Hello I'am Meggan Welcome to my website.
Ettore: “Sweetheart, for your New Year’s resolution….I have a list of things for you to work on.”
Meggan: “Is one of them, figure out how to divorce your husband?”
Meggan: “Then keep the list to yourself.”
Ettore: “I love you.”
Meggan: “I love you too.”
Both comments and pings are currently closed.
Ettore and I recently celebrated our third wedding anniversary. I asked Ettore if he still liked being married to me.
Me: “Ettore, we have been married three years. Can you believe it? AMAZING.”
Me: “Three years! That’s a long time. Do you still like being married to me now as much as you did when we first got married?”
Ettore: “Well, It’s different now.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Ettore: “Well, when I first married you, you were like a lean beautiful filet mignon.”
Ettore: “Now you are like a good aged steak with a lot of marbling.”
Ettore: “Man cannot have filet everyday. You need a marbled steak.”
Me: “Are you saying I’m fat?”
Ettore: “No no. Marbling increases the flavor. Aging develops the steak. I appreciate your flavors more now. Filet everyday is boring.”
Me: “Uh-huh. Sigh. Happy third anniversary.”
Ettore: “You too sweetheart. I love you. Where do you want to go to dinner?”
Me: “I’m not hungry.”
I would of preferred a steaming cup of coffee to greet me in the morning, but when you live with a European Chef, you get a cow’s tongue.
Lucas woke up early the other morning. I begrudingly plodded down the stairs bleary eyed and bathrobed ready to start my day. The last thing I thought I would see when I opened up our refrigerator was a COW’S TONGUE. It took a few seconds to register then…”OH MY GAWD!!! ETTOREEEEEEEE!!!
There was only one person responsible for this, my European Chef husband.
Me: “What the hell is that in our fridge?”
Ettore: “It’s a delicacy.”
Me: “Is that a cow tongue?”
Ettore: “It’s fantastic with green beans.”
Me: “UGH, Is THAT a cow tongue?”
Me: “What is that then.”
Ettore: “It’s a beef tongue.”
Me: “Isn’t beef…cow?”
Despite it still being before sunrise (and before I had my coffee), my husband went on to extol the virtues of beef, not cow, tongue. How you prepare it (I will spare the details), what it is good served with (green beans), and why it is delicious (I am taking his word for it). So there the tongue sits in our fridge. When you live with a chef, your refrigerator always looks like a bachelor’s fridge with a slight twist. Water, condiments, eggs, and cow tongue.
Last night was a bit awkward when I was giving our sitter the rundown of the house before we went to dinner. “Here are our emergency numbers, have Lucas in bed by 8:30, and help yourself to whatever you want in the fridge…and FYI heads up for the cow tongue, although if you want it you are welcome to that too.” She didn’t want it. Ettore was kind enough to hide the tongue behind some water bottles.
Ettore is so excited about the tongue though, I don’t want freak out and make him feel bad. It is just instinct. It is like when I was a kid and my cat Puffets would kill a mouse and bring it into the house to show me. Puffets just wanted to make me proud. She was doing what came naturally and proving her hunting prowess. As grossed out as I was, I was always extra careful not to scream and run. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Ettore is a chef, it is his instinct to love and share all kinds of food. So there will be no running from the house screaming. Besides, when I did run and scream Puffets would just chase me with the mouse. I can’t have Ettore chasing me with that cow tongue. It is all kinds of wrong, on so many levels.
Daddy and Lucas taking out the trash. Next we are going to teach Lucas how to vacuum out the cars.
Me: “Happy 5th Meeting Anniversary Pookie.”
Ettore: ”What do you think brought us together?”:
Ettore: “What do you think keeps us together?”
Me: “An overpriced condo that we are upside down in and can’t get out of during a recession.”
Ettore: “Besides that.”
Ettore: “That’s right. Love.”
My husband Ettore got these Pez dispensers for us when we first started dating. I am Peppermint Patty and he is Charlie Brown. We haven’t seen each other much lately because I have been staying at my Mom’s with Lucas, since Lucas got sick. I was able to come home briefly today and these Pez were waiting for me on my pillow…I think my husband is trying to tell me something…I wonder what it could be?
I just uploaded ALL the videos from our family RV trip to Seattle this summer. I had forgotten how many wonderfully embarrassing (for the childen) clips there are. They are never going to take us anywhere again. We aren’t saving for college, we are saving for therapy. Click on Dancing Queens below and ENJOY! I highly recommend dancing in front of your children. They will be horrified.
I am an interpreter. I speak three languages. I speak English, Teenage Stepson, and Teenage Stepson’s Father (also my husband). I am quite proud of my abilities and my fluency, especially in the last two languages. I wish a course had been offered in speaking Teenage Stepson in college. It would of saved me and my TWO Spanish tutors a lot of grief!! Lo ciento Jose and Juan, I tried. Hugs.
If you too would like to speak Teenage Stepson and Teenage Stepson’s Father I would like to give you a few hints. Silence is the key and both languages use it quite often, but they mean totally different things. For Teenage Stepson silence always means YES. For instance, ask your teenage stepson if he got his report card….silence. That means yes he did get it, often two weeks ago. Ask your teenage stepson if he dented the car….silence. That means yes, again probably two weeks ago. Ask your teenage stepson if that cute girl he was walking next to after school is the same girl he (not so) secretly texts till 2:00 a.m……silence. That definetly means yes.
