Come on– admit it. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? You’ve toyed with the idea of removing the sash from your fuzzy bathrobe in the middle of the night, wrapping it around your husband’s neck while he gently sleeps, and voilà! No more snoring. No more bed-hogging. Then you remember that not only is it wrong, but you really don’t have enough money to fund a fugitive life in Brazil. Neither do I.
But every now and then, my husband does or says something that sends me over the wall. And just as I’m reaching for the nine-inch AllClad frying pan, my little voice pipes up and reminds me why I married him. Lucky for him. I haven’t yet tallied up all the reasons I said, “I do,” because there are just too many to count. But my list of reasons why “I might” is etched upon my brain like a Dürer masterpiece. Here are a few choice selections:
1. Because I can. It’s the last thing he’d ever expect me to do. Besides, thanks to his volcanic snoring, I’m an insomniac bitch. I could just plead insanity, right?
2. He snores. If I could add up the number of sheep I’ve lost count of due to his Richter scale snoring, well, Bo Peep would have my hide. Trust me.
3. Occasionally I dream about being single again. Of course, my particular fantasy is trapped in the early 1990s when I was still young, not bad looking, and had a waistline. Now that I’m over 40, no matter how much I work out and how little I eat, my girth doesn’t go anywhere. It just lingers like the houseguest from hell, laughing its fatty little ass off at me “Go ahead, sucker, do another 5,000 sit-ups. It doesn’t matter. I’m never leaving!” But I digress…
4. He says I complain too much. According to my loving spouse, I’m a chronic malcontent; I’ve elevated complaining to an Olympic event, and I’m the gold medalist. Why not, I ask? There is SO much to whine about – money, secessionists, recessionists, money, revisionists, divisionists, religious fanatics, tea drinkers, tea dumpers, money, baristas, terroristas, fashionistas – what the hell, all the istas…ad infinitum, nauseam and hominem. Besides, I’m an ace complainer, and my daddy always said I should capitalize on my talent. Good thing it wasn’t tightrope walking or titty dancing, huh?
5. He works at home a little too often. The man has an office – why doesn’t he USE it? If I had a place to hang my laptop, I’d be there faster than you can say, “See ya!” But he’d rather hijack all the downstairs public space and spread his crap everywhere. The thing is, our home is my office, and I want to work, read, do research, even eat lunch, all by myself. In silence. Is that so much to ask?
6. There’s always “one more thing.” I’m usually three-quarters of the way upstairs, or naked and turning on the shower, or just sitting down at the computer with a great idea in my head, when I hear the telltale “Sweetie, do you have a second?” chasing me down, and I have to come stomping back down because I can’t seem to hear two flights up anymore. It’s like being trapped in a never-ending episode of “Columbo.”
7. He doesn’t think we need a cleaning lady. To which I say, really? Think not? Maybe it’s because he never cleans anything, except his teeth. One day of cleaning toilets, vacuuming and dusting will change his mind. Guaranteed.
8. He doesn’t get cold. So he keeps the thermostat in polar bear territory. Our house is so cold I have to wear a granny shawl and gloves when I’m not moving around. And even with a space heater, my office feels as frigid as International Falls, Minnesota. Can anyone think of a better reason to strangle him?
9. He spills. Nearly every article of clothing he owns sports some kind of stain on it. It’s like an itinerary of his activities: a splash of red wine from the Christmas Eve party, a grease spot from Friday night pizza, a dab of soy sauce from a gyoza that missed its mark, dark black lines from an unknown garden tool. I could live with it, really, if only his proclivity for getting dirty hadn’t, in a nasty twist of genetic backstabbery, been passed on to my younger son. Now I live with two Pig-Pens. I probably deserve it.
