Monthly Archives: January 2018
Moms are Emotional Punching Bags
Is it wrong to be excited about that empty nest opening up in August?
Don’t get me wrong: I love Singer Girl. She and I are getting along better every day — instead of me asking her to sit down and watch TV, she’s the one who asks “do we have anything taped?” No matter what I am doing, I stop it to sit next to her and roll our eyes at the drama queens on America’s Next Top Model or to critique the designs on Project Runway. But life always must happen on her terms.
I am not allowed to ask her questions about high school, music or college. It’s not that she is hiding anything: my “prying” revs her stress meter into over drive. Case in point: I happened to be reading about what to wear at auditions on College Confidential (great site — have you seen it?). This week we fly to Syracuse, where she will sing for her collegiate supper. Next week we do the same in Miami. I texted her:
“Have you thought about what you are wearing for your audition?”
“No.”
I said we should chat, that it should be more conservative than stage wear, cute but covered.
“I’ll deal with it later.”
I suggested we work on it over the weekend, so as not to be stressed last minute. I got 4 abrupt texts in succession.
“I’m not gonna focus on that…I’ll do it when I pack…I have to write and record 3 songs before we leave. I’m not gonna focus on my clothes.”
I asked if I could maybe glance in her closet for options. I was rebuffed. I could tell she was stressing about all she had to do, so I encouraged her to ask me for any help — and said I assumed she wasn’t doing anything over the weekend so she could focus on audition prep. Being the stupid mom that I am, I was unaware that she had committed herself to several things over the weekend. “Just calm down I know what I’m doing.”
Grrr…
And I lost it, angrily pointing out that I am just trying to help and perhaps she should be a bit more grateful.
And I have felt guilty ever since.
Why can’t I be the grown up? Why can’t I just remember that she is under a level of stress the likes of which she’s never had before? Why can’t I remember that I am her safe place and not take it so damn personally when she snaps at me?
I know she shouldn’t treat us like this. Saturday we arrived home from car shopping (I bought one finally!), and were surprised to see her at home. She had a gig Saturday night and we thought she would’ve been gone already. She basically ripped our heads off, snarling “don’t start! Just don’t speak!” The next day, I received a text from HWSNBN, and I could feel the steam rising from the phone. Evidently she had been furious with him for deigning to ask where she was gong — with his car. Mind you: both of these fights would’ve been moot if she had just bothered to put gas in HER car, but no. Ain’t nobody got time for that!
When we calm down, and find a quiet moment, she and I both agree we are just too quick to insult and anger. That we know I am just trying to help, and that she is just trying to survive. I remind HWSNBN that we need to remember that she probably DOES have this — we’ve never once had to tell her to do her homework. It’s a fine line though, between pride and sorrow, relief and frustration, when your kid really is trying to not need your help.
Oddly enough, when she does ask for help, we roll our eyes and grumble about her not being able to do things for herself. Friday HSWNBN and I went out to dinner with friends. Soon started receiving a flurry of texts. Could she and Drummer Boy eat the steaks I bought for dinner the night before (on a night I assumed she would be home but, of course, she wasn’t)? Yes. Where are they? In the freezer. How long will take them to defrost. I don’t know, depends on how you do it. So how should I do it? How should I cook it? How should I chew and swallow? I finally told her to google it and let me eat my own dinner in peace.
Sometimes I hear this voice in my head chiding me, asking how I could let her speak to me the way she does. And I do get angry about it. Am I doing the right thing letting her use me to absorb her emotional stress? HWSNBN thinks she is in for a rude awakening when she has a roommate — or a boss. When I mention this to Singer Girl, she snarls back that all of her friends think she is super nice to me and that I am the one with the attitude problem. My guess is that all of those kids are treating their parents similarly, and don’t want to admit they could be wrong. And I am guessing that all the parents are feeling like I am.
In two days we board a plane. I always hope that these trips can have some fun — and she sullenly reminds me that this is not supposed to be fun. I hold out that it can be. I also cling to the idea that in a few weeks, when it is all out of her hands, she will have a little less to yell about, and we can find some more couch time.
A Royal Hue Colors the Weekend
My weekend started with purple and shall end with purple as well.
Friday morning I stumble from my room (mornings are not my best look) and encounter HWSNBN, who is preparing for work. I stop in my tracks.
“Ummm???”
“It’s purple pride day at work today!”
Well that explains the crushed velvet purple blazer — which I like. But not before my coffee.
