Monday, March 29, 2010

Johnson Biggar: Died a Happy Man

I am prone to having strange, strange dreams. Which makes sleeping even more fun than it naturally is! I credit my crazy dreams in large part to the Night Lunch - Saskatchewan vernacular for that pre-bedtime meal your dietician warned you not to partake of, for reasons probably not pertaining to weird dreams alone. But I'm a Saskatchewanite from way back, and Night Lunch is as much a regional attribute of Saskatchewan as are Vi-Co and gotch.

So before you dust off your old Psych textbooks over this, recall that I was eating lemon meringue pie right before bed.

I dreamed I had a penis. My very own penis! I got it in the mail after I saw an ad for a free trial offer. I was so pumped to try it out, but alas - trial sizes being what they are - it was not a very big penis. I'll be totally honest here: it was a really small penis. Man, it sure looked better in the ad - could I sue? It wood be tough to stand up in court and present that kind of hard evidence...

But back to the penis. What a conundrum! You've got it, it's ready to go, and... you're pretty sure it's going to be laughed at. For the first time in my life, I felt sad for so many of my ex... er, for men. In general. No one in particular. Really, it's a terrible irony of life that one can suffer an enlarged heart, liver, spleen, whatever, but no amount of self-abuse (and it's my understanding that there's an inordinate amount of this directed specifically at the penis) will serve to enlarge one's penis.

But wouldn't that just be the disease of the decade, if someone could only invent it? (Big Pharma take note!) It would be the one and only thing about which your wife would never harp at you to go to the doctor:

"Remember that time you sneezed last week, honey? I made you an appointment to go get that checked out, and why don't you ask the doctor about that one really long mole hair while you're there? But let's just keep this whole 'enlarged penis' thing our little secret for now, m'kay?"

As for what happened in my dream - sadly, I woke up. And aside from feeling strangely compelled to buy a lift kit for my truck, have experienced no further side effects. This week it's molasses cookies for Night Lunch. I'll let you know how it goes.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Better Get Used to it, Baby

I recently began working more. (The paid variety of work, that is.) Eight extra hours per week. Doesn't sound like much when you put it that way, but for anyone who knows me, you're probably wondering which night of the week I stopped sleeping, because it's unclear even to me where those additional eight hours are coming from.

Not that I generally sleep for eight hours at a stretch, but you know what I mean.

So if you break it all down - market work, home production, leisure, and that vital yet oft overlooked (by economists, anyway) category, sleep - which Peter am I stealing from?

Judging by the bags under my eyes and the sound of dust bunnies frolicking under the couch, it's easy to guess. I didn't really have any leisure time to steal from - you're actually reading what becomes of my leisure time these days. (Note that I haven't posted in three weeks.)

On Monday mornings, people invariably ask how my weekend was, and I invariably fiddle with the dosage on my caffeine drip and mutter, "Oh, you know - busy." Then they say something inane like, "Cool! So what did you do?"

Seriously, people? Why do you ask? Perhaps you think I'm kidding when I say 'twelve loads of laundry', every single week, and you just haven't gotten tired of the (presumed) joke. Or maybe it's like watching reality TV, and you're just relishing the idea that someone out there is even lamer than you - I'm not sure. But I am tired of always being the person with the most pathetic weekends. So on this fine Sunday evening, I'm going to write a little song all about what I did this weekend, and if you really want to know, you can just sing along and save me the bullshit Monday morning inquisition. Here goes:

On this most recent weekend, here's the stuff I did...

Twelve loads of laundry! Grocery shopping!
Three dozen muffins! Scrubbed down the bathrooms!
Vacuumed the carpets! Mended the garments!
Mopped all the floors! Helped with the homework!
Wrote ten letters! Managed expenses!
Potty trained the Small One! Cleaned up the fallout!
Shaaaaampoooooed the coooouuuuuuch!
Bread for the week!
Vat of refried beans!
And wiped fingerprints off all household surfaces under three feet in height!

