Hi, my name is Heather and I have a drinking problem. My husband royally screwed up our bank account and now I’m forced to buy extremely cheap wine. Save me from destruction.
Reader, I obviously need your help settling a marriage dispute between Wally and me.
A year ago (more or less), I decided 11 years of carrying 80% of the marriage responsibility was long enough. Yes, quite long enough. I became disillusioned with marriage. It was so one-sided! It benefited the man more than the woman!
As I pointed out over at TMHs, when you get married, research proves men actually gain an hour of free time a week while the woman gains 7 hours of more work.What the fuck? Fuck that shit! And all those other expletives that could be used to convey a sense of ridiculousness and outrage.
I even threw away sexy but tasteful and flattering lingerie in my protest. Threw it in the trash. Do you know how hard it is to find those three qualities in lingerie after having children?Nigh impossible when you’re dealing with a lower stomach mutilated with stretch marks and loose skin after carrying a 9.5 lb beluga whale pup all out in front.
But I’d be damned if keeping the spark alive was all my responsibility, or keeping our money straight was all my responsibility, or running every single thing about our life but the bread winning paycheck would be ALL my responsibility.
(I am woman, tossing quality lingerie away. Hear me roar!)
Apparently throwing away lingerie will get your husband’s attention, or at least mine. After my tantrum, we reevaluate the balance in our marriage, understood things in a new way, did some reshuffling and change the things that were no longer working after a decade of matrimony.Wally also bought new pajamas for himself.
Good, right?
And things changed for the better, if “change for the better” means my life began to eerily resemble a Happy Days episode.Wally took over the finances and cub scout meetings, I baked more cookies and…um, shaved my legs more often?
I don’t remember the exact changes we agreed on, I only know the weight of 100% financial responsibility was off my shoulders and that was something. I no longer felt so overwhelmed keeping up with PTA meetings, class parties, dentist appointments, play dates, birthday parties, menu planning, grocery shopping, teacher conferences, homework, test schedules, spelling words, lunch boxes, clean clothes, outgrown clothes, holey socks, and dirty dishes (my god, I think I just shit a crinoline skirt) on top of our finances.
So things went merrily along in this traditional manner. Until I discovered the Economics class Wally took in college was actually for the mentally impaired. And he almost failed.
Without going into the details, let’s just say it’s imperative that I take the finances back over.
Great.
But the great scales of blind marital justice must be balanced! It’s only fair that since I am taking this bill paying stuff back over, I give something up, right?
But what to give up?
Laundry? As much as that would make my heartstrings sing, Wally also accidently on purpose sabotages the laundry, ruining clothes. Not an option, mostly because I’ve seen our check register and I can’t replace a wardrobe right now.
Should he perform my home pedicures since it’s all I can afford?
Take over kitchen cleaning duty on the weekends?
Conduct my home bikini waxes since I can’t afford a professional?
I know. He should do my 30-Day Shred exercises for me.
Or construct a shrine in honor of my financial brilliance, made completely from neighborhood construction cast-offs and duct tape?
Gack, I hate my impulsive tendencies sometimes. I wish I hadn’t said it now. Not because I want to hide it, but because I don’t know what to say about it. Or rather the things I have to say about it cause me too much confusion and could potentially bring on a marriage crisis.
But I’ve said it now, so wheeeee! Let’s all watch as Heather questions her 13 years of marriage and the entire definition of marital love. All while her husband reads her blog!
Where to start…where to start…
Ok, once there was this guy, we’ll call him Charles. I could call him other things, such as Dirty Little Peckerhead, but that would show blatant immaturity and you know how I pride myself on my maturity. So Dirty Little Peckerhead it is!
I loooooooved Dirty Little Peckerhead. I mean LOVED HIM in one of those all-consuming, I will go to hell and back for you kind of ways. Dirty Little Peckerhead loooooooved me too. LOVED ME. When we entered a room, random pieces of furniture would spontaneously combust from the power of our chemistry. Or maybe that was my underwear and not the coffee table.
So how did it go wrong? I still don’t know and neither does he. Is there such a thing as too much chemistry between two people? To the point where all-consuming love takes a literal meaning and the intensity of the feelings scare you away? The overwhelming chemistry did lead to instability and we were always off again/on again.
It was during a long-extended off again period that I met Wally, the antithesis of Dirty Little Peckerhead in all ways. And I do mean ALL ways.