So the weekend progressed.
I am trying desperately to get caught up on stuff in some arenas and ahead on others. Thursday night I had had an awesome meeting for the Senior Party, so felt inspired to get flying there. Sent out a few recapping emails, then turned my attention to the shared spreadsheet I had happily offered to create for our online auction. Much screaming at the computer ensued, and further arguing with my workbook on Excel (yes, I know 90% of the world knows how to use Excel. My computer education stopped in 1997. I am largely self-taught and my teacher is an idiot). I am almost done. For the past three days I have approached the project carefully, with trepidation and a little respect, as if it were a housecat I needed to bathe. I am allergic to cats. Hence my dilemma.
Friday night I tackled family dinner for the first time in about a week. Singer Girl had been begging for tacos, and invited Drummer Boy to join us. Tacos are easy — usually. But I tried to make those low-carb all cheese taco shells that everyone says are so easy. Should’ve started that earlier: they never cooled enough to hold a taco shape. HWSNBN and Singer Girl gave them the suspicious side eye while enjoying their classic shells. Drummer Boy politely avoided all eye contact. I ate them out of spite — but had to use them as a tostada. But dammit they were low carb and so I won. Drank wine to celebrate — and eliminated the low-carbness of my dinner.
Saturday HWSNBN was inspired to go shopping for some finishing touches for our bedroom. (We moved in 3 years ago, and haven’t really gotten around to hanging pictures and stuff. I have big plans to have 3 major projects done in that arena before Singer Girl’s grad party this summer. We shall see). Decided to do field trips to some amazing stores we patronized when building the house Architectural Antiques (http://www.archantiques.com/) City Salvage (http://citysalvage.com/) and Guilded Salvage (http://www.guildedsalvage.com/). Great places to find unique stuff pulled from old buildings. HWSNBN wants a bench at the foot of our bed to NOT throw his dirty clothes on, and some sort of cool piece to hang above the bed. We found options, but I think he forgot what kind of price tags come along with the words “unique” and “vintage.” Found a beautiful wood bench just the right size and color — for $2,250. Also fell for a stunning leaded glass window that would’ve just been perfect in our room — for $16,500.
So we went to the movies.
(Saw The Post, which I liked very much. Oscar contender movie #1 under my belt. More on that in a future, well, post.)
This morning HWSNBN was online, trying to find more reasonable bench options (read: cheap). The ones he likes I didn’t and vice versa (I gagged at the grey fur one he found, and he recoiled at the ones I saw with silver and Lucite accents). As for above the bed, he thinks we’ll find something we like inexpensively at an art gallery. Methinks he is in for another rude awakening.
Today I have been back at organizing and getting caught up: puppies lined up for parties, finally starting to settle on which of Singer Girl’s senior portraits to buy, and delicately negotiating with that spread sheet. But soon: the PURPLE! I, like countless Minnesota Vikings fans, have been simultaneously yearning for and dreading tonight’s game. We know that they can do it, but will they? To be a fan of Minnesota sports is to have a calloused heart and a cautious spirit. HWSNBN and I have considered going somewhere fun to watch the game, but we are fearful to set our hopes up for public humiliation. So we will sit at home, our hearts in our throats and low-carb taco shells in our hands. Wish us all luck!
The finality of it all
It’s finals week around here.
It’s my last winter finals week. And I actually forgot about it, until Singer Girl asked if I could drive her to school the other day.
I remember my first finals week as a parent. I totally screwed up. Our school does a weird schedule, with two finals each day, for three days. The first two days they do prep, then break, test, lunch, test. Day is regular length, but a lot of kids don’t go in until the first final starts. On day three, however, they ditch that prep period and the first test is right away at 8 am. This leaves that third section for any makeup tests that someone might’ve missed. Ya follow? Yeah, see I didn’t. On day 3 hauled Sailor Boy, then a gawky, geeky 14 year old, to school AFTER his first final of the day was over. Ooops (yes, I know it was ultimately his responsibility. Whatever).
From then on when that schedule was released, for the past 7 years, I have entered into our family calendar. But I didn’t this year. I am in the senior slump I guess.
