Go Local City/State Team!

NFL starts tonight. Tom and I have negotiated the terms of football season down to 3 games a week.  I am going to try to hate televised football less openly this year because while I do hate televised football enough to want to kill it, I love my husband and want him to be happy and he enjoys it. And knowing that it's only 3 games a week should help.  And I do love all the other football things. I love bratwurst, and beer, and hooded sweatshirts. I just hate watching people actually playing football.*


*but mostly I hate playing single parent so that Tom can devote his full attention to not missing any of the game.

It's just not worth the payback

I went shopping with my friend on Friday.  I shouldn't have. I should have remembered that this is the same woman who takes her 2 year old with her when she goes shopping and doesn't get home until after 10:00. We exist on different schedules and I should have remembered that before leaving at 2:00pm, but I didn't. I got home at 9:00pm.
Tom went golfing on Saturday morning.  He always golfs one weekend morning and then I get to sleep in the other morning. He told me that he had to make the painful decision to actually turn down golf (insert mock pain here) when some guy was looking to set up a game on Sunday and Tom had to say no, his wife only lets him golf once a week. I made the comment that I'd almost be willing to let him go again if he gave me some time to work on my quilt in return. Part of the joke was a sincere desire for free time to sew, and part was me just not liking the whole "My wife won't let me" comment.  Either way, we went back to watching TV.
Tommy went down for his nap at the usual time and I started working on something here at the desk, in the living room.  I printed out Ryan's name in huge font, cut the letters out, and was pinning them to fabric, to iron and sew as appliques, when Tom told me to just go ahead and go back to the bedroom (where my sewing machine is) and do it without the distraction of Danny reaching for the scissors and pins.  I probably got 2 hours to do stuff, with the boys banging on the bedroom door, before Danny started crying for me and I gave up and came out.
So last night, at 11:00pm right before bed, he says, "So since I gave you time for your quilt, I get to play golf in the morning again, right?"  I got 2 hours of listening to my children cry and bang on the door while their father ignored them and for that I have to give up my only day to sleep in all week?  But again, I'm not his mother and I kind of resent the implication that I have to "let him" do things.  I just told him to do whatever, that if he was gone when the boys woke up in the morning that I'd get up with them.  So sure enough, he left before 7:00 am, and the boys woke up not long after.
I'm not going shopping any more. Or working on quilts. Or doing just about anything else that's fun and just for me.  It's not worth the price.  Anything I get, or get to do, comes back to bite me in the ass because I have to pay for it, later, at a cost I never agreed to in the first place.  Tom has his golf, and his wood working, and his 12 hours a week of televised football all fall and winter, and I'd just like to be able to leave the house without screaming children, and piece together old t shirts and sheets for fun (can't afford to buy fabric), and it turns out that a hobby is too much to ask for.

Can I just say this?

Marriage isn't supposed to make you happy.  It's supposed to make you married.  Here's how it's supposed to work.
A large portion of our single lives is taken up with trying to find a mate.  Once you find that mate, a large chunk of life is left free to explore life, develop hobbies, pursue interests.  So then you go become a well-rounded person and become happy, content, satisfied.  And he does the same.  And at the end of the day you come home to someone who cares and asks how your day was.  And then you are happy, content, and satisfied, and together.  You are happy together.  Not necessarily just because you are together, but side by side.  But then people decided at some point that the other person in the marriage is supposed to shoulder the responsibility of keeping you happy, of making you happy apart from hobbies and outside interests. That the old model of Grandpa in his wood shop and Grandma in her sewing room, together until they die in their teak rocking chairs, was somehow bad.  They were only companions, just roommates, and that wasn't enough.  So now we all expect some sort of impossible fireworks from our marriages and when it doesn't happen we get upset.  Perfectly functional, happy, content marriages are now unsatisfying because our spouses are ballsy enough to expect us to go forth in the world and make ourselves happy.  Didn't they know that was their job?!

In my next life, I'm a dyke all the way

I hate when we fight right before bed.  He goes to sleep, I stay up to make the point that I'm mad and not just going to trot off to share a bed with him, and then I'm the one tired but without a bed to sleep in.  Plus, he should be the one awake in the living room alone.  He's the one who refuses to confront or resolve anything.  He's the reason our fights never die, only hibernate. And now I'm yawning into a computer screen that gives me headaches and he's the one snoring into the baby monitor.  I hope I roll over in my sleep and hit him in the balls with my knee.

