Ladies, Mind Your Husbands

After almost seven years of marriage (and NO ITCH….haha, that was a throwaway joke…), it’s always good to take a look at your spouse through an outsider’s eyes.  Don’t get me wrong.  My husband rocks it like any IT-professional-in-his-thirties and I’m crazy about him.  I’m in it to win it with this one, but it’s a good reminder that he’s being checked out at every turn and pursued by ELIGIBLE prospect(S).  Even if those prospects aren’t so likely.  Such as the off-shore contractor who passes him in the hallway almost daily and calls my husband by first-name, even though my husband has no idea who this guy is.  They do not work together, they are not on the same work team, they do not attend the same meetings.  They merely work in the same building.

Since we work as contractors at the same company, my husband and I take advantage of the inter-office IM to catch up during the day.  Like today:

Him: Remember my stalker here at work?
Me:  ummm…
: refresh my memory
Him: there is a guy here at work who I always seem to run into in the hall.
Me: oh, yes
Him: well…
: today he came up to me and said “I noticed on Friday you were wearing a short sleeve shirt.  I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you wear one”
:…
Me: I’m speechless
:but, um
:he’s hitting on you
Him:  that’s what I think
Me: how did you respond?
Him: i just said, oh yea I was wearing a polo
:and then quickly moved on
Me: do you know the guy’s name?
Him: i don’t
Me: do you work with him in any professional capacity?
Him: no
Me: does he seem nervous when he talks to you, like he is trying to think of things to say?
Him: yep!
Me: is he laying awake at night, brainstorming things to say to see if you will think they are cool?
:are you sure he doesn’t just want a job at your company?
Him: i’m sure it’s not work
:he just wants me
Me: lol
Him: offshore resources love me
:tall… pasty… awkward
Me: is he here on a working visa?
Him: probably
Me: maybe he wants to take you to NY and get married.
Him: haha
Me: you know, like a modern day Greencard movie
:too bad I got to you first

It’s a jungle out there and I’m not taking any chances.  I’m going to figure out how to fatten my husband up and limit his personal grooming.  And he’s definitely not wearing Polos to work anymore.

Welcome to Chez Stinky

My dog stinks.  I’ve known this for awhile, but recent events involving our basement carpet and several bottles of Resolve for Pets has made me more aware of just how dirty he really is. I believe I’ve crossed the threshold between “needing to keep Resolve in the house” to “needing to invest in a carpet steamer and a haz-mat suit.”  I came to this conclusion last Thursday as I vacuumed the cream-colored rug in the basement in preparation for weekend company.  In my defense, we bought it before Remi was even a gleam in our eye.  Indefensibly, we’ve always planned to have kids and I drink red wine.  Honestly, our house should be lined with materials that can be hosed down neatly.  One year in with Man’s Best Friend, several unfortunate incidents that I shall not tell you about, and our carpet is no longer cream or anything that could be remotely associated with the color cream.  It’s more like dog-dirt-brown. And it’s not just that the color’s changed.

The confirming statement as to the state of basement-dog-stink came this weekend from my 11-year-old sister, who upon entering the basement, sniffed, and said, matter-of-factly,  “It smells like a pet store down here.”  I wish that was the worst of it.  Moments later, my dad ambled down the stairwell in a slow, deliberate, just-woke-up-from-a-nap gait, and Remi, not recognizing him, started barking ferociously at our “intruder” and promptly dumped his anal glands on floor in a show of defense.  This was where my step-mother found me, minutes later, scrubbing the tile floor (inches from the carpet, thank goodness for small favors) with disinfecting cleaner.  “What happened?” she asked, looking around for a decomposing corpse.  “Oh, nothing,” I said cheerfully, “Just dad walking down the steps and Remi dumping his anal glands.”  She nodded slowly, trying to be polite,”Ahhh….” as if that was the logical explanation she expected.

That’s the kind of hospitality we deliver up in here.  Come for the dirt, stay for the smell of death.

Public noise violation

I’m a mobile worker.  This is the fancy term my employer has created to mean, “We’re not going to give you a desk, but we’re trying to make that sound cool.”  Which, sometimes, is pretty cool.  There are enough buildings on the corporate “campus” to provide plenty of places to hide and work and spread out.  There are also enough meetings in other buildings to make it silly, on some days, to have a desk that I’d never sit at.  And then there are days when I have only a couple of meetings, and need a place to call my own.  I like the ritual of coming in, getting settled, pulling out my laptop, logging on, checking email, and sipping coffee.  It’s a good start to the workday.

