Bread Crumbs In The Butter

My Husband's Crush

My husband has a new crush.

On a man.

Named Dr Mehmet Oz.

I don't know how it started, but at work,  he watches Dr Oz every day at noon.  Slowly, he started to sneak little tidbits into our conversations.

Over dinner:

"You know, Babe, Dr Oz says that raw spinach is one of the healthiest greens you can eat. "

Which, I do know, and I've been telling him for years.

Or through midday texts:

"Babe, Dr Oz says that almonds are great for PMS.  You should get some almonds. I'm just sayin'!"

Why thank you honey.  Nothing like a midday text to say I'm a moody bitch.

As foreplay. I swear to God! 

A few weeks ago he leaned in for a kiss and I thought I might be getting some, but you know what he said?

"I forgot to tell you, I programmed our PVR to record Dr Oz every day. We can watch it right now!"

And now, every night for the last good while, we've tuned in to Dr Oz on our PVR.  John brings a beer to bed and a glass of wine.  It's quite nice.

It was only last night that he turned to me and said "Um, Babe, he sure talks about women a lot, eh?"

I had to break it to him that his beloved Dr Oz has a target audience of women aged 35-60 years old.

Poor guy.

Thirteen

From this:

 

To this:

To this:

 

In thirteen of the shortest, longest years of my life we find ourselves here. With a whole bunch of kids, a house we can no longer afford and an (almost) embarrassing stack of beer empties.

I've blogged about this marriage more than he's probably comfortable with. (Evidence here and here).

After all this time, on the days where I count the multitude of things that frustrate me, he's only on the list half the time - and that's pretty freaking good, no?

Beautiful

Every once in a while (let's say every three months or so, or when John's quarterly reports are due and we're both screaming from stress), I encourage my husband to leave me alone for an evening.  I pour and nice big drink and pop in Beautiful Girls.  My all time favourite movie.

It's a flick about a group of high school friends in flux and I hugely attracted to flux.  I don't know if it's because I constantly put myself there or if it's just my own bad luck, but I find I'm always thinking "When things calm down I'm going to ... "

We had that for a bit. Maybe a year or so after we moved here.  I didn't have to work, so I didn't. John and I didn't have to worry about money, so we didn't fight about it.  For a while, life was blissfully quiet and non-threatening.

What happened next is no secret. The shit hit the fan, I got a job, we decided to move and now we wait.  Our house is for sale and being such a "unique property" it's not going to fly right off the market.  That perfect buyer is out there somewhere. I just wish he/she would find his way here a bit faster.  I want to move on.   It's almost like this house is an ex I still have to live with.  I am done with it/him and I want to get away as fast as I can, but I'm stuck.   I have to stare at his face as I pay the hydro bill.  Did that make sense?

I'm sorry. I told you that movie makes me drink.

The best line in the movie is "I just want something beautiful ..." to which Mo replies "We all want something beautiful ..."

And each and every time I hear that  line I get up out of my bed (cause you have to watch this movie while in your jammies and covered by your favourite blanket) and walk to where my children sleep.  That's beautiful. Right there.

And each and every time I watch this movie while alone John gets home just as I've fallen asleep and the movie has ended.  He usually turns it off and I'm pretty sure looks at me just the same way I've looked at my kids.

That someone, even after I've bought too expensive yogourt, bitched at him about peeing on the seat, told him that there are days when I hate my life or asked him if he thinks I'm too fat, still looks at me and sees beauty?  That's amazing and beautiful too.

Inherent Jobs

It's a beautiful Easter Monday morning and with our house going up for sale soon, I am on a mission to get rid of stuff. I've got a massive pile by the front door just waiting to head either to the dump or the barn.

"So Babe, think you back up the truck and trailer to the front door so I can just start hauling shit into it?

"What kind of shit, my eloquent delicate flower?"  (Okay, he didn't say it quite like that, but he did make some remark at my language.)

"Stuff to take to the dump mostly. Trash that's too big and too costly to put out with our regular garbage. (We pay for our garbage here, people!)

I could see the wheels moving in his head. The blood boiling.