Starting to think I'm the only one

I was chatting with someone the other day about those dual zone electric blankets, where each half has its own gauge, and I mentioned that I don't understand how they would work unless each person slept separately on their own side of the bed and who does that, really.  I got a blank stare.  Apparently everybody does that, everybody but me.
Tom and I sleep in the middle, or both on one side.  We sleep together, spooning or with one person curled against the other. And while I never assumed that everybody did that, I did assume that probably half of all couples did it and that the other half at least were near each other.  Apparently I was wrong and everybody but me and Tom sleep far apart from each other, with some sort of electrified barbed wire barrier down the middle of the bed.  That's an exaggeration, but you get my drift.  I've always wondered about those Sleep Number beds, and dual sided heated mattress pads, and those Craftmatic beds with the split down the middle.  But it seems like we are just the only couple who sleep all smushed together.  I just wonder why.

wtf

Why is it that if I go around to the bathroom and laundry room trash cans and empty them all into one bag it's my job to take that bag to the trash, but if someone else empties them all into one bag and then sets it on the floor then the least I can do is take it the rest of the way to the trash? Tom left a bag of lint and tampons in front of my bathroom sink a week ago and wonders why I use his sink now.

It fucked up my day

Ever wake up in a fine mood - I mean a normal morning shuffling-your-feet eyes-barely-open mood - only to see something so innocuous yet wrong as to have it just completely fuck up the day right from the beginning? Maybe it's a glob of toothpaste spit in the bathroom sink, or pee dribbles on the toilet seat, or just a cereal bowl with flakes cemented to the inside of it on the counter, or maybe even something far worse, but it grosses you out, you have to clean it up, and you know that the responsible party will never do anything more than laugh it off. That's my morning today. Before even making my coffee, before even setting eyes on my coffee pot, my day started with having to clean up yuck, somebody else's yuck that somebody else should have cleaned up his own damn self. And it fucked up my day. And I know damn well that he is out there, in the world, driving his little semi around, waiting for me to call him, and I'm not going to do it. Because I am still shuffling my feet with my eyes barely open, wishing my migraine pills were opiate based rather than NSAID, and completely unwilling at this point to hear a half-hearted chuckling "Sorry, hon." I am just not in the mood for it, in large part because my day has been fucked up. Can I say that again? Tom fucked up my day.

Everything's exaggerated because I'm not that stupid.

Ever disagree with your husband about something important to him, something close to him? It's even worse when it's a family thing because then it become an in-law thing and those never end well.

It absolutely sucks. Can I say that again? Disagreeing with one's husband about his own family is a no-win situation. Literally every direction you turn you just lose. One degree angle turns all around and you're screwed at every one. It's a statistical anomaly. I mean, somewhere out there is a woman who is somehow by marriage related to a serial killer and she gets in trouble when she says "Your cousin the serial killer, not so much on the list for godparent". And for every teenage school shooter there's one parent out there who was stupid enough to say, "He got that from your side of the family." And then the other parent stormed off to the sofa and took the comfy blanket with them.

You can't even have a valid point. It's like, if the conversation veers into the in-law zone, the road is full of land mines and no concern or argument can survive, no matter how wily it may be. "But your sister is a porn star and maybe shouldn't speak at career day" becomes, somehow, "Your sister is evil incarnate and must not come near the children for fear that legions of crabs might leap from her onto their vulnerable heads."

And while we're at it, when do men learn the silent treatment? Is it that day in elementary school when they separate us and tell us all about periods and boobs? Because I really fell for the line that they got a similar chest hair and boner talk. If you get in a fight with a man and try to resolve it, they just shut down. They instantly decide that you are unworthy of any attention at all and refuse to even nod or blink in response. It is a bafflingly spot-on way to humiliate and crush someone. If only they'd just discussed chest hair and boners.

Valentine's Day

Don't you hate when you're fighting on Valentine's Day? And maybe the fight has sort of ended, but without anything getting resolved so it's just kind of hanging there in the middle of the room and everybody's walking around it, pretending it's not there, but eventually it will fall and splat open again. And even though you know/hope it will all be over with and you can move past it, and maybe if you're lucky some real actual issues will get ironed out in the process, it still absolutely sucks that the sincere and heartfelt card you spent a lot of time choosing at the card rack now smacks of unintended irony.

And he wonders why I'm fat.

I know my husband love me. I know it intellectually and at times I know it in my gut too. Today was one of those days when Tom did so many absolutely sweet things for me that I wondered who he'd slept with. (just kidding)

First, he bought me oatmeal. But he bought me the good kind of oatmeal. I eat steel-cut oats every morning and McCann's Irish Oatmeal is supposed to be the best but I never bought it because it costs twice as much as the cheap stuff and really, how different could raw oats be? But last week the store was out of the cheap stuff so he bought the McCann's and let me tell you, raw oats can vary a lot. Oh these are good. And today, he bought me two big cans of the McCann's. Now I not only have the yummy oatmeal but I have the decorative cans as well. He loves me.

He also bought me Wafernusse, which is my favorite candy. It's only a dollar at Aldi but still, he thought of me. If you haven't had Wafernusse I highly suggest trying it. It's like a kit kat but not as hard, and with hazelnut flavor in it.