Last year there was no slumping or slouching — it was hold your breath grit your teeth and get through the war zone that is junior year. Now we are all chill. Singer girl has electives in her schedule for the first time ever — and even has an open hour. Yeah, she’s still doing 3 AP classes, but she never seems to have any homework. She stresses more about helping Drummer Boy get through his junior year as unscathed as possible. Turns out she likes to help organize. Wherever did she get that from? Lol…one night she came home, and revealed to me with horror that Drummer Boy had no binders or folders or a planner. That his backpack was a veritable wasteland of hastily thrust-in papers : “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/Out of this stony rubbish?” (Sorry, Mr Eliot…)
When she saw calculus commingling with chemistry, English and Spanish battling for supremacy like in the days of the Tudors, she marched his disorganized life to Office Max and negotiated a peace treaty. It seems she is using her junior year horrors as a cautionary tale. While I admire her altruism, I do have to remind her periodically that she has college auditions on the horizon and perhaps she should focus on those? “It’s fine, Mom,” she snaps. This one rarely lowers herself for assistance. But every now and then she reaches out. The other night she asked me to proofread an essay, and I settled in. I read her notes written across the top, helpfully outlining the goals of the assignment. My stomach sank and tears came to my eyes. Not because it was bad. It wasn’t. But becasue:
I didn’t recognize her handwriting.
This child, who I created, whose every breath and sound and smell and emotion was known to me so intimately years ago, was becoming someone I did not know.
I’ve always said it’s my job to raise an adult. This year, as she has given me no reason to hold her back, I have let her have a lot of freedom. In 8 months she will be solo, off to some school in some far off part of the country. I am excited for her — and for me. I retire from my SAHM carrier after more than 21 years. She gets to start a journey, and I will start a new chapter. But I am a little scared, too.
Remember when they started all-day school, and for the first time ever you didn’t know what they did all day? Yeah, this is gonna be that on steroids. And I won’t see her every night to witness the small changes. I will probably see her every few months. And wow: is she gonna change.
If I don’t know her handwriting now, when we share the same milk carton, what won’t I recognize when she returns home after months at a dining commons? What foods will she now love that she refused to eat at my table? Will her voice sound different, once she has learned the new language of burgeoning adulthood? Will she stand taller, bolstered by self awareness, or stoop under the weight of new struggles?
As I mentioned before I am heading up the Senior Party. Yes, it is a nightmare of details and not enough support. Yes, I want to cry and pull my hair out at times. But you know what that night is? It’s the last time these 830 kids, many of whom have shared classrooms for more than 12 years, will get to hang out and be children. I co-chaired Sailor Boy’s senior party back in 2015. Those kids, who almost didn’t come because they were too cool for a lame party, had a ball. They ran around, laughing, playing, chatting with friends they really hadn’t hung out with since elementary school.
I want my daughter — my Singer Girl — to have the best last big kid’s party I can give her. Even if I wouldn’t recognize her handwriting in the thank you note she’ll never write. Seeing her smile with her buddies will be enough — especially knowing that a few months later I’ll be waving to that smile in the rear-view mirror as I leave my Volunteer Career on the curb at her college.
Does that car come in Leopard Print?
In the market for a new car, and finally convinced HWSNBN to join me in the showrooms. He was most displeased. He HATES cars. He HATES shopping. Thus, this experience was some sort of circle of Hell for him. But when asked whether he would just prefer me to do it solo, he was aghast. Even though he’s known me since I had Let’s Get Physical hair, he still thinks I am frivolous. I am so weirdly practical — so much that I am often known as the buzzkill in our friend group. Don’t get me wrong: I long to be the crazy person on the Amazing race, hurling my body off cliffs and careening around small European towns with a flimsy map in one hand and a pre-Cold War stick shift in my other. But I will plan the life out of anything first!
I have done my research: I know what I want. I know what I need. One salesman’s first question to me was “So what color do you want?” (for reals. Like as a middle aged woman with crazy blue muppet hair that would be priority numero uno, of course). We left that showroom! I WANT a sexy little sports car, preferably with a leopard print paint job. But I NEED a mid-size SUV for hauling dogs and puppy party supplies, and I WANT the best gas mileage possible. Personally I think those are pretty practical starting points. HWSNBN thinks they are silly. He thinks gas mileage is some sort of government conspiracy thing (actually he explained it differently but that’s pretty much what it sounded like to me). And he thinks it’s dumb for me to choose a car based on what I will use it for the most. Okaaayyyy….I asked him what he thinks should be my first priority. He looked at me, eyebrows raised in shock so high they parted his hair, and said “Well it’s your car. How should I know?”
So when we were in the showrooms, he kind of hid.