Unfortunately, as a “mobile worker,” my morning ritual is subject to the cooperation of the other morning workers around me.  I like those who are quick with the light morning banter, but not too heavy handed with the Hallmark moments.  I like to reserve all-out zest for life for after 10am.  Given the grab-bag nature of my work environment, this is unfortunately unavoidable. I have come across a Merry Morning Sunshine that is a little too full of caffeine, of goodwill, of sympathetic anecdotes to fit anyone’s challenging day.  I might have to kick her soon, or maybe find a new place to sit.

Also unfortunately, there are many people like me.  As in, people who like their work environment “just so.”  People who like to, for instance, work in complete silence in a room full of meditating monks.  And hey, if that’s your thing, then just go for it.  But not in this highly mobile area with lots of plopping down, working for awhile, and packing it all up for the next meeting.  I combat such distractions with the help of an iPod.  I crank my ear buds loudly enough to drown out the chatter.  This apparently was a problem for my new neighbor the other day.  “I’m sorry,” she said, grimacing, “but can you TURN DOWN your headphones?  They are just SO LOUD.”  Um, not louder than your clickety-clack typing and dramatic sighs, you blonde prima donna.  “Oh, uh, yeah, sure.  I’m really sorry.”  I cranked up the music again, barely loud enough for me to hear.  After a few minutes, I made it a little louder.  She interrupted me a second time, “I mean, I can REALLY HEAR IT,” she said, like she was my mom, worrying about my ear drums.  I packed up my bags and went to find another work space where I could listen in peace. I would’ve waited for her in the parking lot to rumble, but I couldn’t find a spot there, either.

People who live in sparkling houses should not cast clay pots

There is an unfortunate dichotomy in life between “what we think it’s going to be like” and “what actually is.”  For instance:  when I was about seven, I asked Santa for a pottery wheel.  After making two “pinch pots” in kindergarten and first grade elementary school art class, I was pretty ready to graduate to a tool that would appreciate my, ahem, artistic ability.  From the tv commercials and the JC Penney’s Christmas catalog, it appeared that I’d be commissioning pieces for the MOMA in no time.  Unfortunately, Santa did not leave an item that would propel me to international acclaim.  He left me a lazy susan with a motor, powered by two AA batteries.  And I’m pretty sure Santa forgot to leave the batteries.  A few frustrated projects and a small bag of grayish, brick-like clay later, I think my mom quietly gave the whole thing to Goodwill.  Santa is a lying tool.  Take that to the bank.

Fastforward more than 30 years.   Adulthood is also NOT “as advertised.”  It is, well, frankly, more draining than expected, with less-cool clothes, and the purchase of something like a new kitchen appliance does nothing for my acne, wrinkles, and gray hair.  Nor does a box of L’Oreal Preference Creme.  My preference would be that the hair dye not smell like toxic death, last for more then 2 days, and not turn my gray hairs blonde in a sea of brunette-ness.  That would be my preference.

Much like fanciful ideas of adulthood were my fanciful ideas of marriage.  I met my husband in college, through our church, and we’ve been dating since before we could legally drink, if that tells you anything.  My misconceptions of marriage, like my misconceptions of adulthood and my misconceptions of Santa’s magic, were pretty far from the reality of my day-to-day.  Which is not to say that married life is a miserable disappointment; far from it.  It’s just that I imagined my role as “help-mate to my beloved” as a pretty far cry from the reality of “if you leave your dirty dishes in that just-emptied sink ONE MORE TIME….”

I’m pretty sure my husband didn’t think marriage would be like this either.  He probably envisioned a somewhat reasonable division of labor with a wife who was always trying to top him with her acts of devotion.  That wife came on the honeymoon but somehow never came back from that para-sailing adventure.  Just kidding.  We never went para-sailing.

Anyway, the reality of my domesticated skills are that I can clean like a Merry Maid and while my food preparation skills aren’t going to help me win an Iron Chef competition, I’m also a far cry from Semi-Homemade with Sandra Lee.  [However, if required, I could put together a table scape with little more than shoe boxes and a vintage table cloth.  Don't think I couldn't.].  I am also very quick to let you KNOW when I do things.  I’m not sure my husband was prepared for the amount of fawning he would need to do over my work to keep me satisfied.