Then he went uptown tonight to buy chicken breasts, because he has a thing for chicken breasts, and when he came home he made supper and wouldn't let me in the kitchen. When supper was ready I was surprised because it was fish and rice, which is nothing special. I mean, I love Tom's fish and rice, but we have it fairly often and it's not really a secret-worthy meal. But there was a dish on the table with a paper towel on it so I went and peeked and . . . . he made me mussels! I didn't even know you could buy mussles in town here, and he made them. In garlic butter! And they are my favorite food and I love them so much and he made them for me and I ate them all. And in the fridge, for me to make possible tomorrow, is a brisket. I have wanted to make a brisket for a while now and apparently today was the day I get all the food related things I've ever wanted, is there it is atop the chicken breasts.

On a serious note, though, I really do wonder if he slept with somebody.

I'm having a bad day, alright?

I am a stay at home mom, and no matter how many catchy little emails get forwarded into my inbox telling me that my job costs $100,000 a year to hire out (nannies, cab service, maid, etc) I still bring nothing in. I may very well save money, but I do not earn money. And I am accutely aware of this fact. My husband provides for the family, I just clean up after it.

Some part of me, no matter how feminist I try to get about marriage being an equal partnership and me being a stay at home mother, not a housewife, still feels like I have to be a martyr in order to earn my keep. I mean, let's face it, emotional pain and trauma aside, the family could survive a lot better without me than without Tom. I could be replaced with a case of baby formula and a day care; Tom pays the bills and he parents. So, to defend my existence and expense, I over compensate. I bake and I (at least attempt to) cook, I sew, I wear old clothes with holes and I don't ask for new. Part of this is because I actually like baking and sewing, but part of it is because if I'm not going to earn money the least I can do is try not to hemorrhage it either. To tell the truth, the bra I'm wearing right now is 13 years old and expense is a big part of the reason I decided to let my hair color go natural. But also, I hold out eternal hope that one day somebody will appreciate all that I did that went unappreciated. Sadly, the thing about being an unsung hero is that you often remain unsung. How many early Christians were crucified and they're not the ones we think of when we see a cross. Not all martyrs are remembered.

I prefer reality

My parents divorced. Nothing special or unique about that; divorce was the national past time in the 80s. What's odd is to be my age and have parents who aren't divorced. As a "child of divorce" (cue sad music) I absolutely abhor divorce. Some kids with divorced parents end up with the "my parents split up and I turned out okay" mindset but not me. I have the "my parents' split was traumatic and I never want to do that to my kids" mindset. Do I have deal breakers, things that would cause me to contemplate divorce? Of course I do; everybody does. But I have very few of them and they are extreme. And lack of romance or dead sparks are not on that list.

I detest romance, or rather the preposterous definition most people have. I'm a realist, myself. Romance fades, it dies, it is replaced by yeast infections and stinky bathrooms and baby puke and grown up puke. People who expect "true love" to be a never-ending smoke machine filling their lives with pink fog and giggling are delusional. I do not understand married couples who can't pee in front of each other. It makes as much sense to me as women who swear their husbands will never see them without make up. If your relationship is so fragile that one misplaced fart will bring it to the ground, your problems go beyond a man seeing you tinkle.

I have a friend who desperately wants a "real man", a cowboy, a George Strait video. Wanna know the secret behind George Strait videos? They're only 4 minutes long. Four minutes of the perfect man, whittled out of hours of footage. It takes months to make a romance movie, in large part because it takes 12 takes to get one perfect romance scene. And some women expect this shit to happen spontaneously and randomly in real life?!

I've had friends who have divorced because the spark died out, or the romance faded, or they "just became roommates". Guess what: that's supposed to happen. That's what you signed up for. Companionship, friendship, not 50 years of fireworks. And why would you even want fireworks the whole time? How much work must that be, to keep up the pretense of perfection? How much stuff must you go through alone because you can't share it with your husband? Sometimes bitching helps; I believe that firmly. To not be able to bitch about things would drive me nuts. "I hate my period, especially heavy days. I kind of wish I could just birth a placenta every month and have it done with." "Ohhhh, my tummy hurts. I will be so happy when I finally poop and the pain goes away." Or even just to ask for help! I need to be able to ask my husband for help sometimes. "While you're at the store could you pick me up some Super tampons?" "I need to borrow ten bucks for Monistat." "Honey I clogged the toilet! I need help!"

I know. I sound really gross here. But keep in mind that all of these examples are over the course of 6 years (so far) and 2 pregnancies. I cannot imagine going through all of that with the mindset that I had to hide every bacne outbreak or gassy night (where do these people sleep after a bad meal?).

