmart to stock up on my XXL granny panties and bought new briefs while I was at it. When I pack to go on a trip, my underwear takes up most of the space. I have different underwear for sleeping, running, and daily life.

"What, you don't like the hanes? You think I look bad in them?" I ask laughing, plotting to wear them every day.

"Yes, those are flaggy." He means saggy, but isn't that the cutest thing -- flaggy. "I prefer the Victoria Secret underwear you bought. It's tighter."

Did I mention I'm tired? So this conversation is so funny to me. I laugh throwing my head back. "But the granny panties always turn you on, right?"

He mumbles something like, "yeah only for sleeping."

I'm humored and perplexed, I always thought he was as much a fan as I of the belly high, 'flaggy' look. Does anyone have a picture of me in my granny panties to post? If not, I'll snap a new one when I get home. It's about time the internet sees me in all my glory.

Correction

One night after an embarrassing moment, Eugenio advised, "Keep that to yourself; don't blog about it." No worries, I mostly blog compromising information about you, not myself, though I appreciate the concern.

Let it be known that I have Neno's permission to talk about (some) of the things that take place behind our apartment door. I texted him one morning before clicking Publish, "Do you mind if I talk about your farting on my blog?" He responded, "Which one? From last night?" (I found that response hilarious).

But then he read my blog and took issue with the honeymoon post. "The stuff about the lingerie, yadi, yadi, yadi and saying '10 minutes later' was a bit TMI...And it was more than 1o minutes, more like 20." Duly noted.

Call of B/Duty

Was that a booty call?! I screamed, coming out of the restroom, realizing Eugenio was already back on the couch, clothed and playing Call of Duty. Not long before, I told him I was going to bed early, and he sweetly joined me....then returned to his game after he got what he came for. Did you just hit-it-and-quit-it?! I said laughing at his gall. "I'm sorry, bebita. No, I hit-it-and-married-it!" he replied giving me a guilty hug before adding, "Wham-bam-you-married-me-ma'am!"

I like giving Neno a hard time for playing Call of Duty, although I'm not actually bothered by his vice. Knowing and seeing on a daily basis how much of a dorky manchild my Rico Suave Latin Lover truly is, is more charming than bothersome. Check out my avatar. Do you like it? Plus I get to sleep in our teeny bed all alone for hours each night. I hate body heat.

Back in our early days, he brought me to his apartment to watch a movie on our third date. I was incredibly nervous about going to his apartment; I didn't want him to think he was going to get lucky. I'm actually shy and a prude, believe it or not. After watching Gran Torino followed by sitting in awkward silence, Neno asked if I wanted to watch the beginning of Transformers 1, since Transformers 2 was coming out soon and he wanted us to go see it. On a side note, I've seen a lot of bad movies these past two years in the name of love; I'm sure Neno says the same for himself. I had no desire to see Transformers anything. My roommate and I joked that the popularity of Transformers was like grown women flocking to watch a My Little Pony blockbuster. So naturally I said, "Sure! Sounds great!" Halfway through the movie (I kept wondering when "the beginning" was supposed to end), Neno turned to me and asked, "So Hanna, which transformer is your favorite?" Um, I don't have a favorite. Uh, which one is yours? "Optimus Prime!" he cheered making a fist...OK. And then we sat in more awkward silence.

I think we made out for the first time after that. He wooed me with his charming dorkiness.

I like to remind Neno of his smooth transformers line from time to time. We haven't progressed much.

my funny, flatulating husband

I unleashed a spell when I put the ring on his finger. Now that we're married, Eugenio is funny -- his comebacks are quick-witted and hilarious. I told him this revelation one morning.

"What do you mean? I've always been funny." No, usually your jokes fell flat. "But you always laughed." I was being nice, but now I laugh because you're actually funny. "No, through time you're sense of humor has become more sophisticated" he quipped back.

Other than his new found hilarity, not much has changed now that we are legally bound. I haven't changed my name and Eugenio still flatulates in his sleep. However, one night -- this is so sweet -- he almost got up to go to the restroom, then lied back down in defeat, pulling the covers tightly around his body. "I'm sorry. I was going to try to make it to the restroom, but it escaped," he said referring to the stench. That is love. He is so genuine and kind.

I love my funny, flatuating husband.