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 18, 2008

Rambling, Ranting and Other Blogorrhea

I’ve been going to the gym five days per week because I’m trying to slim down. Way, way down. I’ve got to shed at least 100 pounds. I know you might be rolling your eyes at that statement, but it’s true. Seriously.

I’ve never been this heavy. It makes me sick just thinking about it. I’m not going to tell you my number, but it has a 2 in it. At the beginning of the three digits. This is not good. It’s not healthy, either.

I’ve ditched the fast food (unless it’s an extreme emergency — like the Shamrock Shake I had on my birthday), I’ve stocked up on fruits and veggies and lean meats.

I’m digging 30 minute workouts on the elliptical trainer and I attend two toning classes a week. This all good, right?

And yet, I’ve only lost four pounds. I know. I know. Muscle is working it’s magic here. But still, I’m not a patient person, I want this weight to melt right off of me. High expectations. Totally Unrealistic Expectations. I know this. I’m not totally naive.

Since I subscribe to nine million magazines (totally NOT my fault), one of which is called Self, I decided to take the challenge. The Self Challenge.

Not only that, I’m joining Christina in the Hot By BlogHer Challenge, too.

And, I want to fit into my fricken skinny jeans again.

Yeah. Remember when I said I’d write a coherent post? I fibbed. This is a rambling mess. I can’t even get a sentence put together these days. What the hell happened to me? It’s like I’ve completely forgotten how to blog.

Totally suffering from Blogorrhea. No doubt.

If you missed my latest Mommybloggers post, I highly suggest you run from here and go there. That post actually makes sense. Maybe. I don’t know. See? I’m in a bloggy rut or something.

Although I have some good posts coming up for other blogs, The Dana Files is suffering. For that, I apologize.

But anyway, back to the rambling.

I think I hit my breaking point when I was trying on clothes in Target on my birthday. I found some adorable things, but they quickly became ugly ass fashion disasters the moment I put them on and stared at my rear in the mirror with the dim lighting of the dressing room, which highlighted my biggest assets. It was horrible. I cried. Can we say “muffin top”? Followed by “pear shaped blob” a.k.a my ass?  I think my ass grew an ass.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Thing is, I’m all for eating healthy and exercising, but my husband is not. He could care less about what he puts in his mouth. His weight barely fluctuates year to year. Not that he’s a thin mint, he’s got some marital bulge, too. But he does most of the cooking and I do most of the sulking when buttons pop off my pants.

I saw a photo of myself from Christmas and I was sick. I look terrible. And it’s not a self-image problem. I’m seriously overweight.

I have so much to say about this topic, but I can’t get the words to come out. I don’t know what my problem is.

Y’all better read this post quickly, before I wake up tomorrow and delete it.

March 5, 2008

Untitled Rambling

I have a post that I desperately want to write, but I can’t find the proper words. It’s a topic that is important to me, but I know if I start to talk about it, it’ll just sound like a whiny, cranky, “why, Dear God, why? Why is this not happening?” kind of post and I don’t want it to be like that.

All I can say is: Eleven Months. And nothing. No matter how hard I try to trust in God and to believe that it will happen whenever He wants it to, I still get upset and depressed and I cry and cry and cry. I cry in the privacy of my own room, where no one can hear me or see me, so naturally they won’t know it bothers me. But it does.

I ignore the questions from family and friends asking, “when?” because I don’t know. I. Don’t. Know.

And every day I’m constantly reminded of the joy that others are experiencing, and I am so very happy for them. So happy. And yet, in the back of my mind I resent that happiness because, really, it isn’t mine. I know it sounds selfish. I admit that. And I’m working through that, but it’s difficult because it hurts to think about it.

It’s just disheartening to know that something is wrong, again. Add to this emotional roller coaster a job loss, uncertainty as to what the hell I’m doing with my life, and no wonder God says it’s not the right time.

I know this post is a rambling mess, and I’m sorry. I just need to vent. See? Whiny, cranky mess. I told you so.

February 25, 2008

Free Time

Now that I’ve been home for a few days, Dawson has been glued to my side. I cannot use the bathroom without him barging in to make sure I haven’t disappeared forever. I don’t understand why he’s acting so clingy. He sits next to me through out the day. If I switch chairs in the living room, he will follow. I love the extra time I have to spend with him, but I can only take being smothered for so long.

Yesterday, I spent the day with my mother. Dawson was very mad that he couldn’t come along, but my husband reasoned that I will have plenty of time alone with the Doodlebug, so I should take advantage of my time away. Doug and Dawson spent the day at home playing with Matchbox race cars, and my mom and I went to Marshfield to checkout the Figi’s outlet store. On the way back we had lunch at a local dive, Sunrise Restaurant, and the food was delicious. Cheap prices and huge plates. I had the Gyro platter and I was stuffed for hours after we left.

After I took Mom home, I spent some time at her house, talking about my job options with her and my father. Dad suggested I open an at-home daycare because our house is in the prime location, between two elementary schools in a part of town that is filled with young families. I’m definitely considering the idea, and if Doug goes along with it, I’ll be even happier.

For years, I’ve wanted to stay home with Dawson. If I can do that and still contribute to the family income, my life would be complete. Wish me luck. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do!

I’ve managed to get a lot of housework completed these last few days, a major accomplishment, and Doug loves coming home to a clean house. (A plus! I’ll use that in my case to persuade him to allow me to work from home.)

I’m off to tackle Dawson’s room. It looks like a tornado has blown right through it.