Wally was the opposite of Dirty Little Peckerhead’s more annoying traits of moodiness, unpredictability, and by that I mean suddenly ripping out my heart and eating it for lunch. Wally was and did none of those things.
Which that sounds great, right? Wally, the cowboy in white saves the damsel! Only Dirty Little Peckerhead would repeatedly crop up between me and Wally for the 3 years we dated, which, I’m ashamed to say, led me to do to Wally what Peckerhead had done to me – rip his out heart and eat it for lunch.
See, my feelings for Wally were the exact opposite of the ones I had for Dirty Little Peckerhead.
There was no overwhelming passion, no stage of mad-crazy infatuation. Where Dirty Little Peckerhead was a tempest, Wally was the clear blue sky after a storm.
With Wally, it was more of a slow burn. Obviously there was a spark or I would have never asked Wally out. (Oh yes I did.) It was just so different, the burning of that spark. So slow and so…I don’t know, what’s the word for unfirework-y?
I never felt like I needed Wally, not the way I needed Peckerhead.
Is that the difference between co-dependent love and actual true love?
Or did I play it safe and hedged my bets on the boy next door?
Wally and I were talking about this last night in bed– this question of whether we married each other to play it safe, what other factors played into our decision than just love. Does anyone get married based solely on love?
“Why is it the girl wants the bad boy while the boy next door looks on?”
“The boy next door usually wins in the end. At least that’s how it goes in the movies,” he said.
“But is that because he’s the underdog and that story sells?”
“Well, look at Spiderman!”
(because real-life relationships should always be based on movies, especially comic book based movies.)
“Yeah, but Spiderman had superpowers to win her over. What’s your superpower?” I asked.
“Hmmm. The ability to bore people to sleep in a single conversation!”
Do you see why I love him?
Earlier that evening, Wally was outside, swimming with Parker. Suddenly, I hear Wally’s deep, spontaneous laugh rush through the walls of the house and to my ears. My heart soars with the sound of his laughter and my face splits into a smile.
I find myself clinging to the feeling, just to prove to myself I have it. See, Heather, you feel something for him!
Yes, I do love him. I’ve always loved him for who he is, not for how he makes me feel.
Is that true love, the kind that lasts a lifetime?
I can’t say for certain. And neither can anyone else.
But if it is, then why do I feel regret that I never went through that stage of all-consuming love for him?
You’ll have to excuse me this week. I don’t know what has come over me but I’m feeling quite sentimental about my marriage right now. If this annoys you, just wait around 3 weeks when I’m about to start my period and I’ll be back to marital irritation, aka wedded reality.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I came within a nanosecond of being a runaway bride.
I was 22 and completely full of myself with my college degree, which (hello?) made me a certified grown up. And don’t certified grown ups get married? Of course I was totally ready to get married!
It wasn’t until I saw the hemline of my maid of honor’s dress whip around the corner to walk down the aisle that I wondered if it would cause a scene if I turned right and ran out the door instead of left and down the aisle because, OH MY SHIT, I’M ABOUT TO GET MARRIED! TO THIS GUY AT THE OTHER END OF THE AISLE! AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I LOVE HIM ENOUGH TO MARRY HIM!
That may sound dramatic, but there is something awful you don’t know about Wally.
He’s the biggest fucking ketchup waster IN THE WORLD.
It’s true, he is. THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD. It drives me insane. I could feed all the starving children in Africa for a week with what Wally wastes in ketchup in 30 days.
I have a feeling you aren’t taking this seriously. Laugh if you will, but those little annoying habits, like squirting 16 oz of ketchup on a measly serving of fries, are something to take seriously. You’ll be forced to see those annoying habits weekly. Until you DIE. But not before you have children who want ketchup with EVERYTHING and you get to watch your husband waste even more. Then you die.
If I had to base my decision to marry Wally by the way he wipes his hands on a napkin, I would still be single, lulled to sleep every night by the tick-tock of my biological clock. And I would like it!
And good lord, what about all the stuff you find out about your spouse AFTER the wedding, such as his refusal to even taste mustard until he was 17? It’s a sandwich staple, for fuck’s sake! What kind of jackass won’t taste mustard before he’s 17?
It’s entirely possible I married a moron.
But there’s something awful you don’t know about me.
I was involved in a love triangle while I dated Wally.