Teenage Stepson’s Father is exactly the opposite. Silence means no. For instance, your teenage stepson asks his Father for twenty dollars….silence. That means no. Your teenage stepson asks his Father to borrow the car (the same one he will return with the bumper dented) and…..silence. Again that’s a no.
As an interpreter of Teenage Stepson and Teenage Stepson’s Father one of my primary duties is to bridge the communication gap between the two parties. Often deciphering for the other what amounts to only a series of grunts and muffled slurs. Also it should be noted that a peculiar hearing loss occurs in all teenage stepsons and the Father of teenage stepsons. Before a boy becomes a teenager his hearing, as well as the hearing of his Father, seems to be just fine. However, once the teen years hit, a most odd hearing loss occurs. Don’t worry in almost all cases the day the teenage stepson turns twenty all hearing for both seems to miraculously return. That being noted, a conversation usually goes something like this.
Harrison (teenage stepson): “Wassup?”
Ettore (teenage stepson’s Father): “What?! What’s up where?”
Meggan (Interpreter de fabulousness): ”Harrison is saying hello.”
Ettore:“Pffft.” (Blows air signaling frustration) “Hello son.”
Meggan: “Your Father is greeting you back.”
Harrison: “Huh.” “Oh.” (That means thank you for picking me up from school). NOTE: Whenever you see your teenage stepson within twenty seconds of greeting each other the conversation will almost ALWAYS turn to food. “SOOO, what’s the 411 on food tonight?”
Meggan: “Harrison wants to know what we are having for dinner.”
Meggan: “Your Dad thinks we should eat at home tonight. Eating out is expensive.”
Meggan: “Harrison says, eating at home is fine.”
Ettore and Harrison: “mrrph…pfft…uh…heh.” That means I love you Dad and I love you son. You get the point. As an interpreter of both Teenage Stepson and Teenage Son’s Father you have to walk between two worlds, but trust me it is a journey worth taking.
My husband Ettore and I love each other very much. I think it is because we never have any idea what the other person is talking about. Ettore has lived all over Europe, has owned his own successful European bakery and restaurant for over 24 years, and speaks four languages. I graduated from a top university, worked in the media for years, and even interviewed the president of a country, but together we can’t seem to find our way out of a paper bag or manage to go from point A to point B without needing a Dr. Phil intervention. For some it is a simple tomato (tomayto) vs. tomato (tomahto), but for us it is more like tomato vs. steak sandwich. We are nowhere close.
I had to go back to Kaiser Hospital AGAIN. This time for an upcoming knee surgery, not my vagina. Even so, there I was AGAIN at Kaiser in my underwear and a paper gown. When the doctor asked me to lay back and relax I broke out in a cold sweat and locked my knees together. Understandably I was a bit nervous, thankfully Ettore was kind enough to drive me to my pre-op appointment. That is where the trouble started.
Both of us knowing our history of miscommunication, when Ettore dropped me off in front of the medical office building we looked directly at each other hoping to avert a catastrophe.
Me: “OK Love, here we go. I will be in THAT building on FIRST floor Orthopedics.”
Ettore: “OK Sweetheart, I got it. That building (points) first floor Orthopedics.”
Me: “Great Pookie! Just one more time, not Ob/Gyn I already had the baby, not Psychiatry, I already see a shrink, not Urology, I give up on trying not to sneeze and pee…Orthopedics on the first floor.”
Ettore: “Kitty, don’t worry I will be there when you get out of your appointment.”
Thirty minutes after my appointment……we have no idea where the other one is. Forty-five minutes after the appointment Ettore has asked the nurse if I actually had an appointment and I am freezing my ass of wandering the parking garage thinking my husband, who is twenty years older that me, is dead. We both want to strangle the other.
After frantic phone calls to Ettore and Ettore searching the halls, we bump into each other outside the building.
Ettore: “Where have you been?”
Me: “I thought you were dead!”
Ettore: “Who’s dead?”
Me: (Trying not to kill him) “No one, what happened?”
Ettore: “You tell me, I went to first floor Orthopedics.”
Me: “Impossible, I was at first floor Orthopedics.”
Ettore: “No, I was there, UP THERE…..on first floor Orthopedics.”
Now, despite the freezing cold, a stillness rests over Ettore and I. Neither one of us says a word. Like a detective, I think my suspect just coughed up a nugget big enough to crack the case. I don’t want to make any sudden moves and have him recant. My pulse is racing, palms sweaty, I think I got him. This could be it.
Me: (S-L-O-W-L-Y) “What…did…you…say?”
Ettore: (On to me, knowing I might be setting a trap) “I was up there (points up to the second story), first floor Orthopedics.”
Me: Breaking under the pressure. “There is no such thing as UP THERE for the FIRST FLOOR, there might be an OVER THERE, but the FIRST FLOOR IS NEVER UP ANYWHERE BECAUSE IT IS ALWAYS ON THE GROUND!”
Ettore: “Not in Europe. In Europe the first floor is the ground floor or level floor, and the second floor is the first floor.”
Me: “What? That makes no sense.” (It makes a little sense if you think about it long enough) “How long have you been in America?” I ask. ”We are not in Zurich, Switzerland. We are in Roseville, California. Kaiser is a long way from the Alps!”
Ettore: “Oops, sorry.”
Shit foiled again. What do they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. We call a truce, and decide the car is a way better place to be than outside in the cold. As we walk up the parking garage laughing at our mis-steps I realize that miscommunicating is better than not communicating and in a marriage you love each other no matter what floor you are on.
meggansamom.com © 2009 Designed & developed by: ZestStudios