To Give some contrast to my previous post, here's just some of the reasons why being a woman FREAKING ROCKS!
We got off the Titanic first.
We get to flirt with systems support men who always return our calls, and are nice to us when we blow up our computers.
Our boyfriend's clothes make us look elfin & gorgeous. Guys look like complete idiots in ours.
We can be groupies. Male groupies are stalkers.
We can cry and get off speeding fines.
We've never lusted after a cartoon character or the central figure in a computer game.
Taxis stop for us.
Men die earlier, so we get to cash in on the life insurance.
We don't look like a frog in a blender when dancing.
Free drinks, free dinners.
We can hug our friends without wondering if they're gay.
We can hug our friends without wondering if WE'RE gay.
New lipstick gives us a whole new lease on life.
If we're not making enough money we can blame the glass ceiling.
It's possible to live our whole lives without ever taking a group shower.
No fashion faux pas we make could ever rival The Speedo.
We don't have to fart to amuse ourselves.
If we forget to shave, no one has to know.
We can congratulate our teammate without ever touching her butt.
If we have a zit, we know how to conceal it.
We never have to reach down every so often to make sure our privates are still there.
If we're dumb, some people will find it cute.
We don't have to memorize Caddyshack or Fletch to fit in.
We have the ability to dress ourselves.
We can talk to people of the opposite sex without having to picture them naked.
If we marry someone 20 years younger, we're aware that we look like an idiot.
There are times when chocolate really can solve all your problems.
We'll never regret piercing our ears.
We can fully assess a person just by looking at their shoes.
We'll never discover we've been duped by a Wonderbra.
We know which glass was ours by the lipstick mark.
To all two of my readers out there, I'm sorry in advance. This isn't going to be a very lighthearted, witty, sarcastic post. This is a pissed off, fed up woman talking here. First, the background info:
Last October, Joe, Bryans best friend, got kicked out of the house he shared with his GF. Bryan told him he could move in with us. At the time, Joe only worked a part time job as a bouncer making roughly $9 an hour. We had just found out I was pregnant. It was a very rough time in my house. I was very emotional and poor Bryan was at his wits end. We picked up alot of the slack financially for Joe. I also picked up after him as well. His 'defense' was that since he cooked and did the dishes, he shouldn't have to do anything else. He's also very crude, which I cannot stand. I don't want to know what his privates look like, (though I know now!), nor do I need to know all the intimate details of his fecal matter, or sexual exploits. But he thinks its comedy gold and thusly tells me. I would bring this up to Bryan and I was told to deal with it and grow up. "You'll have to deal with these kinds of people eventually, Heidi." I begged Bryan to force him to get his own place. "We need the money right now, Heidi. Besides, he's like family. How can I turn out family? And really, it's nice to have a break from you and hang out with someone I totally relate to." Mnay. many fights ensued about Joe. His crudeness, insensitivity, his general mysoginistic attitude towards women, how I wasn't mature enough, how I needed to grow up, how I was clearly not ready to be a Mother, how I can't/won't cook, how I do the dishes ALL WRONG!, yada yada yada. Needless to say, the limited interaction we have is pretty tumultous. Mostly because we both assume we're attacking one another, which we mostly are, despite mutual assurances that we're not.
Anyway, we got into it last night. Again. Here's the double standard I'm seeing here with this little highly dysfunctional trifecta we have going on here:
1) It's fine for Joe and Bryan to vent to each other about what a total bitch I'm am, but I'm not supposed to vent to Bryan. It puts him in the middle. Uh huh.
2) When I vent to Bryan about Joe, it causes tension. But apparently when Joe vents to Bryan about me, that causes no tension. Right.
3) Joe bitches that I don't cook or do the dishes. Yet, when I try to cook or help cook, it's an endless stream of critsicisms and jabs at my expense and if I don't do t his way, I'm obviously disrespecting him, and not interested in what he has to say. (It couldn't be that I want to try it my way, noooo.) Or that I get yelled at because I don't do the dishes exactly the way they do it. I don't inspect every micrometer of the dish for soap, which God knows, could send us all to the ER for poisoning. Yep, that happened every time when I lived on my own and did dishes my way.
4) Joe heartily believes that since he does the dishes and cooks, (in all fairness he is a wonderful cook), he shouldn't have to do anything else. Not help sweep or vacuum up the tons of dog hair his dog produces. He doesn't think he should help dust, either. Nope, I should do all that since I don't help cook or do dishes.