On 4th of July, we fought over where to park downtown, like we’d been married for 60 years? Three trips around the same block, yelling back and forth to each other until our youngest yelled, “We’re driving in circles!” and our oldest said, “No, we’re driving in squares!” Who could keep fighting after that?
Do you remember when…
Our second son started kindergarten? How he walked right in without even a tremble of his lip. Such a night and day experience for us. I think I made it all the way home before I cried, but I’m really not sure.
Do you remember when…
We fought for our son, believing in his perfection? Goddamn, that was hard work, seeing beyond society’s views to a larger picture. But it was worth it. It’s beyond fun to watch that larger picture grow into reality.
Do you remember when…
Our first son started kindergarten? How he screamed, “DON’T LEAVE ME, MAMA! COME BACK! COME BACK!” as we walked away from him. Did I make it out of the school before I started bawling?
Do you remember when…
We built our house? Apparently we should have fought the entire time, or so they say. Our plaque for BEST COUPLE IN THE WORLD hangs proudly in our den since we didn’t fight at all while building.
Do you remember when…
We moved down to the coast? How I didn’t want to go because of the risk of hurricanes, and then we went on to experience the summer of 2005 with Arlene, Cindy, Dennis, and Katrina, all within our first four months here. Fun times, fun times.
Do you remember when…
You were losing your job? What in the hell would we do? We had a house, two kids, a car, what would we do? We did what we did, we were okay in the end, landing where we’re meant to be.
Do you remember when…
We sat in the urologist’s office, my hand poised over the consent form and I didn’t want to sign it? Of course you remember. Like I let you forget.
Do you remember when…
I called you at work, telling you I thought I was in labor? How you rushed right home, this was IT. Well, 22 hours later it was finally IT. How his heart rate plunged, they called in extra nurses who practically sat on my stomach, helping shove him out. He was perfect and fine, we fell right in love. Infinite love times two.
Do you remember when…
I showed you two pink lines? It was April Fools 2002. It can’t be a coincidence that that son has the most wonderful sense of humor and has made us laugh ever since.
Do you remember when…
I confessed my fear to you? Our toddler son hated my hugs, to the point of kicking me and screaming if I tried. That was the first time I whispered the “A” word.
Do you remember when…
I called you at work, telling you my water broke. How you rushed right home, this was finally IT. Well, in 21 hours, it was finally IT. How long did you have bruises on your shoulder from my grip? I know you don’t remember all the things I screamed that night, or if I even did, and for that lack of memory, I’m thankful.
Do you remember when…
I showed you two pink lines. It was New Years Eve 1999. Didn’t that bring the whole “out with the old, in with the new” home? It can’t be a coincidence that that son would, like the dawning of a new millennium, light the way to new thinking.
Do you remember when…
I went off the Pill and became a raging hormonal maniac? Fun times, fun times.
Do you remember when…
We almost lost it all, and by “all” I mean us. How we almost drowned our young marriage in the mundane reality of day-to-day life. Why did none of the romance movies or books tell us that you eventually fall out of love and into…what? Laundry? Bills? Shit, why did no one tell us?
Do you remember when…
We bought our first house. We had NO idea what we were doing. You mean the house doesn’t come with blinds? Or a FRIDGE? We have to buy these things?! We made it, though, and, my god, the things that house saw.
Do you remember when…
We said ‘I do’ 13 years ago today in that white antebellum mansion? We were scared out of our minds, so much so you put the ring on the wrong hand during the ceremony. The officiant had to tell us to switch hands. So our marriage started off with us laughing at ourselves. I honestly can’t think of a better way to start at life together.
Do you remember…
it all? I hope we don’t forget. Life is an adventure and I can’t imagine it with anyone other than you.
Happy anniversary to my love, and, perhaps more importantly, my very best friend.
So I’d mentioned last week that I was under self-imposed sobriety. Well, self-imposed sobriety lasts only as long as a spontaneous trip to the beach with another family.
On Wednesday last week, a girlfriend and I suddenly decided to load the family up and go stay in Gulf Shores where we spent many hours worshiping at the Church of Surf, genuflecting to the holy spirits of Corona and José Cuervo.
(insert here gorgeously staged pictures of corona bottles with ocean background and a tall margarita glass, sweating in the hot sun that, if I were a proper blogger, I would have thought about taking. But, being an improper blogger, I was too busy being in the moment to think of blog-staged pictures.)
Two cases of beer and entire fifth of Tequila later, here I am, feeling quite well for my age and the number of strawberry margaritas consumed. Except for my finger.
