Why I won't see Andy until July

When the alarm went off at 6:15 this morning, Andy jumped out of bed and exclaimed in his too loud for 6:15 AM voice, “Everyone get up! It’s fucking World Cup Day, bitches!” Before you imagine that we have the English Premier Soccer team sleeping in bed with us, Andy was speaking to just myself and the cat, both of whom looked at Andy with the type of furrowed brow expression that comes from being exclaimed at too early in the morning.

Andy has been “It’s my birthday! Its Christmas morning! It’s the last day of school! We’re going to the zoo today!” excited for the World Cup for about 3 months now. Many of our plans for June revolved around the World Cup schedule. Andy has even worked out a ‘flexi-time’ work schedule with his boss so he can catch the week day games. Unfortunately for Andy though, my birthday – and therefore my Official Birthday Weekend – falls smack dab in the 2nd round of World Cup, a fact that he is none too happy about. In fact he mentioned when he found out, “it’s an oversight on my part. I should have realized your birthday was in June before I married you.” He was kidding of course, or at least I hope he was, and he is still planning on taking me somewhere (it’s a surprise he’s managed to keep from me) with the stipulation that he can catch at least a couple of the matches. I’m not a cruel woman, I agreed – with the stipulation that I am not expected to get up early on my birthday weekend to watch these matches with him.

Speaking of getting up early – you know what time the first game starts on the West Coast? 4:30 AM. FOUR. THIRTY. A. M. Seeing as Andy wants to see as many games as possible of the World Cup, guess what time he is waking up both Saturday and Sunday this weekend? I wholly plan on getting my sleep on Saturday but will grudgingly get up at the ass crack of dawn (is it even considered ‘dawn’ at 4:30 AM?) on Sunday to see the Slovenia vs. Algeria match. I’m not sure why though. I don’t really like soccer. Oh, sorry sweetheart, football. I don’t really like sports in general. I mean, I like hockey. And I’ve been watching the Green Bay Packers play the last few years because I miss Wisconsin (especially in the fall), but all other sports? Nah. But that’s what I get for marrying outside my accent.

In an effort to get myself into something that I don’t really care too much about, I put some money down on Davey Davey’s World Cup pool. Nothing gets me involved faster in something like good ole fashioned gambling. By luck, I drew Brazil (which I hear is good) and Slovakia (which I hear is bad). Andy, as an early birthday present, got me Slovenia (for obvious reasons). I’m really rooting for Slovenia - somebody has to you know. Which is why I’m getting up at 4:30 AM on Sunday morning to watch football; I have to make sure my investments are paying off. And what I mean by ‘investments’ is actually ‘betting money that I will never see again’.

It’s fucking World Cup, bitches. While my dear, sweet, husband will be spending all of June doing this:

Andy puts away his difference to Froggies during the World Cup - as long as they buy him a pint and promise not to talk about mimes.

I will be stuck here, doing this:

But it's World Cup, bitches!

Revenge of the AmeriBrit

So yesterday Andy became an American citizen. I would like to clarify that Andy did not qualify to become an American citizen because he got married to me - an American. You have to wait at least 3 years to gain citizenship through marriage. Nope, Andy did it the ‘ole fashioned way – many many MANY years on a green card through his employer and then lots of money to the US government to get processed.

Yesterday was his oath ceremony which I had to miss because of work and a lack of vacation days. I’m really disappointed that I wasn’t able to be there. I love me a good ‘ole fashioned oath ceremony with a televised message from the President and little plastic flags that you get to wave about. I’m trying to make up my lack of presence by holding an Americano BBQ party for him this Saturday. I’m trying to convince everyone to dress as American (or really, over the top tacky American) as they can but I haven’t really gotten a sense of enthusiasm over that (which is what you can expect if half of your guests are foreigners). Regardless of our guest’s apparel, I’m planning on making what I consider some typical American BBQ food – throughout the ages.

I’ve got your hamburgers, hot dogs, and potato chips of course but I’m also pulling out the 60’s classics – deviled eggs, pigs in a blanket, cream cheese wrapped pickles – all with little American flag toothpicks. I’m debating putting in the effort to make an Ambrosia salad – you know, the creamy Jell-O monstrosity with bits of fruit suspended in it – but I don’t know yet. If I do attempt it, expect photos.

So yes, Andy is an American now, or like we came up with quite awhile ago – an AmeriBrit. Of course this means that Andy is having a grand ‘ole time winding me up with his claim that he’s a minority now and that I’m oppressing him and he’s going to write to Obama to complain.

Mr. Posh

My husband is so posh he whispers polo scores in his sleep.