10. He’s accident prone. This one’s a no-brainer. Since we’ve been together, he has broken his ankle (surgery), his toe (the same one three times), a mysterious little bone – the hamate – in both hands (one surgery so far) because he tripped while jogging, and required hospitalization in a foreign country for a systemic invasion of poison ivy. Need I go on?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not sitting around all day thinking of a way to pop my husband’s cork. It’s only when he pisses me off, or wakes me up in the middle of night, damages another part of his body, or calls me on something and I know he’s right (which pisses me off even more). The rest of the time, I am largely content, if not besotted in that mid-life kind of way, and wondering where he keeps his own list. I’d just love to get a look at it.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
No More Pajama Party
For years, I pitied my friends who worked in an office. They had to get up earlier than I did, shower, dress presentably – if not in a power suit – and get out the door with enough coherence to last the entire day, or at least until they could come home and shed the office costume. Now, thanks to Skype, I’m feeling sorry for myself, too.
Not only has the whole workplace dress-up-or-down, Casual Fridays, dress-to-express revolution made going to work a lot more comfortable for many of us (unless you work in a law firm – and then, well, what can I say?), but the advent of webcams and Skype technology has also made it so I really can’t go to work looking like I just rolled out of bed – even if I have.
Of course, I can do what I want. I work at home, I have an office with all the technological bells and whistles, and I make my own schedule. In theory, total freedom. Except when one of my editors decides, on a whim, that nine o’clock is the perfect time for a face-to-face. Do I really want to chance getting caught in my fuzzy blue-fleece bathrobe with sheep all over it, dried drool in the corner of my mouth and sleep still in my eyes? Not really.
And there’s the rub. It used to be that pajamas and pillow hair were fine. More than fine. They were a badge of honor. They were a telecommuter’s way of saying, “See, I can look like doo-doo, work in my jammies and still be as productive as the woman in the cubicle wearing a sleek pantsuit from Ann Taylor with a Bluetooth hanging from her ear like a Jane Jetson accessory.” Now, sadly, it’s makeup and stain-free clothes all over again. As my work-at-home friend, Sue, puts it, “We may as well be going to a goddamn ball.”
But messing with my right to dress like a slob isn’t the only disaster Skype has wrought. A few weeks ago, my mother – who has also discovered the wonders of video calls – decided to reach out and touch someone. Namely me. Skype called, I answered, and there was my mother, leaning so far into her computer screen that I was sure her head was going to pop out on the other side and get right up in my face. She’s leaning and squinting; I’m cranky and suffering from post-traumatic holiday disorder. And then she cocks her head and says, “Oh my God, you look like hell!”
So long, yoga jammies. Hello, Bobbi Brown…
Not only has the whole workplace dress-up-or-down, Casual Fridays, dress-to-express revolution made going to work a lot more comfortable for many of us (unless you work in a law firm – and then, well, what can I say?), but the advent of webcams and Skype technology has also made it so I really can’t go to work looking like I just rolled out of bed – even if I have.
Of course, I can do what I want. I work at home, I have an office with all the technological bells and whistles, and I make my own schedule. In theory, total freedom. Except when one of my editors decides, on a whim, that nine o’clock is the perfect time for a face-to-face. Do I really want to chance getting caught in my fuzzy blue-fleece bathrobe with sheep all over it, dried drool in the corner of my mouth and sleep still in my eyes? Not really.
And there’s the rub. It used to be that pajamas and pillow hair were fine. More than fine. They were a badge of honor. They were a telecommuter’s way of saying, “See, I can look like doo-doo, work in my jammies and still be as productive as the woman in the cubicle wearing a sleek pantsuit from Ann Taylor with a Bluetooth hanging from her ear like a Jane Jetson accessory.” Now, sadly, it’s makeup and stain-free clothes all over again. As my work-at-home friend, Sue, puts it, “We may as well be going to a goddamn ball.”
But messing with my right to dress like a slob isn’t the only disaster Skype has wrought. A few weeks ago, my mother – who has also discovered the wonders of video calls – decided to reach out and touch someone. Namely me. Skype called, I answered, and there was my mother, leaning so far into her computer screen that I was sure her head was going to pop out on the other side and get right up in my face. She’s leaning and squinting; I’m cranky and suffering from post-traumatic holiday disorder. And then she cocks her head and says, “Oh my God, you look like hell!”
So long, yoga jammies. Hello, Bobbi Brown…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