My god. My fucking bird finger.
Let me do you, dear reader, and the entire internet a huge favor right now and issue a warning against approaching the wood pilings on a beach house while you’re in a “I’m not drunk but damn I feeeeeeel gooooood!” state. You may wonder what could possibly happen when you’re actually in control of yourself but just happy and in love with the world?
You could get a splinter shoved up under your bird fingernail like me. UNDER your nail. As in hmmm, let me cut off almost half of my entire nail so I can possibly get it out with a needle and tweezers up under your fingernail.
How did I get through it without a trip to the ER and nice numbing shot? I have a special mantra I chant anytime I’m faced with pain, or even potential pain, like at the dentist…
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
Really, you’ll be amazed what you can physically stand when you have that frame of reference. And if that doesn’t work, I go with a second mantra…
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
Again, amazing what perspective does for you.
But still. It hurt. A lot.
Wally hovered over me in the bathroom while I attempted to dig out this splinter, and I could tell he was getting huffy and impatient with how long it was taking me, which in turn distracted me from my Painful Vagina Mantras. So I sent him on an alcohol mercy mission with instructions to make me an extra-strength margarita. I don’t know about you, but the first thing to go when I drink is feeling in my lips, the second, fingertips.
So he comes back and I swig, dig, swig, dig, swig, and dig some more.
Wally is still impatient with me.
“Would you just push the needle in and get it out?!” he finally said.
“I have an idea,” I replied. “Give me your hand and let me shove a needle up underneath your nail.” I held my hand out expectantly, waiting for his.
He walked out of the room without a word.
No wonder women are the ones who have to give birth.
A while back I said I would post about my labia. That’s the plural form of labia, not the singular and I’m still pissed off about that show of inequality. I don’t know what it’s going to take to get equal rights around here. Notice the plural form of testicle. Uh huh. Fucking discrimination!
I’ll be honest with you, I hesitate to even write about my labia because, believe it or not, I do have a line I draw over what I will and won’t share on my blog.
While I’ve hemmed and hawed over whether to tell the story of my labia, it became apparent a lot of people (read: 3) wanted to hear the story. Once I realized that, I decided enough of this free blog shit. If you want to know about my labia, you’re going to have to fork out some Presidents for it. Preferably some Ben Franklins.
When I get all of that settled, I’ll let you know how to throw your money at me.
But I am a giver, so while I continue to set up labia Paypal, I’m going to talk about my boobs instead. I hope you will prepare a shrine to my breasts because in the past a big blogger got over 520 comments on her boobs. My god, you’d think she had ripped Dolly Parton’s boobs off her chest and claimed them for her very own with all the freaking opinions on her boobs.
And after this I may post pictures of my bathroom since another big blogger got over 467 comments on her half-ass bathroom remodel with mismatched tile. I don’t know that I’ll ever understand what makes people comment. We’re all fucking nuts.
But knowing someone got over 500 comments on her boobs caused my mammary glands such stress and performance anxiety that last night I had a dreamed I babysat some stranger’s kid and SHAZAM! I started lactating out of the clear blue Playtex sky.
So I breastfed the baby because, duh, I’m such a giver. Wally was kind of freaked out about it, but I yelled at him, “WELL YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE HAD THAT GODDAMN VASECTOMY!”
Not that I still resent his decision or anything or get jealous when women in his office get pregnant.
When it comes to this post about my boobs, I want you to know right up front that I totally expect everyone to take my side. If you try to take Wally’s side, I’ll just spam your comment. That would sound more omnipotent if Wally wasn’t the backend master on my blog.
Wally and I had a recent debate over my boobs. Wally is under the impression that I slyly & maliciously use them to turn him on. As if my evil plans for world domination aren’t full enough. I’m busy sharpening my diabolical mind by memorizing people’s phone number instead of using speed dial, clearly giving me an intellectual edge over the rest of the population who are communication-less if they lose their cell phone. I don’t have time to think about my boobs, I have 11 digits to dial.
We were in the kitchen together and it’s important that you know it is a one-butt kitchen. While I know you have the impression that I lead a glamorous and easy life as a housewife, I actually have a humble kitchen. You get two people together in there and there will be the culinary tango going on simply over the lack of space for two asses.
So we were in the kitchen, and I brushed up against Wally, apparently with my boobs. At least that’s what he said and when I said I wasn’t aware my boobs touched him, he accused me of lying.