You see, he thinks his life is full of running little errands just like this one for me.  Pick up the pizza. Take this to the dump. Screw in this light bulb. Take out the garbage. Clear the driveway. Pressure wash the house. Clean the garage. Go see whose ass needs wiping I have my hands in a chicken. When you're in town getting gas for the plow/mower/chainsaw, can you get me some tampons. Cut the kids toenails, they look like Fritos. Return the beer empties and get a new case of beer, but make it PC Light just for me.

And on and on and on.

Most of these are jobs I not only am too busy to do, I just don't want to. There are certain things in any house that are just inherently male or female. They might vary from household to household, but we all have those little niggling things we refuse to do.  I rarely do any of the things I mentioned, but in my defence, John rarely empties the dishwasher, puts away groceries, plans our meals, barbecues, gets propane for the barbecue, pays the household bills, takes care of the pool or handles first aid.

This is how our marriage works. It works just fine.

Even still, I know he has a busy weekend coming up and the idea of taking our household castoffs to the dump just isn't something he's into.  So, because I'm either nice or horny or both, I thought; "Would it be so bad to take a load to the dump on Saturday?  I have four helpers and I've never been. Who knows? It might be fun. I might find a new hangout!"

So ...

"It's fine, Babe."  I said, batting my eyelashes. "Just pull it up to the house and I'll take it to the dump!"

"Awww... thanks!" he said, tilting his head to the side. "That would be awesome! Cause I'm headed down to Blahblahville that day and I don't know if I'll have time!"

"OH!" I squealed in delight!  "Blahblahville is the only place that sells Tampax Light Tampons! Can you grab me some at the Wal-Mart while you're there?!"

He Just Knows

There are days where I wonder why I married him. Not the whole day, mind you. Just snippets here and there. Like when he eats and his jaw clicks so loud I am sure it's going to come off his face. Or how he washes his hands and then leaves the paper towel he used to dry them on the counter or next to the computer.

Some days just talking to him can be exhausting. We discuss but I'm almost wholly consumed by the mundane nature of being married to someone for so long.  My mind wanders and I wonder how long it's been since I cleaned the toilets, or washed our sheets or emptied the vacuum canister in the garage. We're talking, but I would bet dollars to donuts that neither one of us is listening. We're just waiting for our own turn to speak.

Then there are days where he just knows that I need something more. Something concrete and real and beautiful. Days where I'll be standing in front of him in my soft, fuzzy, ratty bathrobe with disheveled hair and a sore head from lack of sleep.  He'll walk to me, taking sure steps, each with purpose. He wraps his massive arms around me and pulls me in.  I can smell how familiar and comforting he is. I'm not bitching silently that he buys his deodorant at the dollar store or that his shirt is getting old and faded.  I'm taking in the massively comforting man I married and listening to him say "I love you so much. You know I do all of these things for you and the kids right?  You make all of this shit so worth it."

Right then I'm not concerned that he doesn't ravish me like he did when we first met. I don't care that he doesn't make my stomach lurch like he used to in those early exciting days. I'm immensely proud of how comforting he can be and how he still knows just when I need to hear how important I am to him.

And wouldn't you know it, my stomach does a little flip flop.

Anger

Let's call this day "Angry Day", okay?

These last few weeks have been those kind that make me want to just quit and run away with the circus. Or the gypsies. I bet gypsies would know how to party.

I'm angry because I've got a sick kid who is up all night and not only do I get to stay up all night with her, I get to get up in the morning and look refreshed for work. In this task, I fail miserably and spend the entire day hearing "You look tired!" from coworkers and customers. Tired is small-town code for "You look like shit!" you know.

I'm angry because there are bills to pay, a mortgage that just swoops out of my bank account every two weeks and cheques that bounce because the company I work for can't get it's head out of it's ass long enough to ensure my pay gets put into my account on time - because of a clerical error.

