December 2010


I have never dyed my hair.  I have always been a blonde.  My friends even called me Goldilocks back in college when my hair reached my butt.

Today I dyed my hair full-blown red.  Literally.  I am a redhead now.  And if you didn’t know me, you  might actually think it’s a natural red (score 10 points for the stylist!)

So what’s the big deal, right?  More people than not dye their hair every shade of the rainbow.

Let me let you in on a little something.  I don’t do change well.  I’m not naturally a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl.  I am organized and calculated.  If you make me drive a different path to work I will get superstitious about it.  So, yeah.  Add neurotic to that list above.

So going out and dying my hair was not an easy decision for me, but I thought…hey, it’s about to be a new year.  I just got married, moved to a new place and celebrated the holidays all within the course of 3 weeks.  Bring it, hair!

A few people have looked at me stunned when I said red.  My mother worried.  But I took the plunge and here I am.  Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned in this “trying new things” stuff.  Just maybe.

Anyway – hope all of you have a wonderful New Yea…wait, what?  A picture?  Oh fine.

Happy New Year’s Eve from one new saucy ginger!

Out with the blonde, in with the auburn!

When you share your life with someone as long as Tony and I have, you come to learn a lot of fun facts about a person.

For instance, Tony has serious night terrors (I’ve learned to sleep facing away from him after that last serious karate chop to the gut).  He also has a serious addiction to trying any new flavor or new drink at the gas station (acai grapefruit pomegranate tea anyone?).  Before I take one bite of food, he’ll have devoured his (we call it eating like a duck, because I am pretty sure he might not chew).

Aside from these fun facts, he’s a pretty normal, red blooded male.  He likes video games, in case you haven’t deduced that by now.  He doesn’t ‘get’ my shoe collection.  And he gets a kick out of anything creepy and crawly.

I was reading a post over at I Has Good Grammar about spiders and it reminded me of living with Tony down in Florida.

Let me start off by saying: Florida has a lot of bugs.  As if crocodiles, tourists and snowbirds weren’t bad enough, add in creatures of the eight-legged variety and you have a state that should probably just break-off into the ocean already.  Just leave the rest of us to peace with our animals of the fuzzy variety, ok?

 

I kid you not, this is a photo of a spider on our Florida front porch. Cootchie, cootchie coo, little buddy.

So when we lived down there, we often heard stories of people we knew getting bit by the poisonous Brown Recluse.  We even saw scars and chunks taken out of people’s arms to prove it.  Ew is right.

Every night I dutifully checked my bed sheets and when I opened any pair of pants that were folded for awhile, I always made sure to shake them out.  I was overly cautious.  Not like my personality, right?  Guys?

Little did I know, my husband, or boyfriend at the time, was breeding a spider farm out in our garage.  You don’t even want to know how NOT kidding I am.

Tony liked to save those tall, cylindrical POM tea glasses (did I not tell you how much he loves the weird juices and teas from the gas station?).  I’d find them all over our home, housing art markers, coins, food, you name it.  I started throwing them out when he wasn’t looking because I got tired of how horribly they fit in the dishwasher.  We will keep this between us, though, ok?  He’s still wondering where they all went.

One day he caught a spider and decided to put it in the glass jar.  Don’t ask me why.  Boys will be boys.

After about a day, he went all Don King and decided to catch other spiders to hold “Spider Death Matches” in the garage.  I know.  This took a turn for the weird, didn’t it?

He started catching numerous spiders, keeping them in jars, and then staging spider battles.  His original spider was apparently the one to beat, and started to grow really big with each new spider he’d eat in his “ring.”  At one point I started to wonder if Tony might actually care for this spider when he came running into the house announcing the “Spider Death Match” was to begin in 10 minutes in the garage.  In case you were wondering, his eyes looked a little wild, too.

I put my foot down when he asked if he could bring his prizefighter into the house.  I’ve seen Arachnophobia enough times to know that spiders in glass jars at night are never in the glass jars in the morning.  Houdini spiders.

When we came home to visit Wisconsin for a month in the winter, he even asked a friend down south to watch his spider.  Spider-sitting: easier than babysitting, but more dangerous.

In the end, the warrier spider passed away and went up to that big cage-match in the sky.  To this day, Tony still talks fondly about his spider wars.  The gleam in his eye scares me a bit.

But this is why I love this man.  Because he’s quirky and creative and makes me laugh like nobody else.  But from now on, any spiders in the house are being caught and released.  Our promotional days of selling tickets to spider death matches in the garage arena are over.

We have one of Tony’s paintings hanging at the very top of our stairs, which is the entrance into our apartment.  We call him the Gatekeeper.  Here’s why:

Duuuuuude. What kind of mushrooms did you put on that pizza?

He’s actually one of my favorites because…he just looks like he needs a hug, right?  Right?  Nobody with me on that one?

Anyway, the Gatekeeper asked me to pass a message on to all my blog readers out there.  He asked me to wish you a Merry Christmas.  He even got into the Christmas spirit.  He wants you to know he doesn’t put a hat on for just anybody.  Consider yourself safe from being eaten.

 

Ho Ho...Whoa...

So from all of us here – Tony, Katie and the Gatekeeper.  We’re wishing you a very Merry Christmas.  And hope when you visit us next, you’ll consider giving the Gatekeeper a hug.

 

Two very proud parents of one gorgeous Gatekeeper.

Merry Christmas, Everybody!

I am in love with Christmas.  I love getting together with family.  I love the excuse to eat…everything.  I love picking out the perfect gift for someone.

But there is one thing I have a sort of sick obsession with when it comes to Christmas.

The perfectly wrapped present.

Think I’m kidding?  I work part time at a gift shop.  I can wrap with the best of ’em.  Ribbons.  Glitter.  Bells.  It might just be a $5 dollar Subway gift certificate, but damn if it isn’t wrapped in $15 dollars worth of flash.