He believes women, like men, are constantly aware of our breasts and what we do with them, where they touch.
I said to him, “I’m not lying. Surely men aren’t in constant awareness of your testicles. Boobs are the same way for women.”
“Um, we always aware of our testicles.”
Well that fucking explains why they constantly touch them. But you don’t see women constantly touching their boobs.
Please, reader, tell Wally, and really, all the men in the world, that women are not constantly aware of our breasts nor do we spend our time scheming how to accidentally on purpose rub them on men while claiming ignorance.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone calls to make, which you’ll understand takes a lot of my time since I actually dial out numbers instead of holding down 4.
Wally and I actually did adult stuff and shit this past weekend. Like, without children. I’m not even kidding.
We were standing there together, surrounded by 100,000 other adults and it struck me, oh my god, we’re doing adult shit instead of pretending to be fascinated by a white tiger at the zoo! I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.
We went to a big 3-day country music concert in our hometown called BamaJam.
I can’t believe I just typed that. I don’t even like country music and I like my hometown even less. But this event seems to be turning into a pretty big deal, something close to Woodstock, I suppose, only change 100,000 hippies with 100,000 rednecks.
So basically it was my version of hell.
I said I don’t like country music, but between you and me, I’ll admit I have one weakness for it. I do love Alan Jackson and he’s the only reason we went. Sure, there were other people there like Taylor Swift and Kid Rock, but Alan Jackson has held a special place in my heart from the time 3-year-old Payton sang his song, It’s Five 0′clock Somewhere at his Baptist preschool where they couldn’t even dress up as a witch or devil for Halloween, they were that uptight..
I always heard Alan Jackson was really tall, but to tell the truth, I have action figures taller than he is. That picture, dear reader, is at 10x zoom, so we weren’t even that close.
This is why I don’t care for concerts either. In order to get close enough to see the performers, you have to get there hours ahead of time, like my life revolves around a music star who doesn’t know I exist or something. They don’t know how unimportant I am in the internet!
Also, did you know concerts are loud? Even outdoor concerts. My ears! Now we know where Payton gets his hypersensitive hearing from. In fact, I take credit for all of his positive attributes and blame Wally for all the negative ones.
Wally and I had three-day passes but ended up only going for one. Yes, we turned down FREE time away from our children. What in the hell would cause us to do such a mentally unbalanced thing?
It would be those 100,000 rednecks.
Meet Robert…
…who is in his 50′s, doing an ASS DANCE to COUNTRY MUSIC not 6 feet from me.
If that isn’t bad enough, how about my 50something year old mother who was drunk dancing right behind me? I text’d my 16 yr old niece to come save me and when she wouldn’t help me, I had to bum a cigarette from my aunt just to get through it.
Then there were all the double negatives flying everywhere; left, right, up, down. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t been able to write in over a week. Do I even remember anything close to proper grammar? I’m amazed I’ve learnted, the; kind of proper, grammartical things, given mys upbringing. I, hope your, proud two.
I simply can’t relate to people who not only revel in ignorance but take pride in it too. Or the brand of their pickup trucks. One singer told a story of which brand truck each of his relatives drove, and boy howdy, did that get the rednecks riled up. After the name of a brand, thunderous cheers went up with Chevy being the clear winner.
Now I don’t know about you but I think BlogHer should do something like that at the opening ceremonies, or whatever it is they do to open the event. Can’t you see them calling out the names of minivans and the cheers going up?
Grand Caravan!
Sienna!
Odyssey!
So after the double negatives, pickup truck lunacy, and not only images of the Rebel Flag flying repeatedly on the big screens but some hick teenagers draping themselves in it (I’m not making that shit up), I did the only thing I could do.
I ran around the old peanut field, looking for a black man to love on just so I could piss rednecks off.
I was so overjoyed to see him that I ran to find Wally so I could share the diversity.
I actually purchased two exorbitantly priced shots of bourbon to share with him. Only Cowboy Troy wouldn’t drink it. Something about my balls were bigger than his and when I asked him if we could compare chest hairs, he suddenly had to go behind stage to get ready for his performance.
But whatever, I wasn’t letting him get away from me that easy. I positioned myself right on the front row for his concert, which turned out to be the best thing for me since after his concert I couldn’t hear a goddamn thing so all of the double negatives flew right over my head.
