Feb
26
February 26, 2007
When we lost power in the December wind storm (the storm for which there was a naming contest! And dammit all to hell, I missed the deadline! I wonder if “The Big Wet Sloppy Blow Job” would have had a chance?), JB immediately purchased a heavy-duty generator because by god his family was going to stay warm if this ever happened again.
We woke up this morning to a dark and frigid house, and JB somewhat sheepishly informed me that while the generator was waiting patiently in the garage for just such an occasion, it was missing some kind of critical power cord that our electrician hadn’t delivered yet.
The chug and rumble of a nearby generator was audible in our silent household, and JB raised his fist and shook it. “Nemesis,” he snarled, referring to our neighbors to the south who have great landscaping, always go the extra mile with their holiday lights, and apparently own not only a generator but a power cord for it as well.
The electricity came on right before I left, which was a relief but didn’t give me enough time for a shower, which sucked in a big way because I didn’t shower yesterday, either, and while I can personally deal with one day of unwashed hair by telling myself it’s good to skip a shampoo every now and then—at least that’s what all the magazines say and they wouldn’t lie, would they?—a second day is just disgusting. I blasted my head with spray-on powder, which, according to the packaging is supposed to absorb oil and help you “extend a blowout” (which I assume is referring to a stylist’s work on your hair, rather than the type of blowout I’m much more familiar with), but there is only so much Bumble and bumble can do, you know? I’m oily and limp and repulsive, and just for extra shits and grins I have a zit right smack dab in the middle of my face, below my lower lip. It’s so obnoxious I’m tempted to give up entirely on concealing the fucker and dab it with glitter instead. (“What, this? Oh, it’s my labret piercing.”)
My hair is filthy, and my house isn’t so great, either. I am going to call a cleaning service this week, I think, because I cannot stay on top of it. It’s all I can do to maintain a relatively low level of clutter and chaos and keep deadly bacterial toxins at bay, and I want a cleaner house that that. I could spend more time doing it myself, but let me tell you, I got down and cleaned the living room hardwoods yesterday by scooching around on my knees and using, gag, vinegar, and afterwards a husband, a toddler, and a dog merrily trampled through with dirty shoes/paws, and I thought to myself, Self, this is bullshit.
I want someone else to do the deep cleaning, because 1) that’s not how I want to spend my time, and 2) when I do spend the time, I turn resentful and screechy and naggy about it, and I don’t like acting like some cartoon character who just needs a rolling pin to complete the cliché.
Plus, like I said I’m barely able to keep things going as is. In one non-workday I might have time to clean the kitchen, the living room, and clear off the dining room table. Then I make dinner and we feed Riley, and there goes the kitchen. One hour passes, and the table is covered with magazines, newspapers, laundry, coats, laptops, groceries, receipts, mail, and toys. Another hour after that, and the living room looks like a Toys R Us exploded and shot toy-shrapnel onto every available surface, there’s a four-inch layer of dog hair on everything, and somebody has spilled milk on the couch.
It’s like being on a gerbil wheel, forever moving but never making actual progress. I don’t know when people make time for things like cleaning tubs, toilets, shower stalls, waxing floors, and so on. Before you ask, JB pulls his weight around the house and then some, but he’s not the go-to guy for, you know, vacuuming.
So: a cleaning service. I think it’s time.
(Why is that so embarrassing? It feels like admitting that I can’t be bothered to wipe my own ass and thus have outsourced the work.)
P.S. I have a question for those of you who might technically inclined: on this website, when you view an individual blog entry the sidebar—when viewed by some computers—drops down the to bottom of the page, rather than hovering over there on the right in a helpful manner. This is especially annoying now that I’m taking the time to update the sidebar when I’ve updated these blogs. It doesn’t seem to do this from the main page, so I’m guessing there’s something borked in the “Single Post” WordPress code, but I don’t have the foggiest idea how to fix it. If you can see this issue, and you have some ideas for me, will you let me know? I’d be super grateful.
Feb
22
February 22, 2007
I was talking with JB recently about someone we know—let’s call him Billy—whose long-term girlfriend has started vigorously hinting that she’d like a ring on her finger. Billy has spent the last couple years declaring that he won’t consider marriage until he’s 30, and now that he’s 29 JB and I are wondering how this will all pan out. Will he eventually pop the question? Will she grow impatient and move on? How will he know if this is the right girl, the one he wants to spend his life with?
JB’s advice to him was, “Dude, you’ll know when it’s right. You’ll just know.” I disapprove of this advice, because while I’m sure lots of people Just Know when it’s the Right Time to embark upon a major lifestyle change, I sure as hell never have.
Marriage, for instance—I don’t think I’ve really talked about this before, but this is my second stab at holy matrimony. I was married once before, at a stupidly young age (19, if I remember correctly, which is hard to do because that was a LONG-ASS TIME AGO). He was polite, awkwardly shy, and recently back from the Gulf War; I was transitioning out of a regrettable Goth stage and enamored with the novelty of marriage. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but a couple years later I realized it was in fact a bad move, since I no longer loved him, and breaking up is way more of a pain in the ass when legal documents are involved.
For a while after that I thought I’d never get married again, because in my overly dramatic way of thinking, I could never be sure that my feelings wouldn’t change. How could I promise to love someone until death do us part, when I had no way of knowing whether I was capable of such a thing?
By the time JB and I got engaged I was a little more mature, and confident enough in the love we had that I didn’t obsess over what negative possibilities the future might hold. I wasn’t 100% positive in my decision, I didn’t just know that it was the right time, the truth is that I was willing to take a gamble.
I think that’s what it comes down to for some people. You look at your feelings, your life situation, and you just . . . take a guess. You accept the risk, or you don’t. You make a leap of faith, or you don’t.
Before we had Riley, I kept waiting and waiting for the moment when I would know that I wanted to have children. Well, the definitive knowledge that it was the right choice never came to me. I never had a moment when I felt free of doubt. In the end, I had to jump into the unknown without the confidence I wanted.
You never do know what your future will bring. Five years ago I would never have guessed at my life today, I wouldn’t have been able to believe it. Oh, it would have been such a gift, to peek forward through the years and see my own joy and fulfillment, see my ability to take on the burdens of motherhood and thrive. All I could see was fear and doubt.
I’m taking another step in the dark with our decision to try for a second baby. I wouldn’t say I’m sure it’s the right choice. I’m not sure at all, really. All I can do is balance what I know and what I don’t and what I’m hoping for and what I’m scared of, and see what comes out on top. It hasn’t been a painless process.
JB’s advice and my reaction to it illustrates the difference between the way we make decisions. JB has more confidence, he goes with his gut and he tends to stick with it. I’m a waffler, a second-guesser.
Several years ago we were hiking in Nevada, going down this steep hill covered in loose scree. JB was taking big, charging steps, he was using the rock to help him slide along. In contrast, I was mired in a fear of falling, I was making these tiny, awkward movements and trying to grasp at nearby vegetation to keep me from tripping. It took me forever to get down this hill. Forever. While JB waited at the bottom, patiently.
I wish it were easier for me, I wish I had the sort of faith people talk about when they talk about prayer. I wish I could learn to slide on the loose rocks. But I have learned to gamble. I have learned to hold my nose and jump.
I’m not sure what advice I would have for our friend. Maybe none. Maybe just the acknowledgment that some decisions are a bitch, and that’s the truth. That you can’t really be sure that your feelings and choices won’t change from one day to the next, because that’s what life is all about, growing and adapting, hopefully for the better. But if you’re really, really lucky, the hardest choices you ever make will pay out, like some great fucking slot machine hitting all three winning reels, raining joy and laughter into your life.
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