Me: Look at THAT SINK!  Isn’t it CLEAN?!

Him: Yeah, um, it’s great.

Me:  NO.  Really LOOK at IT!!

Him:  I said it’s great.  I REALLY APPRECIATE it.

And then there was last night.

Me:  I’m MAKING LASAGNE.  Like REALLY MAKING it.

Him:  That’s great! {seriously excited because, um, hello, lasagne!}

Hours later, it’s past our bedtime and I’m just starting to assemble :

Me:  I MADE LASAGNE!!!!!

Him:  That’s great.

Me:  No, I mean, I like, MADE IT.  FROM SCRATCH.

Him:  I know.  I watched you.  I really appreciate it, Babe!

Me:  Like, tomorrow, for dinner, I am going to cook it and we are going to have HOME MADE LASAGNE!!

Him:  –

Rendered speechless by his love for me.  In it to win it with this one, I tell ya.  If only I made my own clay casserole dishes.

Nobody’s Mother

It’s been a year since we adopted our furball, Remi, but I still do not feel led to call him my child.  I am his owner, his care-taker, and certainly one of two adults who care for him above all others.  But when people call me “Remi’s mom,” I do not swell with pride.  I shudder slightly.  And not because I hate children or don’t want to be a mother or because I have issues better dealt with by a professional therapist than a WordPress blog (none of those statements is totally false, let’s be real!….J/K, J/K, I don’t HATE children.  Geez.  Calm down.).  I shudder because I am NOT a mom.  I do not love someone despite their puke and poop.  I do not equate the life of my dog with the life of another human.  And if I ever have a kid, believe you me, I will totally shove you in front of a bus to save their life.  Because, HELLOOOOOO, as a mother, that would be my J-O-B.

For now, though, I delight in the chance to watch Project Runway marathons on my couch all day on Sunday and drink bloody Mary’s every Saturday.  This week, I was volunteering with a mentoring organization (I save the children.  Mainly I do it to put down other people and make them feel like their “charity work” of donating an extra bag of old sweat pants to the Goodwill is pathetic.  You’re welcome.).  A child asked if he could wrap part of his dinner to take home .  Another volunteer, the cutest, most eager, fresh, beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed,  quintessential, 20-year-old college student you could ever hope to meet, said, “I don’t know.  Ask Momma [my name].”  I looked at the child.  “Yes.  You can definitely wrap up that taco.”  I addressed the volunteer, “And thank you for the violent shove into motherhood.”  “You’re weclome,” she said, bright-eyed.  “You kind-of are their mother…you’re kind of like MY mother.”  I turned back to the kitchen sink where I was washing dishes, slayed, silent, and unable to fully comprehend the weight of her words.  Your mother.  MOTHER!?!?!?  I am !@#$ing 30 years old!  I am NOT. YOUR. MOTHER. I am literally not even old enough to be your mother.  I was in your SAME DECADE a MERE 46 days ago, Miss TINYFIRMTIGHT.  I dropped my shoulders.  I swallowed my disgust.  I turned around.

“Then, stand up straight and stop SLOUCHING,” said Someone’s Someday Mother.

Simply flush.

Dear Person on my Floor at Work,

It’s time for an embarrassing but serious talk about the state of the public restrooms on our floor.  And let’s focus mainly on the way you leave them.  First of all, to establish, we’re all adults.  No children use our restroom.  There is not a daycare in our building.  Second, in case you aren’t sure about this, the next step after using the bathroom is flushing the toilet.  Go ahead. Sit back.  Take some deep breaths.  I know this is new information for you.  To flush the toilet, since you apparently have never done that before, simply press down on the silver handle that is located behind the porcelain bowl. Hold it down until the bowl is clean.  You may need to repeat this process more than once.  This will be take approximately two extra seconds, but the time spent will be much appreciated by EVERY SINGLE WOMAN ON OUR FLOOR.  And since this happens ALMOST EVERY SINGLE DAY, just think of how many people you’ll be making happy.  Or at least not disgustedly nauseated.

