I blame it on my math minor. But the fact is, in my day job, I’m a person that lives by numbers, formulas, and stone cold logic.
I like it when things add up. Life makes sense that way.
When I come home, though? Sometimes, that’s a different story altogether. As much as I love my husband, I have to confess: my marriage sometimes contains inequalities that just do not make sense to me.
To illustrate my point, let’s start with an equation that does balance, shall we?
In and of itself, this isn’t a biggie. I get it. Let’s be honest, here. Taco Bell does a number on me, too.
So, it’s no wonder that this would be the next logical step in the sequence:
Again, I get this. It’s all crystal clear up to this point.
But here’s where things don’t add up:
I swear, I am not exaggerating. It’s got to be at least three rolls, if not more. Really, I have a hard time understanding how one person can kill so many trees in one sitting.
And, naturally, that means this is also true:
But the greatest inequity of all might be this:
I’ll give you one guess how I feel about that:
Suffice to say, after almost 13 years of marriage, there are certain equations that just don’t add up for me.
All I can admit is, it’s a really good thing this is true:
Note: I had full permission from my husband to publish this post. What can I say. We love potty humor in our house.
The Irony: Last week, I was thinking to myself, “I need to take the kids in for their flu shots.” It had been on my to-do list since earlier in the fall, along with a lot of other items. But I put it off (like most of the other items on my to-do list), and made a mental note to schedule them over Christmas break.
The Reality: Bobo came home from school sick yesterday. It appeared that she had the beginnings of the flu.
The Irony: Yesterday while the kids were at school, one of the things I did check off my to-do list was changing their beds. I finally got around to stripping off and washing the sheets, pillows and comforters from both of their rooms. And as I put the freshly laundered linens back on their beds, I marveled at the warm-from-the-dryer sheets, the smell of Mountain Breeze Tide, and my own domestic goddess-ness.
The Reality: Today, as I washed Bobo’s sheets, pillow and comforter again (plus a load of towels that were used the night before), the sparkly domestic goddess feeling was gone. You’d think since doing laundry two days in a row is such a rare thing around these parts, I’d feel rather accomplished. But I suppose washing vomit from sheets tends to take the warm and fuzzy feelings out of domesticity.
The Irony: As I was changing Bobo’s sheets yesterday, I noticed she didn’t have a pee protector on her mattress. I made a mental note that I should probably buy one. But I wasn’t too worried. After all, she’s 5. She doesn’t have accidents in bed! Sheesh!
The Reality: As I attempted to scrub chunks off the mattress today, it occurred to me that I should have bought a damn pee protector yesterday. Because they’re not just for pee, people. Sheesh!
The Irony: A few months ago, we bought Bobo a bunk bed.
The Reality: She was sleeping on the bottom bunk yesterday. And lo, we finally come to the silver lining of this story.
Because the thing I’d surely dislike more than changing vomit sheets? Would be changing vomit sheets times two.
Cascading vomit? Does not sound like fun. She'll be sleeping on the bottom from here on out.
I know. I’m in a bit of denial myself. I can’t believe how fast this holiday season has snuck up on us already.
I’ll be hosting the festivities at our house this year, which means that over the next week I’ll be busy cleaning, ordering a premade turkey from New Seasons cooking delicious homemade food, and generally making sure the house is picked up enough so that my guests don’t break a leg by tripping over random matchbox cars lying around. And because I’ll be unusually busy with the domestic chores that I typically neglect, I’m resurrecting an old post about my first experience hosting Thanksgiving. Enjoy.
***
Everything was all ready.
The tables were set.
The 16 paper handprint turkeys Bobo and I made were cut, glued, and set out as placecards.
The pies were cooling on the rack ordered and picked up from the bakery.
It was my first Thanksgiving dinner at my house, and I was determined that everything would be perfect. There was just one thing left to do.
The turkey.
I had planned meticulously ahead. I had researched spice recipes on the internet. I had called my mother earlier in the week and grilled her about how to cook the perfect turkey. (What kind of roasting pan should I get? What are those little tinfoil snakes used for, anyways? How does your gravy turn out so good? No one can make turkey gravy like my mom.) I actually remembered to defrost the bird. I had set the alarm to an ungodly hour so I could pop it in the oven.
I was fully prepared to cook the dickens out of my first turkey. Or so I thought.
The morning of Thanksgiving the alarm went off at the crack of dawn. I stumbled downstairs and groggily turned on the oven to preheat. With one eye open, I lugged the turkey out of the fridge. But when I took it over to the sink to wash it out, something fell out of the middle of the bird.
When I saw it lying in the sink, I yelped and jumped back a bit. For the love of God, what WAS that?
And then I knew. Obviously, someone had left the frank and beans in the middle of my turkey.
A slew of questions raced through my mind:
What kind of sick joke is this, anyway? Am I being Punk’d? What exactly am I supposed to do I do with that? Cook it up? Throw it away? Use it as a garnish?
