April 15, 2008

On Being Domestic

When it comes to domestic duty partnership, I’m a pretty lucky gal. I married a man that loves to cook (therefore I rarely have to), he doesn’t mind cleaning the house (because he suffers from OCD and can’t sit still), does the dishes whenever he feels like it (because he can’t stand to leave them in the sink), thoroughly enjoys doing laundry (because he washes all his clothes after wearing them once) and he considers yard work his “therapy” to unwind from his busy work days (so I never have to mow the lawn or weed the garden).

Okay, so maybe I’m spoiled. Just a little. At least I’m able to admit it. I married a rare breed and I know it. Most of my gal pals tell me their partners rarely lift a finger around the house and none of these men can really cook let alone put a load of laundry in the wash.

However, once I became a work-at-home-mom, my Queen Mum status flew right out the window. Now I’m Queen of the Vacuum and the Daily Doer of Dishes.

I’m not complaining. I have more time to complete these tasks now that I don’t spend 8 hours of my day in a fluorescent-lighted office across town.

Doug still does the cooking because, let’s face it, as a former line cook, he’s better at it. And he likes to do it. But my only complaint is the freakin’ mess he makes in the kitchen. The mess that I clean up. I don’t mind, because I’d rather do dishes than burn dinner. But why do men use ten times more kitchen gadgets than women?

When I cook, I use as little as possible, often drawing a sink filled with soapy water so that I can wash things as I go. But Doug? No. He makes the biggest mess with pans and knives and cutting boards and measuring cups scattered all over the counters.

Am I just being picky? Or do all men do this?

March 24, 2008

Toilet Paper and Hair Dye

Since I’ve been home every single day, the bulk of the household chores have now become mine. I’m not complaining. Not entirely. I really do enjoy picking up after my husband, my son and my dog. They are my boys. I love them so.

However, what I don’t enjoy is the way they constantly leave the same things in the middle of our living room, over and over again.

Like Doug’s shoes! He takes them off leaves them in the middle of the floor, and then I end up tripping on them as I zoom from room to room on my broom cleaning and dusting and putting things away.

Or Dawson’s toys! It doesn’t matter how many times I put a certain toy away after he’s finished playing with it, the toy magically makes it’s way back to the hot zone next to my husband’s size 12 boats.

Or Murphy’s bones! He has two nylon bones that he chews on and leaves them all over the house. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve nearly broken an ankle because I’ve accidentally stepped on one of them?

I’ve actually fallen into a routine. Wake up at 7:30. Eat half a bagel and an omelette. Work online for four hours. Finish work and then yell at Dawson to pick up his shit. Put all the pillows and cushions back on the couch. Follow the kid around until all his toys are back where they belong. Dust and vacuum the living room. Blow up the damn TV that always seems to have SpongeBob on. Make all the beds. Vacuum the bedrooms. Clean the bathroom. Do the dishes, sweep the kitchen floor and take the garbage out. When the husband comes home from work, escape to the gym. Rinse and repeat as necessary, seven days a week.

And then in the midst of all of this, my husband uses the very last roll of toilet paper and doesn’t tell me. I don’t discover this until I have to pee and realize I have nothing to wipe with. So I shake myself dry and do you know how infuriating it is to shake female your parts over the toilet seat and hear your butt cheeks flap? And you wonder why I go to the gym obsessively?

So this weekend, I told my husband how angry I was that he didn’t tell me we were out of toilet paper. He gave me his usual excuse that he forgot or maybe he said he didn’t tell me on purpose to drive me over the edge, I’m not sure because I was so mad I started to hyperventilate.

Anyway, as I’m calmly discussing the situation screaming, my husband, who is much taller than me says, “Wow…are you getting gray.”

I can feel my face getting hot. He inspects the top of my head. “Holy hell, woman, you’ve got a dozen gray hairs on the top of your head.”

I do not think this is funny. Not funny at all.

“If this is some stupid male tactic to distract me from what I was yelling at you about, it’s not going to…OUCH!” He plucked a hair from the top of my head. Sure as rain, the hair he pulled was as white as snow.