Let’s take a look at the evidence.

Exhibit A

It’s just a bunch of crumpled up newspaper and coal inside.  But you thought it was a 14k gold jogging suit, didn’t you?  Keep their hopes up with the beautiful wrap job.  Then psych them out with the coal.  Every Christmas I pump myself up with this motto.

You know that’s not true.

But what I’m about to tell you is.  And should also drive home a little something about my new husband.  He’s special?  Clueless?  The kid who ate the lead paint chips?  I’ll let you come to your own conclusion.

So I was once again staring at my lovely fake Walmart tree with all its fancy packages underneath when my attention was brought to a little present in the back.

You know?  Instead of explaining the story?  I think a photo might be more appropriate.

When asked, here’s the story I got.

Apparently he found only half of my wrapping paper.  Which had maybe 3 rolls of Christmas wrap and one roll of baby shower wrapping paper.  So to keep the variety, he decided it was totally and completely acceptable to wrap a Christmas present in baby shower wrap.  He LITERALLY didn’t see the problem.  In fact, I’m not sure he even realized it wasn’t Christmas wrap.

Really?

At first I thought…am I pregnant?

And then I thought…no, wait.  That can’t be.  I’d know before he would.  So scratch that.

And theeeeen I thought…does he want a baby?

And then I just laughed.  Because, if you knew this kid, you’d know whenever I mention Project Baby, he develops an eye twitch that is only cured with a hasty cigarette break and a mighty round of video games with the boys.

Nope, I decided.  Can’t think too much into this.  If I thought too much into all the things that kid does, I wouldn’t be able to leave the house.  Because I’d be rocking away in a corner somewhere.

So, from our new little household to yours.  Merry Christmas!  May it be full of happiness, family, and lions, monkeys and bears, oh my!

Hello, my pretties, I’m back.  I have been without internet for 2 whole days.  I was close to the brink until the Time Warner guy finally showed up.  Sweet, lord almighty, I love you Time Warner Cable guy.  Go pick yourself out a Christmas present from under my tree.  No really, you deserve it.

In big news (because obviously a wedding isn’t big enough)…we have moved.

Know what I hate more than being without internet and new “16 and Pregnant” episodes on cable?

Moving.

I am not a happy mover.  I am an even un-happier (whatever spellcheck) mover in the middle of winter.  And damnit, why do I always get stuck moving in the winter?

Ok, with the pessimism…I forget I’m a cheeky bride.  My contract states there will be no bitching or moaning.

But oh, let me bitch and moan just a little.

The condo we were living in sold, as I mentioned awhile back.  And that condo, with heated underground parking, two beautiful bathrooms, huge bedrooms and a gorgeous kitchen, will be sorely missed.  Because right now I’m sitting in a tiny apartment, with electric heat baseboards (watch those curtains!) and a kitchen that is literally smaller than my old master bath.

Ok, I got that out of my system.  Now I will resume my normal, cheerful self.  Here are some positives: we can finally decorate with all Tony’s surreal, creep-tastic artwork.  It’s also cozy.  Which means lots of newlywed…quality time.  (You thought I was going to write something else, didn’t you?  I know where your head’s at!)  It also has laundry in each unit and a dishwasher.  A dishwasher!  The dishwasher might have been the thing that sold me, folks.

Even with all these plusses, it’ll take some time to feel like home.  I’m what some would deem “wound tight.”  Don’t snicker too much if you know me, ok?  Anyway – moving is a stressful act for me because I’m that anal person that notices when you move scissors to the wrong side of the drawer.  Don’t ‘f’ with my scissors, man!

So living out of boxes and trying to find homes for every miniscule item makes me feel a little choatic.  Where, or where, will I put this box of Triscuits?  This box of Triscuits needs a home! Oh the humanity!  God help me!

Organization calms me.  In case that last bit didn’t get the point across.

Anyway, I’m feeling a little better with each box I unpack.  And I look forward to hanging all my beautiful windchimes and glass window balls.  Right next to Tony’s creepy artwork.  I consider it a balance.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the box with the XBox did not disappear during transit.  Unfortunately.  A girl can only try so hard, but when you’re husband sleeps with it between you, it’s hard to sneak it out to the trash, is all.

I’ve been asked a few times recently if I’ll continue to blog under The Cheeky Bride.  You know.  Seeing as how I’m no longer a bride.

Sniff, sniff, tear…quiver lip.

Here’s the deal.  In the interest of remaining consistent for my massive fan base (oh…ha…ha), I’ll continue as The Cheeky Bride.  However, if you want to refer to me as The Cheeky Wifey or some other cute little moniker, I will still be your friend and possibly even buy you that pony you’ve always wanted for Christmas.

If you do, however, call me something lame like The Cheeky Spousal Unit, you will find that I have replaced Applejack the pony with coal.  If you even think about calling me The Cheeky Cougar, you will be dead to me.  Dead, I say.

In other news in the land that is Wife-dom, we took Monday and Tuesday off to start packing and moving.  You think my Bridezilla was bad, try coming ’round these parts when I’m in a moving frenzy.  It ain’t pretty.  Don’t mind the dent in Tony’s forehead.

Trying to move into a cramped apartment with no storage and gum in the carpet after living in the Taj Mahal for the last couple years has me feeling a bit stressed.  Throw in a husband whose idea of packing is just throwing things into a box, and you’ll know my pain.  Just ask me what I found when I opened the kitchen spice box after our last move.

So think of me on Saturday, when a snowstorm is moving in.  That’s when we rent the moving truck.

Thinking happy thoughts, thinking happy thoughts, thinking happy thoughts…

 

I'm a wife! Ahhh!

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