Disclaimer: I was against this from the beginning. My blog is like an infant that I am trying to properly nurture to help it become a chubby screaming toddler. Okay, that’s a terrible analogy. But it’s still relatively new to me and it’s all me, all the time. So when my husband declared the he want to “guest” post on my blog, I have to admit I was skeptical. I read a lot of blogs though, and many feature guest posts from other bloggers. However, it’s not usually with the purpose of mocking them, which is what my husband tends to do when I watch awards shows. So without further ado, I bring you the first ever (and possibly last) guest post from my loving husband, Steve. 

***Disclaimer from her loving husband: Please don’t hold my wonderful wife responsible for my terrible grammar, she was never allowed to read this ahead of time, otherwise this would have never been.

The TV volume is at 80 and the sounds of phone alerts are going off every two seconds… ah, there must be an award show on tonight. And as some of you may know, the night of an award show in this house is a very serious matter. Especially when it’s the Latin Grammy Awards… I mean the Oscars. Many of you have come accustomed to reading my wife Lindsay’s blog and following her Facebook and Twitter updates throughout these events, but I feel you all should know what goes on behind the scenes.

So I took it upon myself to blog about watching my wife… watch an award show. Sounds stupid right? It’s not at all, it’s ridiculous. I’ve had to study a lot of things in my young life, but I had to dig real deep in my anthropological education (cue the eye roll from the wife) to really grasp how she works. Everyone gets to see the final product, but it’s now time to see how it gets there. Now I know for a fact Lindsay is making the “I wish I read this before he posted it” face.

After an interesting time of, let’s say, “recreational drinking” on Saturday night and an early work day that morning, I was ready to take it easy. I truly thought I was going to be watching the final weigh-in of the Bassmaster Classic, but I should have known better. The channels were already programmed to pre-shows, recordings were set, and the remotes were well guarded by the Fraulein as if they were POWs trying to escape. I had no chance. You have to understand that while Lindsay takes these award shows very seriously and enjoys them thoroughly, I do not. She gets herself all ready to blog and post every time they are on and I make it my job to annoy the crap out of her. And if I do say so myself, and I will, I do a good job. It’s not that I like seeing her mad at me, I just can’t stand the garbage that happens at these shows. Yet here we are ready to watch what she calls the “Super Bowl” of the award show season, the North California Tony Awards… I mean Oscars! However, I cannot focus on the show because it’s my job to study the mastermind.

Yet before I get to the actual event at hand, I just want to voice my opinion/tear into some of the junk that goes on before the show even starts. So at 4:30 (4:30, really why so early – the show ain’t on for like twelve more hours), while Lindsay is prepping for what seems like brain surgery on the couch, with one of the many pre-shows is on in the background. Anyway, while taking my focus off whatever it was I was doing at the time, I notice a guy and a woman talking about underwear while models roam around behind them like lost bulimics in a mall food court. Where do I even start? First off, what the hell does underwear have to do with the South American Emmys, I mean, the Oscars? Who gives a crap about what you can’t see? I mean I can pretty much guarantee that most of these women are not wearing any of this garbage under their dresses, especially that winged BS. To be honest, if it was me, I wouldn’t even bother with underwear. More importantly, notice they didn’t mention what dudes are wearing. That is not because they don’t want to show guys modeling boxers or briefs or a nice silver thong. It’s because they all know that men go commando at these things, so why bother even talking about it.

More importantly, nothing says women’s underwear like an extremely gay man. Now I love me a good gay, but listening to Ross Matthews’ casual comments about what these models are wearing makes me more uncomfortable than I know he was feeling. If you listen closely, you could hear him throw up a little bit in his mouth.

Victoria’s Secret P.R. woman: “Oh yes notice how this thongs hugs her backside so there are no panty lines.”

Ross: “Oh yes, well… that’s… VOMIT.”

I mean, who are we kidding? Not the right segment for my man Ross. I am pretty sure they tricked him into doing this, and on his schedule it said something like he’d be talking about handsome actors’ tuxedo inseams.