5) For a couple of months when I was on my maternity leave, I went from making $1200 a month to $400, and I couldn't afford to pay my share of things. Bryan said he understood, and paid for me. When I went back to work, for about 2 months I had $400 that I had to pay to the bank every paycheck to pay off a loan. In Joe's eyes, I'm a total gold-digging, no-good, lazy, selfish moocher for this. But it was cool when he was working 10 hour weeks at $9 an hour and we paid for him. Riiiight.
6) I'm a horrible mother. Because I don't let Pook fuss it out, don't use his parenting advice, and I can't seem to multitask when I'm with her. She consumes all my attention and energy, while Joe, God that he is, can. His mother did it, why can't I? Why is it I can multitask at work but not at home? (Could it be that my computer, phone, and sales reps don't screech at the top of their lungs if my full undivided attention isn't on them??) And because I go out every so often with my girls. Because, ya know, "My mother's sole happiness in life was seeing her family warm, happy, and fed." (Which I doubt, but whatever.) This coming from a man who hasn't seen his daughter in over a year. (Looong story.) But hey, he's Doctor Spock on parenting.
7) I obviously don't care if either one of them has had a crappy day. WTF? Excuse me? Contrary to his belief, I kinda have to care about whether or not he's had a crappy day because it affects Bryan which affects me. Because when I ask bryan why he's had a bad day, Joe said "I know exactly what made it a bad day. Either Dave [coworker] or you." Well thanks. Pardon me for not assuming that it might be something else, like his ex, system issues, or his boss. Oh, and when I have a bad day I take it out on everyone else, and "that is rude and disrespectful". Oh, but when y'all have bad days and are nasty for the rest of the night, I'm supposed to be cool with it? Puh-leeze.
8) Another issue is the government aid I get. Because I'm unmarried, by IRS standards I'm considered a single mother. I get WIC and daycare help. When he was with his GF and their baby, they got WIC, Welfare, and food stamps. He actually had the nerve to tell me, "Yeah, you had a baby that I'm paying for!" Okay...But when my tax dollars paid for your kid that was fine?
9) I drive Bryans car. We sold my old car back in July. For one, we needed something bigger since it was impossible to fit Bryan, me, his kids, and Pook in the car. We used the money to pay off some things, and groceries and other bills. I put gas in Bryans tank as much as I can afford to, and yes, sometimes Bryan has to pay for it. Joe drives Bryans old pickup and does the exact same thing. But because I peeled out last night in a rage, I am disrespectful to Bryans things. (Leaving soda cans and food wrappers in the bed of his pickup is kosher, however.)
10) He assumes all the f***ing time that I am disrespecting him and treats me in kind. What he doesnt realize, despite my attempts to explain otherwise, is that I don't invest that much emotional energy into him. I actually make a consious effort to NOT come off as disrespectful. I don't think he does. (Maybe I'm wrong.) He thinks I'm incredibly immature and I need to grow the f**ck up. (His exact words, folks.) I have tried to explain that I am doing the best I can, but it doesn't happen over night, and for the record, I happen to think I'm pretty mature for only being 23. He won't listen to anything I have to say if it isn't 100% in agreeance with him, and mocks my views/thoughts/opinions. Yet when I respond in kind, I am (again) being disrespectful blah blah blah.
So anyway, I'm not sure what to do here but hopefully y'all will understand why I am seeing double. I've tried talking to both Bryan and Joe but it does no good. I keep trying to tell myself to wait until March when our lease is up and he moves out. I try to psyche myself up saying I don't need to put up with this shit, but then it creates tension in the house.
And in all fairness, Joe does have his good points. He's a fabulous cook. He will defend his ideas to the death. (As do I, which creates conflict.) He firmly believes in what he thinks is right, and he doesn't sway from it. He is unwaveringly loyal to Bryan and truly wants what is best for Bryan. However, we seem to have different ideas on what's best for Bryan. He's also got an iron clad work ethic. When he debates a point, he's thoroughly researched it and can counter any point. (Notice I did NOT say argument. Debating and arguing are different things.)
Thanks for listening. You stay classy, Spokane. (And internet.) Love you all.
My morning and my work day sucked yesterday. By the time I arrived at daycare I was tired and cranky.
So was Pooker Butt.
She's in a phase, (a least I hope it's just a phase), where she will only catnap for about 20-30 minutes. And even then it's accompanied by fussing, crying, whining, wimpering, yawns, eye rubs, and screams if you lay her down to nap. She reminds me of an overtired toddler wheedling, "But I'm not tired, Mommy!" when you know full well a nap is needed.
