Monday, March 22, 2010

The Human (Female) Condition

Weekends are sometimes tough, aren't they? Working around, next to, or with the spouse who is usually the other end on the phone during the week is difficult. They mess up your rhythm and add another dimension to the already perfected algorithm that is The Mommy Boss. I'm sure this goes on all over the world and isn't just happening in our house. In fact, I'd also guess there's TWO sides to this story but you won't find that here. Read the title of this blog. Make no mistake, this is a unilateral buffet of literary inanities.

So this weekend the husband was not away at school and wasn't preoccupied with writing a paper or reading 5 chapters of his school work. He didn't even have a major project that would require him to shuttle abroad to Home Depot for a hunk of the day. Nope, he was home, walking around his house, fixing himself things to eat, like he lived here too. On more than five occasions I found myself giving him the hairy eyeball while he stood there meditating in front of the open refrigerator because it was 9:27 and if the kids were not both stuffed with blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes by the stroke of 9:30 all hell was going to break loose and the earth plates would shift making this the worst day in the history of all unplanned Sundays for our family. In other words, I crabbed at him for taking so long and scooted him out of the way so I could feed the children like I always do.

Then the poor man dared pick up a few toys in the living room. I noticed he put several blocks in with the plastic superheroes. Not sure what it was, perhaps a baby aneurysm, but my brain vibrated and my teeth shook in place. It was a 6.3 on the crazy b---- scale. "What are you doing?"


"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up."

"Okay but... these go there. And theeeeeeeese go here."

I'm sure he was wishing I could evaporate into thin air. Or explode painfully into color coordinated microbits of flesh and bone. Frankly, so was I. It's exhausting being this irritating. So I did the second best thing. I went out to look at furniture.

When I returned (sans furniture) he and Grayson seemed well with the world. Outside. In the trees. With the dirt. Abby was still sleeping.

She woke up. The boys came inside. The Husband and I bumped into each other like our house was on wheels. We literally ran into each other all day long and never once made eye contact or had a nice thing to say to one another in the process.

The day wore on in a very bumpy fashion and dinner was another tug-of-war between spouses. But I relinquished post haste. If you know me, you know I will always prefer to entertain the troops vice combine ingredients in hopes of something edible to come out of it. It was a good choice. The Husband could totally compete on Top Chef. And be the last one standing.

A couple hours later we managed to get the kids to bed and found ourselves staring at the same television screen.

Internal Dialogue to Myself:
Man, he looks pissed. I was really a bear today. He hates me. He's probably dreaming of smothering me with this pillow. Who can blame him? Did I put the garage door down? Is this that sequel to Planet Earth with Oprah Winfrey's voice? It is! Oh, this will be good. Oh man, he's reaching for the remote. He's gonna watch a car show. I hate car shows. I'm going to fake sleep. No, I'm going to watch this show with him because it's the least I can do for being so obnoxious today. Oh wait, he's turning his back to me. He's REALLY mad. I wonder if he's going down to sleep on the couch.

Just then he turns back around to snuggle up to my pillow, takes one hand to softly smooth my freaking out face and says, "I love you, honey."

And that?

That is the human female condition.


Cristie Ritz King said...

HILARIOUS!!! Because it's so true-for all of us.
"It's exhausting being this irritating."

pajama mom said...


One Sided Momma said...

ladies - if you two are half as obnoxious as i am then we all seriously need to do a girls only cruise before the next decade passes us by. for reals.