In fact, after several more expensive shots of bourbon (but still better than the $20 six packs of bud light), I started talking to Wally about him buying me a girl cowboy hat and that I should come back tomorrow wearing cowboy boots and jean shorts, possibly with a red checkered shirt tied at my waist, just like 20,000 other women.
It was then Wally said I had to go. So you would think end of redneck experiences, right? And I would be saved from reverting completely back to country roots, right? Oh no.
No, no, no, no.
In order to get out, we had to trample through more than ankle deep mud that smelled like cow ass. The concert was in a 600 acre peanut field and it rained almost the entire night before.
My husband? At the age of 37 hasn’t forgotten how to go mud-riding, even after 20 years. While big, fancy four-wheel drive trucks were getting stuck because the mud was THAT FUCKING BAD, Wally was THE MAN and got us through all of the slipping, sliding and the OH SHIT, WE ARE GOING TO FISHTAIL AND HIT THAT FUCKING CAR without getting stuck.
Of course, there were a couple of times we thought we were doomed to wait our turn for the tow truck to pull us out, but that’s when I would roll down my window and yell my old “Yeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaw!” and TADA! We came through. All because of me.
You can’t even comprehend how authentic that “yeehaw” was.
It sort of scares me, how I opened my mouth and it just came out perfectly. Three different times.
Someone please send me tickets to an opera before it’s too late.
You’ve been with a man for almost 16 years and you’d think you would know all the interesting stuff about him. So how is it I didn’t know until this Easter weekend that Wally never hunted Easter eggs as a child.
Wally was hiding the eggs at his parent’s house for our boys to hunt when my mother-in-law said, “I never did Easter egg hunts for Wally and his sister.”
It’s entirely possible I looked at her like she’d just announced a new career as a stripper for the senior citizen center – a look of surprise and distaste. I don’t know what I did I was so shocked.
Not hunting Easter eggs on Easter Sunday in our small, southern, Baptist hometown was just not done. It’s a concept I can’t wrap my mind around. In a town as small as that, there is absolutely nothing to do for fun, so you had to make the most of your holiday fun, or else you’re left finding your fun in sticks and cow patties.
Then, when I made a derisive remark about the Twilight books, my mother-in-law piped up and said how much she enjoyed them. What respect I had left for her evaporated. You can’t have a relationship with the insane.
When we got back to my mom’s, I told her what my mother-in-law said and then asked Wally why he never told me he didn’t get to hunt Easter eggs.
“I don’t know.”
“My god, what is wrong with your mother?!”
Wally’s nonchalant reply was, “It’s not like I never hunted eggs. I got to do it at school.”
“I just can’t believe you grew up never hunting eggs with your family.” I said, heatedly.
“Well, we didn’t.”
“WHAT DID YOU DO FOR FUN, FOR PETE’S SAKE!”
“Why do you think I joined the Army at nineteen, Heather.”
“Poor thing, you didn’t know fun at all until you met me, did you?!”
“Nope.”
When I tried to insist Wally got to hunt eggs with the kids this year, he got pissy with me.
“I don’t know how you can be so blasé about this. You should be in therapy over it!”
“Why do you care so much?”
“I’m angry for you!”
“It’s in the past. I can’t do anything about it now. I do Easter egg hunts with the boys. I’m not scarred by it.”
Gesh, it’s like he doesn’t know how to have a family feud at all.
This picture wouldn’t be funny if I had staged it. It’s a 100% organic reflection of how the road to housewife hell is paved with good intentions.
I meant to mop the kitchen, but I always start in the laundry room/butler pantry (which is a fancy way to describe the fact I have a small kitchen and had to install cabinets in my huge ass laundry room for extra storage) and that’s where I keep the liquor.
Honestly, I really meant to mop it. But, you know, there’s more to life on a late Friday afternoon than clean kitchen floors. When you live the high life like me, Friday means exciting things, like the Clone Wars season finale and letting the kids stay up until 9 so that Wally and I have even less alone time.
Also, don’t think it’s a coincidence that this is National House Cleaning Week and Marinka went on vacation. What diabolical cunning.
On a related note, does anyone even know what the saying means? The road to hell is paved with good intention. For years I’ve tried to figure that one out, but haven’t. It drives me crazy. (short drive) What the hell does it mean?!
I also want to know if there is a National Man Junk – Clean Off Your Fucking Chest of Drawers – Week? A National Clean that Nasty Grill Week? A National OMG The Garage is a Goddamn Fire Hazard Week?