I am a very decisive person. I don’t like to waste time. I had already visited 6 different dealers, driven 4 cars, and had it narrowed down to my top 2. Yesterday we just needed to visit the last two brands and on my list. After 5 minutes in the first showroom, I knew that car wasn’t for me and we left. HWSNBN was frustrated, as my main reason for crossing that one off the list was crappy MPG (that started the whole it’s just a number dictated by the government and it doesn’t mean anything discussion). Next dealership, I spent more time considering the car, as I was tempted by its prettiness. But 10 minutes in I knew that all the pretty didn’t justify the price tag. Plus, it was a model never before on the market and that seemed risky to me. So I pulled up my Practical Pants and we walked on. (Sadly, I couldn’t zip up my Confidence Coat as I forgot it at home. So shopping in -2 temps while wearing naught but a 3/4 sleeve T shirt also probably put a little more hustle in my bustle.)
HWSNBN was a little grumbly that I wasn’t spending more time. ‘Twas my turn to do some eyebrow exercising, and I arched one in his direction. He caught the look and realized I was getting him out of this misery way faster than he anticipated, and clammed up.
So now it’s down to two and a half vehicles (that’s because one model I like has a hybrid version, so both must be considered). Not sure when we are going to get a chance to look at them. I am literally booked every night this week: Monday is book club, Tuesday we start French lessons, Wednesday is my military moms support group, Thursday I have to chair the senior party meeting, and Friday I run a Puppy Party. So maybe Saturday? I REALLY need this off my list! Plus I think HWSNBN needs to be put out of his misery. I know he wants me to buy a used car, but I keep my cars a long time (my current one is 14 years old), and I deserve something pretty and new. And every day that we talk about this, it’s like pulling off an old bandage one arm hair at a time. Let’s rip that sucker off daddy and put mama in some new wheels!
He’s back…and he’s gone…
Today Sailor Boy left and HWSNBN returned.
In the past, when leave ended for Sailor Boy, our last day was filled with stress — usually related to him packing. Doesn’t everyone find it easy to pack to go home? I mean, what you brought, you throw in the suitcase. But Sailor Boy somewhere manages to go full-blown ADHD when it comes to packing; ooh! shiny objects!
But this time he started packing two days ago. Had his GF help him. She and I are in cahoots to make him a grown up (the Navy is doing it’s part, but it takes an ocean with this guppy). So today was easier, as he had been packing a little every day. They even had time to run out for on least slice of pizza — 30 minutes before we had to leave for the airport. Somehow we made it through all the traffic in time (google searches are great time passers. We discussed everything from politics to Will Farrell’s best non-comedic roles). Hes on his way back to his aircraft carrier (but not without getting perhaps the world’s worst haircut. So, so bad.) Will see him in another 6 months I guess…
Meanwhile, HWSNBN is in da house. His flight back was uneventful, and this afternoon’s goal was all about keeping him awake. So we tried to watch TV. Spent 45 minutes trying to convince him we had already watched the last episode of The Walking Dead. He said we had not. I insisted we had, but guessed he slept through most of it. He didn’t respond. He was asleep.
Can I be done driving yet?
Not a particularly amusing day — and while productive in some ways, not so much in others!
My hairdresser par excellence, Chelsea, helped me pick a pair of cool readers today. Is that an oxymoron? “Cool readers?” I choose to think I’m just hip — and I don’t mean of the broken variety. As we always do, we discussed my next color, and how we will go about achieving it. I like my bright blue Muppet look for sure, but I am thinking something more sophisticated for my trip to Paris (mais oui!) in April. Gonna go berry wine. She’s intrigued…
Hit the library, where I checked out far too many books to read on this schedule, but oh well. I’m reading a great one right now: Goodbye Vitamin, by Rachel Khong. It’s a sad, funny novel about a gal who moves back home on mom’s request — just for a year — as dad has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. My dad has Alzheimer’s and so many of the stories she tells remind me of when mine started declining. My Dad always got busted for stealing silverware. We’d be out to brunch and he’d be slipping a knife up his sleeve — and he usually had multiple watches on under that sleeve. Mom was forever bringing me ziploc baggies filled with stuff he had taken from my house. Anyway: so yeah, it’s a horrid disease, but if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Which does seem to be how I make it through my days no matter what.