So about an hour or so later after taking a brief hiatus from the excitement in the living room, I came back from the other side of our enormous 690 sq. ft apartment (we need a bigger place, by the way). When I refocused on what my ever so focused wife was watching, I was upset to see the thing I probably despise the most about all these award shows, The Fashion Police. Better known as SHUT YOUR MOUTH and other things I will not say. Skhsdj@ #@(($k lJSk fkdbbi rooweke, is what comes to mind every time these idiots talk. Who cares, WHO CARES!!! I know my wife does and obviously a lot of you people, but honestly, what they do is garbage. They are just sitting there under a tent talking about people WHO ARE NOT EVEN THERE YET!

I have to start with the dude, George Kotsiopoulos. I really have nothing on him besides the fact he bends over backwards to blow smoke up the asses of his female clothes Nazis and the celebrities they judge. He is basically there as an accent wall for the otherwise bland female room. He seems nice and he is Greek like one half of me, so I can’t kill him. You really can’t screw up a tuxedo anyways unless you’re an idiot, but shut up nonetheless.

On to Giuliana Rancid? Rampid? Rancic? Wasn’t her maiden name like Fettuccini? Or Alfredo? Some kind of Italian sauce? (Relax, I am half Italian.) Regardless, she was posting judgment on people while she sits there in a dress that looks like the sun is rising out of her crotch and there is crumpled up/torn toilet paper on her shoulders. It looked like crap, and she has the fortitude to change into an even worse dress, where there is now a poor wingless bird out there because she needed them for her shoulders! Even writing this is making me furious.

Kelly Osbourne, my dear, those in glass houses shouldn’t burn bridges… you heard me. You cannot honestly judge anyone when your dress has what looks like broken pieces of glass randomly glued on it, and your hair is the color of the water in a hot tub after a college house party. Everyone just shut up… shut up, just shut up.

You all might think that I am just doing what they do to people all that time by making fun of them, and it makes me no better than they are. Well you are wrong, because I honestly don’t give a crap who is wearing what, when they wore it, how they wore it and who copied who. It’s no one’s business no matter how bad they look. Just look in the mirror every now and then is what I am saying. I am just giving them what they deserve… from a guy whose main wardrobe is made up of t-shirts and jeans. But jokes on you – they are Levis 527 bootcut jeans, very classy, oh and burlap is so in now, watch for it.

Now onto the main attraction, the lady on the couch, who is poised and ready for strike if a single noise is made that isn’t coming from the TV. During these shows I am always being yelled at to be quiet, even if I am just trying to do dishes or you know, breath air. And every time I get yelled at, the volume on the TV seems to go up by 10 – too bad she starts somewhere above 70 and it only goes to 100. Hell, I even get yelled at when I am watching my own shows that the volume is too LOW. Shows that she constantly says she hates, but she still wants the volume up. Why would she want to hear Swamp People or Gold Rush louder than 25? Because I definitely don’t want to hear Teen Mom at 72 or hear the Kardashians at all, let alone see them.

Anyways, while perched at the dinner table, which happens to be the perfect location to study my wife, it all starts to unfold like it has so many times before. And when I say perfect location, I mean only location unless I want to stand in the hallway. We may have a very large sectional, enough for 5 or 6 people, but Lindsay somehow finds away to take over every inch of it with paper, magazines, computer cords, like 30 blankets and possibly a miner’s helmet.

It boggles my mind how focused she gets while the show was on. Simultaneously working her computer, phone, using the remote and taking notes about who won what. I’m watching my wife working over this award show like a scientist trying to cure an illness, except the illness happens to be ugly dresses and anger when someone won that she didn’t pick. What everyone else doesn’t get to see and hear is Lindsay talking to the TV, while talking to herself, also talking to me, and occasionally talking to her computer and phone. And no, not talking on the phone, talking to it like a waitress taking her order. I’m sure there are hospitals for things like this but I’ll let her go a few more times til she starts doing it while I am trying to watch hockey.