Anyway, when we got home, after 20 minutes, it was fuss fuss fuss. She was doing the whole eye rubbing thing. I was tired too so we went upstairs to take a nap. Pook in her crib and I in my cozy, fleece-sheeted bed. She was having none of it. She wanted to lay with Mommy. Okay, that's fine. I snuggled her in next to me and I figured I would get to sleep before the tacos were done.
What a joke that turned out to be.
Pook wanted to play with Mommy. Wanted me to get all ten million of her toys and rotate them so she was entertained. If I stopped or didn't read her mind and know that she wanted the purple bunny not the white one, a high pitched shriek would ensue. Me, being a total pushover, would give it to her and play with her even though I was ready to drop dead.
I really am trying to let her fuss it out, I swear. But again, Mommy Guilt rears its ugly head. I feel guilty for not attending to her every whim, and there's a voice inside my head that says "These are the crucial years when you need to bond with your daughter. And you're missing them all for a few selfish minutes of sleep."
Finally Bry came up and took her from me so I could burrough into the covers for 20 minutes before the intoxicatingly delicious smell of tacos wafted up to me and woke me from my dream of Clive Owen and I on a desserted island, proclaiming our undying love for each other.
After dinner I tried to feed the kidlette but no, she didn't want that either. She was only happy if Mommy played Airplane with her. (C'mon, you know what that game is. You raise the baby up high with your arms like they're flying, while making plane noises. Every parent knows that game.) Problem is, I have no arm strength and she was getting heavy. But no! I did this for 20 minutes while my arms are on fire, I'm sweating bullets, (man do I need to get into shape.) and I'm losing it. I called Bryan in from the other room. (Actually, I bellowed out "BRYAN! GET THIS DICTATOR!")
"Why don't you set her down and let her fuss it out?"
[Brief explination of all-consuming Mommy Guilt complex.]
"She's got you wrapped around her little finger."
"Does not."
"Does too."
"Does not, does not, does not!"
"Whatever. You're her slave. She fusses, you're right there. Her sock isn't on just right, you fix it. Face it, this is Soviet Russia, and she's Putin."
Huh. Oh yeah? Well, my dictators cuter than your dictator! HA! Neener, neener, neener! (I've actually never seen a picture of Putin. But it's a safe bet Pook is cuter than he is.)
Here's to another couple of years of being a willing slave in the dictatorship that is my house.
I haven't bought a new bra in over a year. Last time I bought a bra I was pregnant and my boobs made Pam Anderson look like she had yet to hit puberty (or a plastic surgeon, for that matter.)
I only buy my bras from Victorias Secret. Before I got pregnant I was a 36C, and the bras I found in the stores seemed to marketed to women with no curves, women that are candidates for breast reduction surgery, or they were just plain ole fugly. I've bought a few bras from the likes of Wal-Mart, Target, Fred Meyer, and other stores of their ilk. They offered either A) no coverage, B) no support, C) nothing pretty, or D) all of the above. Vickie's was the only place that sold pretty, comfortable, supportive bras. Sure, they're $45 but they last forever and a day, but they're worth it.
When I was pregnant, my boobies changed. They ballooned up to a 34DD and they've stayed at that size. Which is kinda nice, although my shirts are slightly tighter now. But I only had 2 34DD bras, and they've died. R.I.P, oh beloved Bras of mine! How did they die, you ask? It was a long, drawn out death. First the elastic started to go. Then the straps threatened to detach from the band, hanging on by a mere thread. Last week, Bry and I were getting dressed for work, and as I went to put my last good bra on, the band snapped, and broke. It fell to the floor in a lifeless, forlorn heap. I was mad because it broke, Bryan was elated since he got a peek at my goodies. (Men!)
I don't have the $90 to go buy new bras, so I'm kinda forced to use my old 36C bras.
The straps dig into my shoulders, and it hurts. Even when I adjust the strap length, it still hurts. And even when I use the last possible clasp, I am pouring out of this thing. Ever seen a quad boob? You know, when a woman is wearing a bra that's too small and both her boobs run over the cups, making it look like she has 4 boobs? That's me, my cups runneth over. Well, kinda.
One boob, my left one, affectionately nicknamed Big Bertha, is bigger than my right boob, nicknamed Smalls. So I've got the tri-boob. It looks ridiculous. People in the office look at my quizically. Not only do I already wear loose fitting pants, I now have to find baggy shirts so it's not as obvious.