To be clear, I do feel sorry for you.  I’m sure it is no dream of yours to encounter gastric distress on a daily basis, particularly in the workplace.  And I will assume that you aren’t eating day-old sushi or bad takeout every night.  I’ll give  you the benefit of the doubt and choose to believe you are stricken with a gastric disorder beyond your control and I’ll give you some sympathy for how stressful this issue is.  HOWEVER.  You could get a lot more sympathy and appreciation from all of us if you would JUST FLUSH.  I’m embarrassed to even be writing this letter, but I had to get it off my chest.  So, stranger that I know intimately more than I would ever choose to, take heed.  Take heed and flush.  Because I’m not sure how much more of this I can take!

Signed,

A Friend

Coming to a Watch List Near You

As a child, I loved flying.  We got to fly once every year or three and I delighted in it.  Carrying my bookbag as my carry-on.  Eating the little packs of peanuts.  Getting to drink Coke!  As the flying experience has declined, so has my enthusiasm for the adventure.  After nearly stripping for a TSA agent with an x-ray machine and rubber gloves prior to boarding, one can now look forward to being nickel-and-dimed by the airlines for some snack packs and maybe even concussed by a savvy traveler removing a giant bag that they refuse to pay to check from the overhead bins. 

This lack of enthusiasm was my prevailing attitude as my husband and I boarded the first of two legs of a recent West-coast-bound trip (part pleasure, part business).  Unnerved from the security scan and the prospect of being trapped in two cubic feet for most of the next 8 hours, I pulled some knitting out of my carry-on.  The knitting craze hit my college campus in my sophomore year and despite my first completed project being a very pathetic and misformed scarf, it is a habit and a hobby in which I take much pleasure.  Something about knitting busies my hands and quiets my mind, which makes it a perfect activity for air travel.  Or so I thought. 

The passenger across the aisle was instantly interested.  “So, you’re KNITTING?”  Um, no, no I’m sure not.  I’m doing yoga.  It just looks like knitting.  “Yes, I am.”  “Oh,’ she sighed, “I wish I could KNIT.  It would be SO NICE to make handmade gifts.”  Well, ma’m, I’m sorry to say that you’re probably too old to learn.  It took me 7 years of training while living in a monestary in the Swiss Alps and it is an expensive habit to keep up.  It’s more challenging than neurosurgery and more rare than space travel.  Yes, sad to say that if the monks didn’t choose you from birth, you have almost no chance of learning.  “Mmmmmmmmm.  I like it.”  I finished one stage of the project and pulled a small pair of scissors out of a Swiss Army tool and clipped the yarn.  I put it back in my purse.  “Can I see what you just put in your wallet?”  Did it look like a tiny pair of scissors?  Because it was.  And yes, I now have to show you so as to not appear all crazy, but honestly, who asks to review the contents of a perfect stranger’s wallet?! “Sure.  It’s a little pair of clippers.  My brother gave me this tool.  It’s made by Swiss Army knife.  It has a small knife, but I left it at home because of the airport security scans.”  “Amazing!  They LET YOU bring that on the PLANE?”  She’s now looking me up and down to see if I might be a terrorist.  “No, they didn’t.  I actually got turned back at security, black-listed from ever flying again, but I drove down to the south end of the tarmac, and scaled the razor-wire fence, avoiding the security cameras and lights and beefy luggage-hauling men, only to shimmy up a gutter, gain entry into the airport through an air duct, and drop through the ceiling in the women’s bathroom next to gate 5, where I presented my falsified boarding pass to the ticket agent and came on this plane to take it down with a pair of scissors that has a half-inch blade.  But now you’ve caught me and my plan is FOILED!!!” “Yes.  They did.  They definitely let me on the plane.” 

She looked around, probably wondering which unassuming passenger was actually an air marshal.  What a little vigilante, you know?  If we weren’t debating the validity of a small pair of clippers strong enough to cut YARN, I might have appreciated her attention to safety.  However, since I was on trial to prove myself as a non-dangerous, productive member of society, I was not interested in her questions.  I tried to appear to be concentrating very hard on my knitting.  You know, kind of exercising my 5^th amendment right to remain silent.    Luckily, the captain pushed back from the gate and sound of the engine drowned out the rest of her questions and I turned to interrogate my seat-mate.  You know, just to pass on the crazy…