But also remember that my husband has the same freedoms I do. He gets sick and doesn't hide it. He can talk about the wart on his hand or the fungus on his foot or the alien life form he coughed into the sink in the morning. He can send me to the pharmacy for embarrassing items (and he does, and I go) and describe potty things to discern if such things are normal or not. And I can still look at him and see my handsome, sexy, wonderful husband, even after hearing about butt pimples or whatever. Because I'm not infatuated, I'm in love. And I don't need a fireworks display to confirm it constantly. I am happy with the sunset. The sky is still lit up, but it's quiet now, and the colors are softer, and it's real. And I am so glad I don't have to always be on my best dating behavior. How exhausting to live an entire life together trying to make a good impression. If Tom can't handle being married to a real live 34 year old human now, how on Earth would I expect him to handle being married to a 50 year old human, or a 60 year old human? I'm gonna need him to drive me to my colonoscopies someday. If I ever get chemo, he's gonna be the one nursing me through the nausea and hair loss. If I can't be seen peeing now, am I going to move out later? Someday I will be changing this man's diapers. I signed up for that when I married him and I knew it then. And I still married him, because to me, it's not about romance. It's about love.

Someone tell me the word for this.

You know what's on my mind? Premises which eliminate any answer but one. I'm sure there's a word for that (and if there is, I want to know it so tell me in the comments section) but I don't know it so now I'll go on ad nauseum with examples.

Why is it that women seem to get either no plastic surgery/botox/liposuction at all, or all of it until they look horrible? You never seem to see the actress who gets one procedure when she's 40 and then looks well rested and fresh, and then quits while she's ahead. They all end up looking like Joan Rivers! I know why; because they're people who got that one procedure when they were 40. Women are made to stand close to the mirror. We see the one blackhead in an otherwise perfect complexion, the wrinkle forming between the eyebrows, and we fixate on it. It's probably because we had to zero in on the bad spot in the food before our family ate it or something, back in the caveman days, but now it just makes hot chicks think they're fat and ugly. And if a woman is the sort to see plastic surgery as an option, she will use it for everything. And then you end up with a plastic woman who doesn't look 30 years younger and just looks fake. But the skin that did sag now doesn't, and the blotch that was there isn't, and each piece that had to be fixed is, and she never steps far enough back from the mirror to see the big ugly picture. But the women who accept crows' feet and eyelid droop as okay don't go for the botox in the first place. The type who would quit while they were ahead never started in the first place.

Why do studies always show that second marriages have higher divorce rates than first marriages? Because the very question eliminates from the mix the sorts of people who don't divorce. Sure, some of the second marriages could be widows and widowers, but it's generally divorcees. And divorcees have seen that they can survive a divorce and go on to find love again. And just like everything else, it becomes easier each time. The world didn't end when my first marriage failed so it won't end when my second one does either. The people who refuse to file for divorce are less likely to find themselves in second marriages so they don't make the second marriage statistics.

my goals, and they be lofty goals, too!

I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I think, as a concept, they're damned from the start. If losing weight or quitting smoking is something you're so eager to do, you wouldn't have put off starting until New Year's. Picking an arbitrary date sometime in the future for a goal you decide is important in December (or earlier) is a sure sign that you're not really psyched about doing it, and soon whatever motivation comes with January first will fade away to the same uninspiring level you had when you first thought the thing up.

So I make goals. This year, I would like to lose weight, same as last year (after I gave birth, of course). I plan to continue to deny myself excessively large American portions of food, to keep trying to eat mostly plants, and hopefully to exercise, which I find exceedingly difficult to make myself do unless it's warm enough for a walk with the stroller.

I also would like to find a way to motivate Tom without nagging. The thing is, it's easy to nag less; you just stop doing it. But then stuff never gets done, deadlines pass, and all of a sudden it's my fault because I didn't remind him. So, I need to find the magical motivation in the land of unicorns and flying monkeys that will get Tom to do things he has promised to do, and knows he should do, yet needs to be nagged to do.

I want to take my kids to have their pictures taken, professionally. Ryan gets school pictures taken, but we rely on camera phones and digital cameras for the boys. I want to take the boys down to JCPenney's like I used to do with Ryan. I'd also like to get at least one good picture of all 3 of my kids together. And as long as I'm dreaming of a world without sitting fees, a new family picture would kick ass too.

I would like to get my blender cabinet. I have been nagging Tom (because there is no other way, dammit!) for months to build me a blender cabinet. Obviously, Tommy's big boy bed took priority, but now that it's done, I would like my cabinet. I have a very specific idea of what I want, but it is not what I will get. Tom will find a way to make it "better", with no idea of why I wanted it a specific height or width or whatever, and I will forever lament what could have been. But I have a waffle iron, panini press, food processor, food chopper, George Forman grill, and a coffee grinder and no place to put them. (Ironically I don't want to put the blender in the blender cabinet because it is red and looks nice on the counter.) I also have many plants that need to be on top of a blender cabinet in front of the window but which would, in its absence, merely fall to the floor and be eaten by the cat.