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?

January 26, 2008

At War

For the past three weeks, Dawson and I have been suffering bronchitis or pneumonia, or sinusitis, or maybe it’s just a very bad cold. At this point it doesn’t even matter.

I missed a week of work, we went to the doctor and got medicine, and for five days we were feeling better. Then, last Monday, it was as though we were sick all over again, only this time it was worse.

I called the family doctor and told him our new symptoms and he prescribed two more weeks of antibiotics. I have to take amoxicillin horse pills, Dawson has to have a half-teaspoon of Augmentin three times daily.

As I type this, Dawson is throwing himself into the wall because he DOES NOT WANT TO HAVE DA YUCKY MED-SIN!

No matter what I do or how I try to coerce him into swallowing this junk, he won’t budge.

I’ve resorted to sitting on top of him, as gently as possible of course, with his arms pinned under my thighs and prying his mouth open to force the milky-white, shitty-tasting medicine down his throat. Bubblegum flavored, my ass. And half the time he spits up what I put in.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m in tears because I feel like I’m torturing my precious child. But I know that we have to do this to get rid of the crap that’s taking over our bodies.

I’m crying because my mind is wandering. Maybe I should have never put my child in daycare and then he wouldn’t have brought home this nasty illness and we wouldn’t be suffering so miserably. Maybe I should quit my job and put my son into a protective bubble so he never gets sick again.

It could be that I’m delirious from the pills and the Tylenol sinus relief tablets. Or maybe the fact that my nose is running, my face hurts, my ears are plugged and I can’t hear a thing is what is wearing me down. Right now I feel like the shittiest mom on the planet and it sucks. This is one battle I hope to never fight again.

*Updated -  After tricking Dawson into take his medicine, we settled on the sofa to watch t.v. only to discover the cable not working.  He cried, I cried, and then we bundled up — snow pants and all — and went outside.  The cold air felt so damn good.  My nose unplugged, but my left ear is still stuffed with something.  No one can talk to me on that side or I won’t hear them.

November 21, 2007

I confess…

That today is False Confessions Day. My confession is that I’m very, very, VERY excited about this. Heh.

Thanksgiving. Tomorrow. Turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. I can feel my hips widening at the very thought of the desserts that will line my mother’s buffet. I’m bringing the Blueberry Cheeseycake. Grandma’s recipe never fails to satisfy the sugary appetites of my family, and of course it sticks right to my thighs.

I still haven’t gotten the ingredients I need from the grocery store. I’m procrastinating and I have no excuse for this behavior. Especially when I was at the store yesterday to get stir-fry seasoning. I just didn’t have the patience to deal with it. More about that in a moment.

Yesterday I left work and hour early because I had an appointment for my annual eye exam. Dr. Rollins’ office was remodeled over the summer and it’s really nice. I worked for Doc six years ago for about six months and I couldn’t get over the change in the floor layout and design theme. It’s bright yellow and cheery now, as opposed to mauve and dark. Doc lectured me about not wearing my contacts and relying on my glasses. He thinks the migraines I experience are due to constantly putting on and taking off my glasses too much throughout the day. Back to lenses it is.

After the eye exam, I went to get my hair cut. I was originally going for just a trim, but I told Liz (my stylist) to chop it up and make me look funky. Boy, did she. I’ll put up a photo asap. It’s longer in the front and mucho short in the back. I can’t explain it very well, a photo will be required to give you the idea. I suppose it’s kind of like a crooked bowl-cut. I think?

When I got home after my appointments, I was in no mood to run back out to the store. Doug wasn’t sure what to make for dinner and I begged him to find something in the freezer to thaw. We agreed on stir-fry but realized we had no seasoning, other than ginger. I mean, what do you put in besides ginger? Garlic? Pepper? My husband even called the grocery store where he works to ask one of the guys to read the label on the stir-fry seasoning to see if we could match it at home. No dice.

I reluctantly put my shoes back on and drove the 1/2 mile to Copps Food Center. While there, I grabbed the seasoning and ran to stand in line behind the morons nice people in the check-out lanes. These idiots lovely patrons were doing their last minute holiday shopping. Their carts were piled high with stuff, the lines were long, and every single lane was open. Do you think I had the common sense to go back and get the graham crackers, cream cheese and pie filling I needed? No….that would be too difficult.

I rationalized by saying there were too many people in the store and I didn’t want to have to climb over carts to get what I needed. Besides that, I didn’t want to lose my place in the line I stood in for twenty-five minutes. The only moron in that store was me.

As if today will be any different? Hardly. And yet, I have to go back there and get the junk or else my father will be very disappointed that he didn’t get his annual dish of blueberry torte this Thanksgiving.

The good news is that I won’t have to drag Dawson to the store with me. My father is picking him up from daycare today, and Dawson will be staying overnight at my parents’ house. I packed his Lightning McQueen suitcase with pajamas and a change of clothes, and he’s taking his Kermit the Frog sleeping bag with him. This morning, I was explaining to Dawson what a sleeping bag is and how he’ll use that when he goes to bed tonight. When we got to daycare he ran up to Renee and said, “Look at my sleeping frog, Nae!” We both couldn’t stop laughing.

I’m wishing this workday would end quickly…I want to go home and drink an entire bottle of wine tonight! You know, because Dawson is sleeping elsewhere! Holy crap! This means Doug and I can sleep in our own bed next to each other!

Are you procrastinating this holiday season?