On the positive side...Looks like we're going to Vickies when my get my paycheck! I know that'll trigger another round of Mommy guilt, but at least, as Stacey London says "The girls will be up high where they should be."
OH! I almost forgot! Pook said Dada last night! AWESOME!!!
As with all Mama's, life is a delicate balancing act. Balance between work, time with your child(ren), your spouse, yourself, errands, chores...You get the idea. It's like walking a tight rope. One misstep and you've fallen off, and you have to start all over again. At the other end of the rope is peace, love, and harmony. Sounds hippyish, but it's true. I don't think I've falled off the tight rope: I'm hangin' on by my pinkies.
Bryan and I spent our Saturday with each other. Only each other. (Well, and the kidlette, too.) Our housemate spent his weekend with his girlfriend. But it was spent running errands and doing household chores, like the mountain of laundry. (Which we finally got done. On Sunday.) Finally, when Pook was in bed I figured we'd spend some quality, primo cuddling time on the couch. Nope. He'd disappear into the den to play Gran Turismo 4. For hours.
This angered me. I wanted to spend time with him not talking about the best way to get a stubborn sticky label off a glass, (peanut butter), which rooms have already been vacuumed, (none),or where Pook tossed her binky, (in the dog bowl). Instead I was relegated to the couch angrily flipping through late night infomercials, (isn't the Magic Bullet awesome?!) and bad late night talk shows.
Sunday was a repeat of Saturday. Except we made pancakes for breakfast and let Pook try a little bit. Finally, the housemate came home and they disappeared, lured by the call of a PS2 who hadn't been played in 18 hours. I had told him I wanted to get laundry done, and I got an unintelligable grunt. I huffed out and did it myself. Bry knew I was ticked, a deaf and blind man could've seen that. As I left I heard him mutter, "I got so tired of her following me around this weekend. Yeesh."
I didn't want to start a fight with the housemate right there, (who happens to be Bry's best friend), so I took a walk. I came back to glares and them commiserating on how difficult women (read: me) are to deal with. Finally, the housemate left. Bry comes up to me,
"You upset with me or something?"
"No. Upset is when you forget to give me a kiss in the morning when you leave. This is mad.'
"Okay, so...You gonna tell me what you're mad about?"
That started a diatribe,
"Don't vent to your best friend about our personal troubles. He lives with us, and it's 2 against 1. Find someone else. It's not fair to me. I feel like I have to censor what I'm feeling. Secondly, I followed you around to get in some adult conversation that didn't involve cleaning, errands, or the baby. Forgive me for wanting to interact with you. I know you want me time, so do I. But how about some us time? I feel like when you're home you help me with the baby only because I ask you to, and once she's in bed you bolt to play on the @#$% PS2. You're like a kid who had to finish his chores before you could go play. Damn it, Bryan, I need me time but once she's in bed, why don't you spend time with me?"
Blank stare. He said that the PS2 was his escape. He thought I was perfectly happy tending to the kidlette all by myself(!) Total hair pulling moment. He said he'd try to work on all those things, as long as he could have an hour of the PS2 after the baby was asleep. Deal. Then he dropped a bomb: he's getting a second job. Crap-freaking-tastic.
Money has been pretty tight lately. But I thought Bryan would accept the higher paying job, ($5 more an hour!!!), and we'd be okay. Turns out he turned it down, since it would mean he's doing inbound calls all day in the call center. Which means that he'll be working day and night again, which means that the whole speech about how he will spend time with me is pretty much out the window. It's a part time job working from 6-11, and all day on the weekends.
I'm conflicted. On the one side: great, we're having more money that we desperately need coming in. On the flip side, I'm home alone all the time. No adult to talk to, hug, kiss, or keep my company. This is going to be a repeat of my maternity leave, when Bry did general contracting and wouldn't come home until 3 AM, covered in dust and paint.
I think my tight rope just snapped.
Before I had kids, or got pregnant I had this utopian vision on who/what I would be as a Mother.
I would be perpetually calm, and never lose my temper or snap at my kids.
I would give them home-cooked, nutritious meals and snacks.
My house would be spotless. Not a toy or sock out of place.
My kids would be well-groomed and spotless. Outfits would always be adorable- and clean.
My kids would be the model of good behavior.
I would always be well-groomed and spotless. Outfits would always be stylish-and clean.
I would exude radiance, love, and well-being.
I would plan everything out in advance and never be late.
There would always be educational, fun-filled activities for us to do/play.
Ever opportunity for a lesson would be taken.
My baby weight would magically melt away within 3 weeks of giving birth.