I'm angry because John gets mad that I don't want to discuss our finances every second of every day. He mistakes this for not caring. I care. I care so much that even if our daughter didn't have a fever of 104 and didn't want to watch Scooby Doo at 4am, I would be awake worrying about it. Sometimes I just want to sit with him and gossip or tell him how ripped this girl is at my gym. I can tell he's just waiting for his turn to start talking about it again.

I'm angry because I had to give up my precious Wednesdays off. We need the money. So now the one day a week I had to take a breather, catch up and clean up without the usual distractions of the weekend is gone. I'm mourning the luxury of that one day like you wouldn't believe.

Beyond all that, I'm sad. I'm tired of hard. I'm tired of worry. I'm tired of hiding the bags under my eyes and looking forward to that one day where I can just be. Cause that day isn't coming anytime soon.

Christmas really is for the kids

A few days ago, John walked in with a whole whack of shopping bags.

"I finished my shopping all in one day!"  He was very proud of this. "Want to see what I got?"

I didn't really have time to answer because he had already emptied the bags out onto the table.

He had some good stuff.

A hair dryer.

Some hair barrettes, brushes, shampoo.

A space heater for Meghan's freezing cold room.

A Star Wars Light Sabre.

Wait. What?

"Um, Babe. I already got the Light Sabre on Alex's wish list."  I said, confused and hoping he still had the receipt.

"I know you did. A green one. This one's for me."

"For you?  Why in the world is this one for you?"  I think I knew the answer, but I had to hear it to believe it.

"Well..."  he said.  "Who's he gonna fight with just one? See, mine's purple!"  He opened it up and slashed the air with it.

He looked so amazingly adorable I was immediately reminded why I married him.

There's No Place For Logic During The Holidays

Christmas is coming. Which means John and I are on the cusp of our annual Christmas Fight. Don't get me wrong, we argue plenty during the year, but Christmas brings out something in us (read, me) that puts us at each other's throats. I realize that our fights aren't logical really, but keep in mind I'm the girl who once threw a perfectly good frying pan at him because it was under the tree and addressed to me.

Wait. Maybe it's not so illogical after all?

The angst stems from the age old marital difficulty of merging holiday traditions.  While John's family didn't typically make a big deal out of the holidays, mine went all out - not to mention that my parents were divorced and for a while I got two Christmases a year. John's parents philosophy was that they bought him so much during the year he didn't really need anything from a big fat man in a red suit. In our house, money was tighter so everyday gifts were a bit leaner. Christmas or our birthdays were the one day we were guaranteed to get something we really wanted. (Seriously, I still remember the Christmas I got the Barbie Motor-home. I was six. It was the best day ever.)

John and I are both egocentric and stubborn, so we both insist on our traditions winning out in the end. Problem is, John usually wins and I end up pouting on Christmas morning because I thought it would finally be the year he surprised me with something amazing. Every year I seem to get shampoo and People magazine.

Thing is, John still holds true to his parents tradition of getting me small things throughout the year.  He really is very thoughtful when it comes to stuff like this.  When he goes out for groceries he'll stop at the Beer Store and bring me back some Coors Light.  In August he bought me the new New Kids On The Block CD, not knowing I had already downloaded it on iTunes. He thought I would want to have it for the drive to the concert.

He makes our bed even though he hates it. He brings me coffee at work on Saturdays. He mingles and chats with my coworkers at holiday parties even though I know he'd rather put forks in his ears. He hates spinach and broccoli but he eats it and smiles because he knows it's important to me that we eat well and let the kids form their own opinions on food. He always thanks me for dinner. He kisses me goodbye and tucks me in before he leaves for hunting at the butt-crack of dawn.

He really is a very thoughtful husband.

Still though, every year around the holidays (or my birthday, or our anniversary) I wonder if this is the year I will gasp and be blown away.

It probably won't happen this year either, but this Saturday when he shows up with an extra large two cream one sugar, I'll be reminded again why I don't have it so bad.

You Shouldn't Be Afraid Of Your Toilet

"I'm afraid to wipe my bum."

I swear to God, those are words I uttered on the phone last week.

You're confused, I know. Just hear me out and let me back it up for you ...