“Okay, so that’s just one…OWWW! Stop pulling hairs!” I look to see the second white hair in his hand. I began to cry.

“There’s like, ten more. You want me to get those out, too?” my husband asked.

“Are you fucking nuts? An army of silver hairs will come back to replace the two you just killed.”

Through my tears, I got up, put on my shoes, grabbed my keys and started out the door.

“Where are you going?” my husband asked.

“I’m going to Wal-Mart,” I said. “To get toilet paper.”

“Don’t forget the hair dye!” he shouted after me.

Not funny. So very not funny. I’m only twenty-nine! I was prepared for gray at 40, but not at my age. I’m still young. Right?

March 17, 2008

Bits and Pieces of Bloggy Stuff

I know I haven’t really been blogging much the last few days, and I apologize for leaving you all hanging. I’d like to give you an amazing excuse, but I don’t have one. Yeah, I’ve been busy. But everyone is busy and they still find time to tell their pals they are alive.

The weekend has been filled with non-stop cleaning and picking up after Doug and Dawson. I’m not thrilled about this at all. Every day I vacuum and clean up the house, and every day one of those persons with a penis leaves more stuff for me to put back where it belongs. Is this what I’ve become? An obsessed, clean-freak wife and mom? I hope not. That would drive me crazy.

On Friday, Doug allowed me the privilege of time away from the three-year-old to go shopping and get a hair cut. I ended up bringing Dawson along because I didn’t have the patience to deal with his screaming fit. Twenty minutes later, in the car, Dawson fell asleep. I went to the bank and then turned around and dropped Dawson off at home.

My hair is short. I’ll post a picture very soon. I promise. And if I forget, will one of you please remind me?

Saturday I went to the gym and worked out for an hour while the Doodlebug stayed home with Doug. I’ve been diligent the last few weeks in making certain I work out on the elliptical for 30 minutes, five times a week. I think I’ve lost four pounds, but my scale is old and possibly broken, so who knows what the right number is. Yesterday it said I weighed 139 pounds and I almost passed out. I weigh much more than 139 pounds. Try 490. Heh.

Yesterday, I went to a supper club called Wander Inn with my sister, brother and parents to hear my uncle Mikey’s polka band, The Paper City Sounds, play music from 2-6 p.m. Dawson came along, too. He loves polkas and his Great Uncle Mikey. It was fun. I love watching the adorable old couples bopping around the floor. They look so much in love after all those years and it makes me smile.

I got a cute video of Dawson dancing a waltz with my father. It’s so sweet, and it reminds me of when I was little and loved dancing with my daddy. I think I might post it for your viewing pleasure.

Which brings me to today. I’m twenty-nine today. Twenty-freakin-nine. Years old. I have to say it over and over again, just to make sure I believe it myself.

I thought I would be more freaked out than I am, but surprisingly I’m not. Yet. It could still happen. I’ve been freaking out about getting older since I turned twenty-six. I don’t know why. I know it’s stupid. I’m still young. Right?

Nothing else to report quite yet. Alleluia! Dawson is officially potty-trained. I started the training boot camp at the end of December and you may remember my frustrations. January was rough. He had a few accidents. February was better, he still wore a pull-up for most of the day because I didn’t want to clean up messes. And now the boy has moved to underpants all day and pull-ups only at night. Can I say how much I love not changing diapers? I LOVE NOT CHANGING DIAPERS! My new gripe? The words, “Mommy, I need you to come wipe my butt!”

Yeah…that’s not my favorite part. But I’ll take that task over diaper changing any day.

Well…I’ve got deadlines and things that need doing, but I promise a real, coherent, interesting blog post tomorrow. (And if I don’t deliver, y’all can kick my ass!)

October 16, 2007

In just a few short hours…

…my husband and I will put on our party clothes, the baby sitter will be here to watch Dawson and we’ll have an amazing dinner (rain check from the Anniversary Date that was canceled).  And if we’re lucky, the Doodlebug will be asleep when we arrive home.  You know…because I’ll have had a few drinks and I will not want to deal with a little boy who likes to stay up past his bed time.

Seven thirty really needs to hurry up.