Next it was the CAR WASH. Why the caps? You must not be from a winter state. We just finished three days of melt after two weeks of temps so cold my nipples could cut glass. So that first car wash is like taking off your bra at the end of the day. It shouldn’t thrill you to the tips of your toes, but it does. For me, the car wash was also a quiet place. I read for about 10 minutes, while someone else was cleaning. That is a bit of heaven right there, my friend.
HWSNBN does not feel the same about car washes. See, he is wicked afraid of clowns (not teasing him; we all have our things. For me? Escalators. No I am not kidding. Hate the things. And my kids know it: they love to walk backwards on them, pretend to trip, whatever. They joke that someday they are gonna fill escalators with clowns and wet themselves watching their parents try to climb over each other to see who can get out of the way first. They are hilarious, my offspring.). Anyway: back to car washes and clowns. Yes, there is a connection: HWSNBN feels that car washes are where baby clowns are made. He points out the multi-colored foam. Yeah…I got nothing.
Car all sparkly, I pick up three Old English sheepdog puppies and drive to an elementary school in St Paul (about 40 minutes away) for a party of sorts. The puppies were fluffy, the kids squealed, the grown ups smiled, the puppies peed and pooped. I cleaned it up. It’s what I do. My partner got excellent video footage of me — from behind (thank goodness for her wide angle lens) –cleaning up pee. That’s a lovely piece of video floating around the rescue page right now, lemme tell ya.
Rushed pups back to foster and me to my house, where I picked up Sailor Boy and we sat in traffic for an hour to go see Dad/Grandpa. It was actually a good visit; the last ones haven’t been as happy as he hasn’t been super responsive. But this time he actually chatted, and even cracked a joke. No one knows what was so funny, but in the middle of eating he looked across the table accusingly at the aide, and said: “You! You’re a liar!” We were shocked — then noticed he had the biggest grin and was even laughing. Sometimes the best jokes don’t have a punchline.
We all laughed out loud a few minutes later, when he decided that he liked his dessert a bit too much. Sailor Boy had been helping him with his eclair, and Dadpa decided he’d had enough. Speared the whole thing with his fork and tried to shove it all in. Wiping tears from our eyes, we promised we weren’t gonna try to steal it from him, and helped him with a piece that actually fit. It was a good visit, and I am glad Sailor Boy got to see him like this before he heads back to his duty station.
Now I am dying of hunger. There’s a new restaurant in town that I am dying to try. But we are waiting on Singer Girl. I guess I should be proud of her, as she is supporting Drummer Boy as he does his Major Presentation. So as a parent I am pleased. As a tired woman who just wants to eat pasta and drink wine, I am annoyed. I am ready to take off my bra.
Nobody’s Perfect
Okay. My turn…
Yesterday, I forgot to mention a phone call from HWSNBN. The reception was awful, and he sounded totally distorted. “Dude I cannot understand you!” He sighed, and said he’d call back.
Ring ring.
“It’s no better! You sound like you are in a box! Are you in a tunnel?”
“No.”
“Speaker phone? Wait — you’re breaking up. I seriously cannot understand a word you are saying.”
Exasperated, he hangs up and calls from his work phone. Now I can hear him, and all is well. We converse, he thanks me for exchanging phones at the Apple store for him, we talk about the trip he’s taking. We hang up. Twenty minutes later I receive a text:
“You couldn’t understand me, because you put the phone case on my phone UPSIDE DOWN.” Oops…
I’ll claim this one. And thus started a chain of “my bads.”
At Secondhand Hounds today, the rescue at which I volunteer, it fell upon me to fill up syringes with flea and tick meds. An hour later, I proudly finish my task and walk away. A few minutes go by, and I see the office manager redoing my work. “Amy! What are you doing?”
“You filled them all wrong!” I was supposed to fill to 1.34 ccs. I did 1 3/4s…
Grr…
Sheepishly, I finish my shift and head out. About an hour later, at Singer Girl’s doctor appointment (she’s asking to have her tonsils out. Doc said no. I liked him.), I get a text, from a fellow volunteer:
“You left your laptop here.”
Grr…
We were already late, as we had shown up late to the appointment and they let the next patient go before us…
Flash forward a few hours. Rushing around, creating a budget and presentation for a PTO Booster meeting about the Senior Party I am chairing. Rush to the school. Arrive 10 minutes early, smug that I am not late for THIS appointment. Several minutes go by, folks are chatting, politely smiling at me. The signup sheet goes around. Someone reads what I write.
“Um, you’re Donni, right? I know you from Facebook.”
“Yep, that’s me!”
