Taking the Next Step: Semi-Combining Finances

I vividly remember the first time Mr. W told me that his "future wife" would have to sign a pre-nup. We were on our first trip to Napa together after a year of dating and I'm sure I was fishing around for information to see if there was ever going to be a ring in my future. He said nothing about a ring but made sure to mention that pre-nup.

Fast forward two and a half years, and there we were exchanging vows with no official pre-nup to be found. Instead, we have a verbal agreement that goes something like this, "Don't ever cheat on me or I'll take you for everything you're worth!"

In addition to the absence of any sort of written financial agreement, we newlyweds also chose to forgo setting up a joint account.

This was mostly my decision, as I thought it would be very easy to split all the bills down the middle. And for awhile everything was pretty simple. But the past year and a half has been an interesting real estate ride, and with it has come an increasingly convoluted financial management system (i.e. a wicked Excel spreadsheet that I've taken over and can't ever seem to get balanced quite right).

With multiple mortgages and a slew of utilities bills—and far too many dinners out that have ended up split on two credit cards—we finally decided it was beyond high time to open a joint bank account.

So Friday we went to one of the local banks and consummated our financial relationship.

And it was beautiful.

Afterwards, we drove straight to a tasting room to drink wine.

We don't have our debit cards yet and neither of us has set up an online banking account, so it doesn't totally feel real. But very soon we'll be putting deposits into that puppy and paying shared bills out of it. Just in time for all the big scary expenses that will be coming our way when we start renovating the house next spring.

And speaking of renovation, we are *this* close to getting the gas line installed which means I'll be able to unsheathe this powerful beast from her plastic and bring her in the house where she belongs. And all will be right and properly dried in my world again.

As part of the prep, Mr. W had to do more work on the gas line trench this weekend.

Which meant I got to take on the extremely important job of hanging the Christmas lights. I only know one other woman who hangs her Christmas lights. I feel that I've entered a new class of cool.

I also took the opportunity to do a little Christmas decorating...which mostly amounted to placing shiny balls all around the house. Yep, it was a weekend for balls. Christmas balls, dirt balls, and my wannabe financially independent balls finally getting neatly tucked into Mr. W's purse where they belong.

Gas Lines and Butt Massages

Did the title throw you? Considering that gas and butts do in fact go together, it seemed appropriate to just couple two recent stories together under the umbrella of body parts and bodily functions.

The first story involves some fun weekend activities over here on the Maris Ranch. You might remember that I mentioned us not being connected to the street's main gas line—which means we've been without a dryer for nearly 3 months now.

But I'm happy to announce that progress has been made on the gas front.

Friday a plumber came and ran all the interior pipes so that once the gas company does its thing and hooks us to the main, we'll be ready immediately to connect the hot water heater and (blessed be thy) dryer. We'll also be connecting the gas range after we remodel the kitchen, and eventually we'll get central heat. But first things first...

Although the gas company will happily come dig the trench for the gas pipe they install, they will also charge you an arm and at least half of your lower leg. So, being the frugal and highly capable guy he is, Mr. W decided to dig the ditch himself.

I'm fairly certain it's just because he wanted to play with a piece of heavy machinery.

If I had rented a ditch witch, she would have come with a broom and cauldron.

At the crack of dawn Saturday morning, he rented a "ditch witch" and went to town burrowing out the trench for our future pipe.

He seemed to be having a grand old time—particularly because he didn't have to break his back and use a shovel. Until the thing went catawampus (yes I looked up the spelling for that) and ended up laying on its side.

Is your ditch witch pointing north or are you just happy to see me?

All the king's horses and all the king's men (that is, one wife) couldn't get the ditch witch back upright again. So we called in the big guns.

I love our next door neighbor so much. He took me off-roading in his golf cart Saturday morning so that I could pick persimmons in his backyard. And he always "knows a guy" for everything. Need a pizza oven installed? Tom knows a guy. Need a vineyard consultation? Tom knows a guy. Think you're the only one in town who moved from Hollywood? Tom knows a guy who knows a guy. He's the best.

So Mr. W hot-footed it over to Tom's and came back with the tractor trailing behind him. In minutes, the ditch witch was in the tractor's grips and upright again.

We're going to develop a Bat Signal for Tom so he knows when to come.

Tom saved the day. And Mr. W finished his trench. Which means all we need is the gas company to come work their magic and I can start drying my bath towels so they no longer feel like astroturf.

For those of you who don't want to hear the butt massage story, stop reading here. And I hope you have a lovely day.

For those of you who remember some of Mr. W's greatest hits from the past, you may enjoy this (Big Sister, I'm thinking of you...) The last time I was visiting LA, I had worked out and my gluteus was feeling maximuscally sore. So I asked Mr. W if he would give me a little cheek massage.

As he went to work, I laughed and said, "Do you feel like you're kneading dough?"

"Well I've never kneaded this much dough before," he replied.

And we have a new entry on the things-not-to-ever-say-to-your-wife list.

It's a good thing he's so handy with power tools and heavy machinery!