I would never crave ‘me’ time, as I would cherish every waking moment with my angels.
Notice I didn't say realistic expectations? Once reality hit and I had two kids who were not mine and resented me for the first, oh, 6 months of my existence, and I got pregnant and had one of my own I realized that I would probably never be the Mom I wanted to be. Not only is it simply too much work, shit happens. And by shit, I mean life. Here’s what I mean:
I have never been a patient person, and being a parent hasn’t really helped. My temper seems to be actually shorter now. After struggling to get a newborn latched on for 45 minutes, and not being to successful, and having B or T ask me a million questions as the dog is farting at my feet, I lose it. I admit it- I snap at the kids. Even Pook isn’t exempt, when she’s fussing because I took her out of the Excersaucer to put her in her car seat. I feel horrible, I really do.
Home-cooked?! Who was I kidding?! I’ve never had an interest in cooking, or an interest in learning. I can make a few things, but Rachel Ray I am not. I clearly remember one Saturday that Bryan was at a training class, leaving me with the kiddos. We went running errands and they got cranky. I was so wrapped up in getting everything on my list done, I tuned them out. Finally, when the bickering reached fever pitch, I pulled into a parking lot and said, “What is the problem here?!” And then B told me he was hungry, and I looked at my dash clock. Crap, 3 o’clock. I have to feed these guys. I saw my shining, saving grace in neon: McDonalds. The benevolent gentle glow of the golden arches called to me, and in the drive-thru lane we went. Two happy meal chicken nuggets orders later, we were good to go.
My house never has been, nor will it ever be spotless as long as there is off-spring in it. Before I met Bry, I had a little studio that I kept clean, for the most part. Now….Not so much. My living room looks like Babies-R-Us exploded in it. Swing, Excersaucer, play mat, rattles, play gym, various binkies everywhere. Laundry is everywhere. In the laundry room, the halls, the den, living room…Where isn’t it? The drawers and closets bought to store said laundry.
My kids are always dressed appropriately. Are their outfits adorable? Eh…Pook I get to dress so yes, she is always matched perfectly in the pink or purple outfit of my choice. But since the kiddos wear roughly the same pant size, there has been times when B will come downstairs dressed in his sisters back-pocket glitter embellished jeans. And T is a tom-boy, Getting her to wear a cute skirt or dress is like telling a Muslim to eat bacon. Ain’t gonna happen. Now, onto the clean thing. They start out clean. They don’t normally end up clean. Pook either spits up or drools so much that half of her little onesie is soaked. As for the kids…Two weekends ago we were at B’s football game. T found a worm, named “Wormy.” She killed the poor thing by trying to shove it back into it’s hole, and when she stood up her pants were caked in grass and mud, and her ponytailed hair gave Einstein a run for his money. See what I mean?
Bryans kids aren’t ill-behaved. But are they the very model of etiquette and good behavior? No. Why? Because they’re kids, and that’s what kids do. They say what is on their minds, whether it is the right time or not. They argue and fight and bicker. They occasionally back talk. Sometimes in public. Sometimes to the point where a stranger would think, “Those kids are going to kill each other in a second.” But, at the end of the day, they are always the best of friends. But again, little angels isn’t the term I would personally use to describe them. (Neither is little devils.)
Now, before I had Pook, for the most part, I was pretty well-groomed and put together. Outfits were accessorized with the perfect jewelry, hand bag and shoes. Now my hair gets a 5 minute blow dry, if at all, and I leave the house with still damp hair. Jewelry is now one of two watches since Pook have broken more than one necklace chain in an attempt to eat it, and my poor ears got too sore after her making a swipe for my earrings. As for my outfits being put together…Screw it, if it’s clean and kinda matches, I’m wearing it. I used to also wear a lot of skirts to show off my fabulous (shaved) legs. Pants now dominate since I don’t have the time to shave my legs. Most of the shoulders on my tops have drool on them, courtesy of a teething infant.
I exude alright. Impatience and frustration. If you were to spot me in your local Wal-Mart, (my second home now) you’d see a harried, frustrated, impatient mom who just really wants this line to move and a #$%&!! Glass of wine!
I am perpetually 5-10 minutes late for everything, no matter what I do to avoid it. I wake up earlier, inevitably Pook will lose a sock, need to be changed, or we’ll forget to put the dogs up in their kennels so they don’t chew up my house. No matter how I plan my morning/afternoon/evening something happens to throw a wrench in it. I’ll realize halfway to my destination that while I do have the diaper bag, I forgot to pack diapers. Or I’ll come home with this grand vision that tonight’s the night I organize my closet. Then Bryan says we have errands to run, or What Not To Wear comes on. How can I miss that??