It’s comical watching how she functions though. Those of you that are friends with her on Facebook know that she has the ability to take over your news feed with her status updates, fill the Twittersphere with her tweets and update her Live Journal with depressing statements. Obviously that’s a joke come on now, she has a Dead Journal.

So every time something happens during the show she will immediately scream “I knew it!” or “That’s impossible!” or “Babe, shut up!” and that’s when the real show begins. She will first jump on her computer and comment on God knows what, because I am never on Facebook to read any of it and then move onto Twitter to hashtag something. 

Immediately following her typing her phone starts flipping out with responses and texts from other people. She is responding to them with the phone in one hand, the other hand retyping something else on the computer and a pen between her toes marking down award winners/taking notes on how handsome some of the guys are. And to be honest I could act and dress real nice, but I chose not to and make dinner for her every night. So be careful what you wish for Lindsay, you could go hungry.

Here is Lindsay doing our taxes… oh wait she is actually re investing her 401k my fault. Who are we kidding there is no chance of any of that happening.

After about 2 hours of watching her watch… I totally forgot what she is even watching… it finally hits me. Where the hell is all this focus and effort in other aspects of our married life? I applaud her for her ability to keep her followers interested in the show, but little lady put the phone down and help me out here. I mean if she put this kind of effort into say, cleaning or doing the dishes, or dare I say, cooking, I would be an extremely happy man. Actually never mind, don’t try cooking – we only have one fire extinguisher in here. There is a lot of misdirected energy in this apartment, mostly towards the TV and cheese sticks in the fridge. We are going to have to work on that.

Honestly, this is what I have to deal with. Replace the food with a fax machine and she’s a paralegal.

Obviously she dresses in her best tuxedo t-shirt for the show, But I like to think she is working on a formula for NASA on a more effective way to re-enter the atmosphere. By the way, the statue is to throw at me.

Also I didn’t know there was such a large gambling ring that happens during the Canadian Country Music Awards, sh*t Oscars, my apologies. Lindsay is spread out over the coffee table and couch with all these papers like a teacher grading tests. Apparently, she had bet large amounts of money, like 4-5 bucks worth in a pool at work for the awards. Seriously, that’s where our money is going. All that I could manage out of all the chatting and scribbling that was going on was that she apparently was picking the right winners and some girl named Jaimie was doing terrible. And I get dirty looks when I go to Foxwoods. HELLO! You are running an illegal gambling ring on our couch. I am surprised you’re not selling knock-off Oscar statues out of your trunk!

Like every good gambler you have to work two different colored markers. Shame.

The only thing I can compare how my wife manages her whole situation is to that of a general manager of a professional sports team. With the phone constantly on the go, her hands in everything and the look of “job on the line” stress, how could she not be one. I’m waiting for the swears to start being flung and her to scream, “THE DEAL’S OFF!” and toss the phone, only to loosen her tie and pour a glass of scotch. But luckily, she leaves the scotch drinking to me.

So as the show starts to wind down her stress level goes up, whether it’s the threat of losing our life savings due to her gambling problem, or the fact that it’s the last show of the season, I am not sure. But every minute that passes brings out a side of my wife that I wish you could all see in person.

Yet as the last award is given out a strange occurrence happens after her excitement and loudness settles down. Like a bipolar person coming back to reality, she all of a sudden acts like the normal Lindsay I am used to and gives me the “what’s the matter?” look. As if the last five+ hours never happened. I think that all the radiation from her damn iPhone give her lapses in memory. Do you not remember what the hell just went on in here? So now I am left with a tired girl on the couch and having to clean up the tornado I call Lindsay. My excitement cannot be contained.

I hope that this gave everyone a decent look into how “Lindsay Look’s” and that I didn’t go too hard on her. After all, I still have to live with her for I think the rest of my life, I forget what the contract actually says. I tried my best to capture the artist at work during only the most important awards, the Central American Hoarder Awards… nope that’s what I am going with. As much as she makes me crazy sometimes, I do love her and am happy that she enjoys doing this and that you all enjoy reading.

So until next time, or when I am allowed to sleep in the bed again,

S