If there was any doubt left in your mind as to the depth of my person, let me remove it for you once and for all.
I’m pretty sure I wrote a post about how I didn’t want Wally to get the vasectomy six years ago, right? Honestly, I no longer remember what I wrote and what I thought about writing, and I’m pretty sure that’s a sign it’s time to give up blogging.
But whichever. It happened. I didn’t want Wally to get one, but he insisted, and I’ve had regrets ever since.
Now we have a ghost in our house and I blame Wally for this. I’m sure it’s the third child we never had. Sometimes, around 5 am, I hear the patter of little feet into the kitchen, and I think it’s Parker about to come in and wake us up. At FIVE FREAKING O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING!
The little pattering stops right about our bedroom door and then waits. And I wait…for Parker to come on in. But he doesn’t, and I think, thank god! I’ve finally yelled at him enough times about coming out of his room before 6 am, and he sees we’re still asleep so he’s going to go back to his room.
So I wait to hear the patter of little Parker feet going back to his room.
The feet never patter back anywhere. No one is there.
This has happened a handful of times. I thought it was all in my sleepy head until Wally heard it one morning too. A few days later, poker chips fell off the top of the fridge for no reason. And then, a few days later, something crashed in the pantry when no one was in the kitchen. AND THEN one night I was reading a bedtime story to Parker and, I kid you not, it sounded like something dropped RIGHT at the foot of his bed. Even Parker heard it and asked me what that was. There was nothing there and we were the only two in the room.
When the lights start to flicker off and on for no reason, I’m going to shit my pants, call a sperm bank and have that third damn child, all in that order.
Now that you know the poltergeist stuff that’s been going on in my house, I won’t look insane when I tell you I demanded that Wally call a urologist and find out how much a vasectomy reversal costs.
I’ve been reading blogs with beautiful newborn baby pictures (I think the ghost has mind control powers) and, my god, my life is going no where, every day just like another, so I want another one! Think of how I could put off this huge, looming question of what am I going to do with my life!
Besides, if we had a third kid, I would get everything right this time. I have two children under my belt who have totally primed me in the mom department.
I’ve run the gamut of possible autistic child to creative genius to completely typical boy-child who enjoys fart humor as much as I do.
I know how to breastfeed, I’ve cloth diapered and done other granola parenting things, like not circumcising and making homemade baby food.
I’ve been room mom, school volunteer, but never a soccer mom. Soccer is considered to be the work of the devil by my state-sanctioned Church of Football. The only reason soccer even exists in our state is so wierdos from California will buy our cheap real estate. So I’m a T-Ball mom instead. In fact, I’m about to experience my second round as a T-Ball mom this spring, and I already drive a mini-van.
If we had a third child, I would KICK ASS as a mother. Obviously.
Screw that advanced maternal age bullshit. I’d like to see them try to get me to agree to that plan. They couldn’t even get me to agree to a circumcision plan, they sure won’t get me to agree that I’m no longer in my prime.
So Wally called. Because he’s afraid of the ghost too. This is how our iChat conversation went.
Wally: I heard back from the urologist.
Me: And?
Wally: The doctor portion is $3000
Me: Hmmm.
Well, $3000 isn’t all that bad. It’s only what we have saved up for college. To hell with the boys’ education. We paid our own way through and so can they! This is another child we’re talking about and tuition isn’t more important than THAT!
Wally: That doesn’t include the hospital portion.
Me: Hospital? Isn’t that outpatient?
Wally: I dunno. All I know is the hospital is an additional $6500-$7000. So we’re looking at $10,000 total for a reversal.
Me: Holy fuck!
Wally: I know.
Me: I think I’d rather buy a boat.
Sorry, third child ghost. You can join us on the boat as long as you don’t make strange shit happen.
Besides, I personally know a lesbian couple who got pregnant with donated semen (free!) and a turkey baster ($2.99 at Wal-Mart). Maybe that’s why our ghost child likes the kitchen so much – he’s looking for the turkey baster.
Update: The lights started flickering off and on tonight. Oh, I wish I were making that up. And Wally had the nerve to look at me as if this were my fault, as if I were inviting the ghost to play with our lights. I’m not the one who was sterlized! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean up my pants and make a phone call in the morning. Damn!
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
I always heard Alan Jackson was really tall, but to tell the truth, I have action figures taller than he is. That picture, dear reader, is at 10x zoom, so we weren’t even that close.
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