I’m not one to advocate using the television as a babysitter…but….If I’ve got a million things to do and Hannah Montana, Wizards of Waverly Place, or Pokémon is on…Thank you, Lord. I know I have at least a half hour of uninterrupted time to accomplish what I need to accomplish. (Like finishing my true crime book.) Or we’ll shoo the kids outside where we can watch them from the kitchen window so we can clean the kitchen while the baby plays happily in her swing.
If the kids want to have PB & J’s for lunch and all I have is tuna fish, guess what they’re getting. Now, I could turn that into a lesson on how to be thankful that they have food, since there’s starving kids in Africa. And explain why some starve when others throw out food, and the injustice in the world. Or I could tell them that tuna fish is what we’re having, end of discussion. Guess which tactic I chose?
My baby weight is not going to go away. Despite trying to eat healthier and trying to squeeze in the time for a few crunches. I have a pooch, and it’s taken up permanent residence on my tummy. Nor did it melt away in the 3 weeks I thought it would, like I saw with all the celebrities. Never did it occur to me that they have chefs, nutritionists, and personal trainers on hand. Besides, when you’re running errands and hit the drive through, it’s easier to eat a burger while driving than it is a salad.
Whatever gave me the impression that kids would be all the entertainment, conversation, and happiness in my life lied. Big time. For one, trying to hold a discussion on the presidential nominees with an 8 year old isn’t going to happen. Secondly, Pook can’t talk yet. And while I dearly love Bryan, he simply can’t fully understand the pain behind nursing, or why Aunt Flow is never a welcome visitor and despite being told she’s persona non grata, she shows up anyway. The nerve.
So, there you have it folks. Proof positive that not only will having a child will change your life, it can and will make you go crazy. Sigh.
First a positive note: my GM, Keith is back. He seems to be doing well, just understandably, he's a little shook up over the whole thing. I thank all of you for your prayers, and I thank God he's alright.
Now why I think this week is gonna be craptastic:
1) I offended my family, which I didn't mean to do. My post wasn't really directed at my father and his family, just a vent in general. My Father, who I mostly refer to as the Old Wolf, is my best friend. I love him more than anything, second only to my daughter. And my stepmom, who I'll call Spit Fire, is such a blessing to me. And her daughter is also a great friend.
2) I've unintentionally insulted 2 of my coworkers, one of whom is my boss.
3) The days get shorter, as does my temper. Thank you, Seasonal Affective Disorder! Which means I have to work twice as hard at controlling my natural sarcastic-ness. But, alas, that doesn't always happen and when it doesn't it's not a fun time at my house.
4) I lost my temper at Pook this morning and I've been beating myself up over it. It was 28 degrees this morning, so thank GOD for the snowsuit my Mom bought me. Pooker Butt wasn’t very fond of being stuffed into it with clothes on already warm enough for the Artic Circle, but one can never be too careful, right? Of course, that lead to me loosening the car seat straps since I added about 10 pound to her with 2 onsies, a sweater, 2 pairs of socks, leggings, fleece pants, and the suit. And since I don’t have a PhD from an Ivy league school, that took some doing. Anyhoo she was fussing, I was late for work, and I said forcefully, "Hush! Just hush, alright? You need to be warm and strapped in!" She looked at me like she was terrified of me, and started crying. Which made me cry and tell her I'm sorry, I love you about a million times.
5) We were in a WebEx this morning and my bra was killing me. The wire for my left cupping was doing its darnest to burrough its way into my boob. So, I discreetly adjusted it. Or so I thought. One of the reps I work with came up to me later and sheepishly said, "Um, next time your bra is giving you issues, can you please not do it when we're in a meeting?" Sigh....
To close on another happy note: I used this hair lotion that I won at the shower...LOVE IT! It's supposed to protect your hair when you blow dry and make it silky smooth. I don't know if it protected my hair but it's incredibly smooth and soft..I think Stacey was the one who discovered it, so THANK YOU STACEY! (And I am in love with the lip gloss, too.)
This is from a 1955 Good Housekeeping guide. I added a few comments of my own. Consider this a kind of ode to all SAHM out there.
The Good Wife's Guide
From "Housekeeping Monthly", May 13, 1955.
- Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about is needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.
Arsenic is a wonderful seasoning, one that your husband might like to try.
- Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
Remember, even though you cooked and cleaned all day, you did no real work.
- Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Because unless you make an effort, you’re just plain boring.
- Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.
After all, he’s had a hard day and can’t be expected to lift a finger to help you.
- Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dust cloth over the tables.
Never let your house look lived in, we prefer the plastic, “never moved in” look.
- Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
And on your bad days, him catering to your needs will only make you feel worthless.
- Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
In the event this doesn’t work, try giving the children morphine to calm them down.
- Be happy to see him.
Just don’t expect him to be happy to see you.
- Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
After all, pleasing him is your mission in life.
- Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first -remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
You would obviously have nothing important to say to him, were it not for his genius mind and conversation skills you would be lost.
- Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead try to understand his world of strain and pressure, and his very real need to be at home and relax.
After all, you only stay at home with the orangutans, children, cook and clean. You have nothing to cause you strain and pressure.
- Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
His goal: to have a robotic wife.
- Don't greet him with complaints and problems.
Because you don’t have a brain, why would you have any complaints and problems?
- Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.
Instead, let him know how much you don’t mind by shredding his clothes, leaving them on the front lawn, and changing the locks.
- Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
Your comfort is trivial and therefore unimportant.
- Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low soothing and pleasant voice.
Say nothing if the lipstick on his collar, and the glitter on his zipper. Simply offer him a delicious “Arsenic A la Mode!”
- Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
Once you became husband and wife, your thoughts and opinions vanished.
- A good wife always knows her place.
And your place is in jail, after putting up with this crap and after years of being a subservient robot, you killed the clod.
Open Mouth, Insert Foot, Part II:
So, out back at my office there was a Mercury Sable with a hood scoop, and dual mufflers on it. We were joking, "Who in their right mind tricks out a Sable?" and this morning one of our sales rep, J, got in it while saying sheepishly, "It's not my car." and I piped in, "Yeah we were wondering who the dipsh!t was that put a hood scoop on a Sable. How lame." and he looked at me and said, "It's my dads' car." Jesus. Next time I speak, just do my a favor and tell me to shut up.
I offended a few people with my latest post, namely, my family. Let me clarify a few things:
1) Going down there was NOT an ordeal.
2) Stacey's kids are well behaved kids. Her oldest had a nasty cold, and naturally, not a happy camper probably. Her kids were just being kids. I was just irritated at the world, and really, millions of parents have a hard time getting kids to bed no matter how well behaved they are. Think back, Dad: how many times was getting H1 and I to bed a war? I know I have the same battle. Stacey, I am sorry. You're an awesome mother and a great friend.
3) My bitches about the people down there were directed at my mother. Let's face it: she is difficult to deal with. (And hell is just a sauna.)
4) I love my family more than anything. They have done so much for me. They have supported me through some very rough times. My Father is my best friend. My stepmom is more of a mother than my own mother. She doesn't pull any punches, she tells you like it is. Even if you don't wanna hear it. I love her very, very much.
5) The whole air mattress thing: it wasn't that big of a deal. My butt hurts a little, but that's it. And really, when Pook napped on it, it was so cute to look at; it looked like she was in a cocoon.
Again, I am sorry for the people I offended. I meant no offense to anyone in any way.
This past 3 days have somewhat sucked thus far. I had a baby shower to go to back home on Saturday, which meant that Friday night I needed to get a gift. Thing is, the couple have no idea what they're having and this is their second child. They're reusing a lot of the stuff from when their DD was a baby. So...What do you get them? I ended up getting them a hooded towel with a frog on it and a bath set for the Mama. And my favorite comfy, stylish heels finally kicked the bucket on Friday. While I was at work, my left heel broke off. Not just broke, broke OFF. O-F-F off. Since it's against company safety policy to walk around barefoot, (besides, it's been eons since I got a pedi. Shudder.), I walked around with this funky limp thing for 3 hours until it was 1700 hours. While at Targét, as we call it, I found a killer pair of red patent-leather Isaac Mizrahi pumps that were only $20 and I bought them. And bawled the whole way home. I felt sooo guilty for buying myself something that it overwhelmed me. Catholics guilt has nothing on Mommy guilt.