It was too early still to call my mom. And I was more than a little embarrassed to try 1-800-BUTTERBALL. So I turned to my old standby. Google.
In the wee hours of the morning, I sat at the computer, Googling the phrase “turkey penis.” Not how I envisioned starting my Thanksgiving.
Eventually, Google straightened me out. And, suffice to say, the meal (and the turkey) turned out just fine. But I learned a few things that Thanksgiving day.
I learned that there are some phrases you should never, ever type into Google. Oh MY.
I learned that you can cheat and use the pre-cut, frozen mashed potatoes. And, if you add enough butter and cream, no one will know the difference. As long as you carefully dispose of the packaging.
I learned that my mom really does make the best turkey gravy I’ve ever tasted.
I learned that being able to have four generations of family sitting down at my dining room table is something to be thankful for, indeed.
I learned that tryptophan has no effect on children under the age of four. Especially after three pieces of chocolate pie.
Most importantly, I learned that store-bought turkeys come with the neck and the gizzards inside the bird. And I learned what a turkey willy does not look like.
Thank you for that, Google.
I hope you all are endowed with a wonderful Thanksgiving.
People who’ve visited my house in the past have commented on how clean and organized everything was. I never let them in on my dirty little secret.
I had a housekeeper.
It was a total luxury, I know. But as a full-time working mom, it was a bi-weekly indulgence that I relished. I looked forward to coming home every other Monday to a house that smelled like Pine-Sol. The toilets were cleaned, the beds were made, and carpets were freshly vacuumed. And the only finger I had to lift was to pull out my checkbook. Well worth it in my book, I tell you.
Alas, with some recent changes at my day job, we’ve been looking at places where we might be able to trim the fat a little with our expenses. And so we went through the checklist.
Gas budget? Um, have you seen gas prices lately?
Eating out less? What? And skip our weekly Red Robin rendezvous? But I love those bottomless steak fries!
Eliminating beer? Hell no.
Housekeeping? Sadly, yes. Since I was staying home more, we conceded that the housekeeper should be a thing of the past. It was all up to me.
The only problem? In the two years that we’ve had a housekeeper, I’ve gotten spoiled. Lazy. I no longer know how much time it takes to clean the house. Or exactly where the cleaning supplies are kept. Or how to use them.
Such was the case when I went to dust off the vacuum the other day. And I discovered a few things.
Vacuuming really does burn a lot of calories. Forget the treadmill. I was sweating like a hog by the time I was done.
Judging by the fruit loops ground into the carpet, my kids don’t listen to me when I tell them “no eating in the living room.”
Judging by the Cheetos ground into the carpet, my husband doesn’t listen to me when I tell him “no eating in the living room.”
My vacuum cleaner might just be smarter than I am.
To clarify point #4, let me explain.
We have a Dyson. And while it cleans really well (that’s the rumor I’ve heard, at least), the damn thing just has so many buttons and gizmos, I need to get the manual out each time I use it.
One such gizmo is a telescoping hose that you can use for cleaning those hard-to-reach spots. And while I eventually figured out how to get the thing to go up, no amount of cajoling, pushing or cursing could get the hose to go back down.
So, after 20 minutes of figuring out how the vacuum worked, followed by 45 minutes of vacuuming, followed by another 30 minutes of trying to put the vacuum away, I was left with something like this:
The best I could figure, my vacuum cleaner was just really happy to see me.
I look at you, and I don’t even recognize you anymore. What happened to the twins I used to love so much?
You used to be plump. Inviting. Symmetrical. I might even say, perky.
And now? None of those words describe you. You are both the antithesis of perky.
Flattened. Deflated. A little lumpy. And definitely anything but inviting.
I know life hasn’t been easy for you two. I acknowledge that you’ve been through a lot, so I’ll give you that. More than a few years of marriage and a couple of kids can make anyone a little, well, a little saggy. And the fact that I sleep on my stomach and squish you flat every night probably doesn’t help much with the plumpness factor.
I wish you could just go back to the way you were. At one time, you were perfect. But, lately, you’ve changed so much that I’ve been considering the alternatives.
I’ve sadly realized that it’s time to upgrade. I need something bigger and better. Out with the old, and in with the new.
So we’ve been researching the possibilities, and comparing the options. And, boy, are there a lot of options.
How big? How firm? Do we go for “top of the line,” or skimp to save a few bucks? I had no idea how expensive you guys could be, so when I started calling around for prices, I was floor-struck.
And perhaps the most important question: do we make you both the same size? Or go with one bigger, and one smaller?
It’s a decision I’ve had to consult with my husband on. Because, when it comes down to it, you’re partly his as well. And he needs to be happy with the decision I make as well.
I hope you understand, my friends. It’s time to say, “Ta Ta.” No pun intended.
Here’s hoping that your replacements will not sag, droop or become lumpy. But I’m not holding out hope.
You see, I’ve been searching for the perfect pillow for a long, long time.
Note: I had full permission from my husband to publish this post. What can I say. We love potty humor in our house.