“Um, you know this is the cheer-leading meeting right?”
Grr…
Recheck my schedule. My meeting isn’t for almost another hour.
Tomorrow’s another day.
Hopefully someone else can reclaim the title of Biggest Fool.
And tonight, I rest. No, wait…
So today I was gonna get stuff done. I love Mondays for that. Everyone is gone to school/work, and I try not to schedule appointments or answer the phone. But.
HWSNBN needed me to drive him to work (car still in shop). Then I volunteered to brave teh Aple store so that he could travel internationally with a phone. Gettingr eady to go — and he says “Oh yeh: I forgot my briefcase. can you bring taht to?” Of cpourse you did. And of course I will.
Arrived at Apple at 1010, thinking easy peasy in and out. Do you know where NOT to be on a Monday morning? A mall in Minnesota. Why? Well, let’s just say I was not alone as the only blue-haired lady there. Mall walkers are vicious! And they are all lined up, ten deep at apple, wanting to learn. Which is awesome, don’t get me wrong. But I got things to do.
So I get it done. I fly back to the office (only 10 minute drive), to find that HWSNBN is in a 3 hour meeting so can’t come get it from me. I am NOT waiting for three hours. So I take it in to the front desk, put a post it on it, and leave. I. AM. Done.
Get home. All cars are gone. I am confused. Text Singer Girl: did you drive to school? Usually her BF, Drummer Boy, takes her, but he was busy conquering the world in a business suit (school presentation. Very big. All Shark Tank and pirze money and — man was I an underachiever in high school. I was happy if I could get my bangs to stand up the requisite 3 inches and match my Valley Girl beads to my jelly shoes and ZZ Top anklet socks). Sailor Boy has had to drive Singer Girl to school, as her ride, Drummer Boyfriend, had to go to school early.
Anyhoo, Sailor Boy drove her. When he got home, he looked like hell. What’s up, I ask? Seems he got in at 5am, so the 7am driving duty kind of sucked. He went to bed. I made coffee. Started figuring out how to transfer old emails to new computer. Can’t be done. My productive day became one of purging and resending emails to myself. Yeah me.
But we did get the car back, which is awesome. Almost didnt get there, as Sailor Boy missed the turn like 3 times, but ugh. Got the car, paid too much to replace the tires (the same tires we replace every year as HWSNBN won’t change the wheels that keep rubbing the tires and causing them to blow. he also won’t go in for the air bag recall. He thinks it’s all a plot to get him to buy a new car. He’ll regret it when we get in an accident and my air bag doesn’t deploy and HE has to run the house from now on.)
Car was out of gas.
HWSNBN had “the worst uber in the world” on the way to the airport.
Forgot his international adapter and will have to buy another.
Sailor Boy sleeping at his GF’s house tonight (she needs a moniker…Saint SheWhoPutsUpWithHWSNBN2.0? For old time’s sake I’ll just call her Toasty. In high school she lived on simple carbs. She has matured. Sailor Boy has not.) Singer Girl at choir rehearsal. I have house to myself for 3 hours. Need to work on emails and Senior Party budget, but honestly I’m feeding the dog, then having wine and Ruffles and watching something estrogen driven.
A New Chapter
So we have lived in the new place for three years now — holy buckets! Life has continued and evolved, and lately I have found myself immersed in a Facebook group called Grown and Flown Parents. For the past few days, I have posted lengthy diatribes on daily life, and folks have enjoyed it and asked me to write a blog. So, I dusted off ye olde WordPress and rather than reinvent the ballpoint pen, I am just re-purposing my old one. (Singer girl would applaud me for being green)
To kick things off, I will repost the stories that resurrected my writing “career,” such as it is. I give you “My LifeAGeddon.”