So, Saturday I made the 3 hour trek to go home for this shower. Pook was fussy. The. Whole. Freaking. Time. Fun times! Although, I did win 2 of the prize raffles and scored some very pretty, vampish, sexy red O.P.I. burgundy shimmery nail polish. Anyhoo, I'm staying with my Dad and stepmom. My stepsister, her BF, and her two kids are also staying there. It's like Bedlam on uppers. Her kids are 5 & 7, and (sorry Stacey), freaking orangutans! Every little thing constitutes endless whining and water works. It took her 3 times over the course of 12 minutes to tell her oldest to brush her teeth, wash her face, and get into PJ's. It's not that her oldest didn't hear her, she just flat ignored her. By that I mean she'd look right at her and say "Whatever, Mom." Grrr. You're the Mom. Take control, and don't take that kind of crap! So once they were safely in bed, Dad blew up an air matress in the living room for Pook and I to sleep on. It was nice and firm but not too firm, and I'm dying to know where my stepmom got that fleece, down-filled comfortor. Yummy! But, alas, it didn't last. I woke up to the mattress being totally flat, evidence that it had a leak.
Later on that day, I had to go meet up with my Mother. This is always a trial. My mother is convinced we're all out to kill her, and that we (meaning me, Bryan, my Father, and stepmom) sit around cackling evilly concocting ways to off her. She's also convinced my Father has thousands hidden somewhere that she'll get once their divorce is finally finalized. (If he did, I doubt he'd be living like a pauper.) Oh, and did I mention she's convinced that my Father broke into her apartment and laced her powdered creamer with arsenic? I shit thee not, this is my Mother. She also hates Bryan, thinks I lied when I told her my exhusband physically abused me, and looks at my life as more or less one big disappointment and revenge on her. Her plan for me: graduate college, get married, have babies, and stay at home. That's it. Now, I was married and I did have a baby. Just not with the same guy.
When I met her for lunch, it was more or less one big bitch fest. About my Father. About my Stepmom. (She's actually his girlfriend, but seriously, they might as well be married. Besides, she really is more of a Mom than my Mom ever has been or will be.) About my Mother skills and desicions. (God knows I'm horrible for not giving Pook an ounce of Jim Beam with her bottle to help her teething. Yep, turn me into the CPS right now.) About my sister. About EVERYTHING!! Fun times. About my nickname for my DD, Pooker Butt. (Okay, Mom, and saddling me with Crabbyoodles wasn't embarassing as all get out?!)
After the 3 hour drive back home, I was up until midnight washing, folding, sorting, and putting away the copious amounts of laundry Bryan conveniently forgot about while I was gone. Did I mention that he had to spend $200 to fix the truck? Good to know money grows on trees. And obviously, changing a battery and a starter takes all freaking weekend with not a moment to spare! (Unless, of course, they're playing a reruns of the A-Team. That he had time for.)
Then today, Bryans boss flew into town from Wisconsin. I hate this douche. When Pook was born, he told Bryan he could have the week off, just give him a call when the little munchkin made her appearance. But when it came down to it, he would'nt do it. Couldn't spare him even one day. So, Bryan is ever so slightly stressed.
And Angel had to rear her ugly, pockmarked face again. She brought up the whole tax claiming thing again. She says Bryan 'owes it' to her to let her do this, and even though it's in the court paperwork who claims who, she'll take him to court. Says she'll stop at nothing to get what she wants. Including telling the court that 'you let your epileptic girlfriend drive MY kids around!" (Newsflash, Satan: It's under control and has been for years now. And I know the triggers and signs of a seizure, and if I thought I was going to have one I would either A: not drive or B: pull over and tell the kids to call 911.) All that makes Bryan all doom and gloom and it pissed me off. Why? Because this is what he IM'ed me;
I truely hate life, everyone pisses me off, and nothing makes me happy.
Thanks, hon. I appreciate that. Glad to know that everyone, (including me, I assume) makes you mad, and that nothing makes you happy. Not the three kids who love you unabashedly and unconditionaly, the gorgeous girlfriend who adores you, or the best friend who worships the ground you walk on, or the dog who would kill for you. Nope! Guess you have nothing to live for. I know, I know, he's just having a craptastic day. But it irked me that he can't find one good thing in his life.
Oh, and I unintentionally insulted my boss; Carol, today. In our meeting today, my sales manager, Gerald, looked at me and said, "Carol, I mean, Heidi, do you have anything to add? Sorry, you just look so much like her." Thanks, G. I'm only 23 and she's in her late forties, but thanks. Is it the hair? Clothes? Bags under my eyes? So, when I retold this to Carol, she said, "Why would he say that?" and I said, "Well, I haven't gotten much sleep so I look like crap." Open mouth, insert foot. She just looked at me like, "Do you even think before you open your mouth?!" Talk about an awkward water cooler moment.
And it's only 1430. Sorry for the long rant, but it's been a crappy coupla days. What about y'all? Was your weekend super-dee-duper?
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