About a month ago, on a ridiculously hot August night, I was reading late and had to pee. My tiny little book lamp was on (that John can't sleep with a light on is another post for another day), but not much else. It was dark in our room except for the night light in our bathroom. Enough light for me to find my way and sit down, but not enough light to actually take in the state of the plumbing.

As I sat myself down I heard a distinct "crack" and a pop. Let me tell you, when you're putting your ass down on something with a large hole in the middle of it and you hear a crack or a pop, it's never good. You immediately get images in your head of falling in and having to call 911 to get you out.

I jumped up and yelled out "Babe! I can't believe it! I think I just cracked our toilet seat!"

John, who had been startled awake by the sound said "Seriously?"

"Yeah," I answered. "I think I really did, I mean, I can't see, but I heard a crack! I cracked the seat."

"Way to go, Fat Ass!"  I heard from the covers.

Yes. You read that right. My husband said "Way to go, Fat Ass!" and he still lives.

It was late and I was tired so I decided to check things out in the morning, but I was pissed at John and really mad at my fat ass. I mean, I know my ass is just fine, but there's nothing like breaking your own toilet seat to really have you doubting those Oreos!

Sure enough, in the morning I saw what I had done. A crack. Right on the left side of the rim of the seat. Clear in half. Nice.

I told John to come in and witness my work. I have never seen him laugh so hard as I told him, near tears, that I had to go get a new seat. Can you see now why he was laughing?  My fat ass didn't do a damn thing to that seat. His did. He admitted that he had cracked it earlier in the evening, but enjoyed me having a whole night to agonize over thinking I had done it myself.

That's when I fell in love with him all over again.

I have harped and harped on him to get a new toilet seat. I figured since I had nothing to do with the crack, I shouldn't have to haul my ass to Home Depot and pick out a new seat. He should. And he should replace it!  But, this is John. He's a great guy, really hot and not bad in bed but he is the worst procrastinator going. So, I've had to live with the seat the way it is. Which means whenever I bend to one side to wipe myself, I get pinched. Yes, pinched. My toilet seat is not only cracked and usually covered in pee, but it bites back.

I've been a bit crabby about that.

In any case, tonight he finally replaced it. It's a nice seat, except for one thing. It's too small. Now there's no crack, but there's a gap between the bowl and the seat. So I get splashed.

Think I should learn to pee standing up? Or hit him with a shovel and bury him behind the barn?

Concession

Lately, I feel like I'm letting everyone down.

Worst of all, I feel like I'm letting myself down the most.

I try really hard to fit it all in, but it's a constant swirl in my mind. Who needs to be where. Who needs to bring what. I do mental counts in my head, wondering where my children are or if I'm late to pick any of them up. 

Did I remember the candies for Alex's sundae party in class? No.

Did his teacher notice and wonder why this child had to get stuck with the likes of me?  Yes.

Did I send in Meghan's permission slip and field trip money? Probably not, but I'm sure John remembered, because he never forgets.

It seems, when I make a concession and a conscious effort for one person, I let someone else down. I promise one child to take a day off and attend their field trip, but I can't take four days off for four kids. Not to mention that two of them had field trips the same day. So I say no to everybody.

I give in to John's request and let my gym membership lapse and take a year off soccer. I feel slow and weak and unchallenged. I tell myself I can do a triathlon in July having only run at home, played ball hockey and ridden my bike with the kids, but it's not even that. I miss my time at the gym and watching my kids play soccer makes me want to run onto the field and play with them.

I feel like I've given and given, but stopped taking even enough to keep me sane. That's probably not true, but I wallow.  Today, it all became too much and my head throbbed to the point of nausea. I called in sick to work and stayed in bed for four hours.  The air in my room was sunny and cool. At that point, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I hadn't forgotten not to put mustard on a sandwich.  I hadn't forgotten to RSVP for that birthday party or arrange to get that child there in the first place.  I didn't make a heinous postal mistake causing the corporation hundreds of dollars. I didn't spend too much on a gazebo that ended up collapsed on our deck (the second one in as many years). 

I just slept.

I was just me.

... but my head still throbs because eventually I had to get up.