Jan 4, 2018: Day four of ManColdaGeddon 2018. I was unable to vacuum my filthy house as he was napping — so it was all broom, all day. I had planned to stop drinking and work out every day to kickstart my weight loss plan, but eff that. I need my vices to get through this. He refuses to cover his mouth when he coughs and sneezes as he walks through the house, but doesn’t want to go to work and get everyone sick, Today I caught him sleeping on my pillows. I have elected to sleep on couch tonight. On-leave Sailor Boy has promised to not wake me up when he comes sneaking in late at night. Tomorrow is another day…time for wine and Real Housewives (at least I don’t have to argue about what to watch)…
…Omg I just pointed out that it was gross that he slept on my pillows. He glared and said “you don’t need to bleach everything!” Girl. You done slept and drooled and snotted germiness ev-Ery-where
Jan 7, 2018: ManColdAgeddon update: the tide has turned, and the whimpering is lessening. Yet the plague upon him continues in different ways. On Friday, you may recall, he blew out a tire while I was “indisposed” amidst a cleaning frenzy. Yesterday he enlisted the assistance of Sailor Boy, retrieving the vehicle. Alas: the expedition was unsuccessful, as he returned upon discerning he had TWO flat tires. I ask, “so you just left it there? What now?” He seemed perturbed that I would ask. I, baffled, went back to prepping for dinner party. Clock was ticking: 15 people coming in a matter of hours. Meanwhile, he realizes he has lost his phone. We are now going on about 30 hours of a lost phone — presumably lost in this house. My guess? It got tired of being sneezed on and packed a bag. Later on, he enlists Singer Girl to take him BACK to the disabled vehicle. She calls me, about 10 minutes later, furious with the world around her (she is very “17 year old girl in the midst of college angst”). “I lost Dad.” Now, before you wonder: my husband has a habit of disappearing. like, he is there one second then no one knows where he is. The girl often volunteers to stay with him so when he wanders off she can leave breadcrumbs. This time, however, she was following him to the tire store. “Where was he going mom? OMG. He has no phone so I can’t call him! And I am sitting in the middle of the road and people are honking at me!” I hold the phone away from my ear as she screetches. I have no idea what store he is at — I only know which store he told me he would never go to, which of course is the one he went to. I tell her she has 3 options, and during the calm explanation she randomly screetches and wails her displeasure: one, drive aimlessly around town hoping she finds him (this was her original one, and one which he surely would advocate. he has done this in the past when we are supposed to be going to someone’s house for dinner but forgot to ask them where they lived). Two, pull over and wait for him to call from wherever he ends up, or three, come home. She determines the world hates her, her parents are idiots, and she strains an eye while rolling it. She hangs up. He calls me. At Home. I explain that i am not the one he lost. Call Singer Girl. He does. Car is at shop now. Car will be ready Monday.Maybe. Husband flies to Europe Monday. I hope Amsterdam is ready…
Jan 8, 2018: MyLifeAgeddon: the cold having subsided, but the insanity continuing, I thought I’d keep this ball rolling…
So: when last we spoke, HWSNBN (that is DH’s Facebook name. He hates social media, and abhors seeing his name on it. So compromise is the moniker HeWhoShallNotBeNamed, or HWSNBN) was in the waning moments of the Man Cold, his car was in the shop, and the search continued for missing phone. Yesterday he decided eff it, I need a phone to travel to Europe. No, he has never backed up his phone, so all was lost. He heads to the mall, and, after about 3 hours and multiple phone calls to me, gets a phone. He rushes back and we switch cars (4 humans sharing 2 cars, as his is at the shop). I fly to my meeting (yes, on a Sunday: animal rescue knows no weekends). Four minutes down the road, the phone rings. It’s him. My butt clenches.
“The shop has my phone.” Say what? So, his phone had fallen into some black hole in his car. They found it, and promptly called him to let him know — leaving the message on the very cell phone they had — which he learns via voicemail on new phone. “Well,” says he, uncharacteristically searching for a bright side, “I guess I got someone a new phone.” True: Singer Girl’s phone has been on its last dial tone for quite some time. Had it for 4 years, which is a millennia to a Millenial. But while HWSNBN bought a technically new phone, he told Apple to just give him what he already had: a 6s. Um, that was 2-3 generations ago. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
He worries: “I need to return the new phone, but I have to fly to Europe today, so I better be careful with it so it’s in pristine shape.” My head pivots, my eyebrow arches, the coffee cup pauses on it’s way to my waiting mouth, and I say: “Oh hell to the no. Do you honestly think, with your track record, it will be safe?” (background: he is notorious for losing stuff. Like driver’s licences, credit cards, and don’t get me started on all the broken coffee mugs I have found in front of our house because he has sped off with them on the top of his car).
So today I drop him off at work, and as I am a kindly SAHM and devoted and not at all sarcastic wife, I offer to take old phone and new old phone to Apple and have the old switched back on and the new old returned. Oh: and he forgot his laptop, so yeah, can I bring that too when I come to the office? SIGH. He heads to Amsterdam tonight. I may actually get something done…
A little Ado About Everything 