*pant, pant*

I can tell that people with no kids don't think the math adds up. They think, 'Gee, there are two of us in the house and we only have two loads of laundry per week, and wash the floor once a month, and golly I can't even think of when we last shampooed the furniture - how can twice the people add up to six (or eight, or twenty) times the work?' But that's exactly my point. I challenge anyone to give a two-year-old a banana chocolate-chip muffin in such a way that doesn't result in having to wash the walls, floors, child, upholstery and everything both you and the child were wearing at the time of Muffining. It's just not possible.

But I'm certainly not resentful of the little beasts, or even really all that irritated - after all, they're just kids, and muffins do stick to the walls in a very compelling fashion if you pitch them with enough force. I'm just that I'm so very tired. I keep thinking, only sixteen more years to go, then I can relax a little. Maybe my parents can advise on how true that actually is - hey guys, did you stop worrying when we all turned eighteen?

Hmm, didn't think so.

Okay, rev. 1: Only sixteen more years until my youngest child is an adult and... and what? And I am no longer legally obligated to fuss over him. Not that that'll stop me, I'm sure. So rev. 2: And if my kids still want to live in my house after they turn eighteen, they can darn well pay rent and wipe up their own fingerprints. Yeah, that's more like it! And they can cook me muffins for a change! Plus, I will get myself a soft-serve ice cream machine to celebrate my new, easy-peasy, child-free life, because I will have all the time in the world to exercise off all those extra calories.

Oooooh, and since my kids are seven years apart, maybe by the time Small Fry moves out, Medium Fry will have children of her own, and won't my little red-haired grandkids just totally love coming over for swirl cones?

Oh... damn... the circle of life. Right.

You know, if I named the dust bunnies I'll bet they'd be more like companions...

Saturday, March 6, 2010

The Good, the Bad, and the Scrambled

I know I've mentioned before my theory that it's the tiny, gentle acts of vengeance that really make a relationship go 'round. They relieve marital tensions in a way that only a good boxing of ears could otherwise match, without the resulting awkwardness of police statements and cauliflower ear and so forth.

But one can only make so many muffins, and DH just doesn't seem to realize that the toothbrushes are a microcosm of our relationship (I can't be the only person who puts them at opposite ends of the holder when I'm peeved, can I?), so basically - I'm out of ideas. I used to be so good at being evil! I'm really off my game these days.

Guess that's the problem with how much I like DH versus, say, my ex-husband.

One thing I do recall from my pre-divorce days, however, was that you have to be constantly on the lookout for signs of weakness in your opponent. Once you sense a chink in the armour, you ferret that information away and plot out how exactly you're going to exploit the flaw to greatest effect. It's a deeply instinctual process, hearkening back to the days of our Australopithecine forebears:

"Gaaaahhh! Ug, ug, grug ormph!"
[Doris, you bitch! I know you shrunk my loincloth on purpose! Now what am I going to wear to work today?]

"Urg ug, arrrrg ug!"
[If you ever got off your fat ass and helped out around the cave, maybe I'd have more time to fuss over your damn laundry!]

Tale as old as time, Doris, but alas - love and happiness have dulled my edge.

But then DH launched into one of his random tirades today, over poached eggs of all things. There was this little photo essay in a magazine showing how to make perfect poached eggs, and he just snapped. During his verbal assault on the authors, he accused them - I'm not kidding - of "using a Henrietta" and then faking the poaching photos. So, two things here:

1. A "Henrietta" is a hen-shaped electric egg poacher (like, for real - I had to look it up); and

2. If DH has given the problem of poached eggs enough thought that he not only knew what a Henrietta was, but could actually rant for a full five minutes about what cocksuckers those poach-faking sons-of-bitches down at Canadian Living are... my search for the perfect form of retaliation is over.

I bought an extra two dozen eggs tonight, and solemnly vow that on DHs next poker night with the boys, I shall perfect the poached egg. And then I will save that precious knowledge for a day when DH is so wildly irritating that I would just as soon drop kick him as look at him, and I will lovingly prepare him a simple, hearty meal of golden, buttery toast, freshly-squeezed orange juice, and a plump, perfect pair of poached eggs.

Oh, yeah. That'll really serve him right. *contented sigh* Yeah, baby - I've still got it.