Category: Confessions

. . . are good for the soul.

Spider-Killing and Kicking Butt at Baby Showers

The hour of David Letterman has nearly arrived and I am still sitting at my computer, peering at the screen with contact lenses still in place. I am creating documents and maps and beautiful works of art to aid me in my presentation tomorrow. I am training volunteers to work during our week of Vacation Bible School. I need to hand them gorgeous hand-outs, complete with cute little clip-art lions and elephants and zebras, oh my.

Even though my throat hurts (only when I swallow . . . must . . . not. . . swallow . . . gulp . . .).

Only two more days of school. Who are we kidding, though? We’ve sputtered to a dead stop. The public school plans parties on the last days . . . and now I know why. The kids have pretty much done all they can do.

I keep forgetting to tell you about the baby shower game. I am a ruthless competitor when it comes to baby showers. You know how you have to do a handful of silly games before the mom-to-be opens her stacks of gifts (“awwwww, how cute!”)? Well, I can’t help myself. Suddenly, I turn into fourth-grade Mel and I must finish the test game first. This time, it was a word scramble and instead of zooming through it with embarrassing quickness, I struggled a bit. This scramble was a challenge! Everyone was finally “cheating” out loud and yet, they still didn’t have all the answers. I puzzled and grimaced and rewrote the letters in the margin and finally shouted, “I’M DONE!”

I won a $10 gift certificate to Cold Stone Creamery.

Usually, I sweep the games completely, but this time the other games were random and unwinnable by simple will-power and brain-power.

As for spider-killing (and, yes, I know–spiders are good, spiders are our friends). Tonight, my mother called and asked if I could come over. I was going out anyway to buy posterboard, so I stopped by her house first. She launched into a tale of a spider, a spider so gigantic, so enormous that she could not walk through her kitchen to her bathroom for fear this arachnid would . . . well, I’m not sure what the spider would do to her since she is ten thousand times the size of a spider, but she is terrified of spiders, especially bigger than average spiders. (None of our local spiders are venomous, either.)

I am not fond of spiders myself. I don’t like how they look at me. But I rarely kill them. I’m too scared to kill them. (I know, irrational. What a girl! What’s wrong with me?!) I ignore them if they are not bothering me or have someone else kill them if they are lurking in the bathroom sink or something, standing between me and my toothbrush.

But my mother is beyond mere fear. She cannot sleep in an apartment if she’s seen a spider crawling around. So she called me.

As we chatted a while later, sitting on her bed, clipping her new kitten’s claws, the spider lurched toward us. She began to babble and scream incoherently, leaving me to be the brave rescuer. I had to spring into action. I grabbed a crockpot box sitting on her bedroom floor (why? because she’s a packrat) and slammed it down onto the spider.

Then we both clutched our hands to our chests and felt our hearts pounding.

Eventually, I gathered enough courage to lift the box, poke at the smooshed spider with a fly swatter and flush it down the toilet.

I hate it when I’m forced into being the Brave One. Aren’t mothers supposed to do this? I mean, shouldn’t my mother be the one protecting me? When did this shift happen?

Eight! Six! Four! Two! Zero!

I am sick. Nothing life-threatening, of course, nothing warranting a full day in bed, just a sore throat–a really sore throat–a nagging cough, a stuffy nose and a headache.

And in the next week, I have to:

1) Finish up school with school-at-home boys;
2) Meet with decorating team for Vacation Bible School;
3) Run two separate meetings for Vacation Bible School volunteers (Saturday);
4) Type 40-60 pages of transcription;
5) Keep house tidy enough;
6) Stay on top of laundry;
7) Send two packages in the mail;
8) Prepare to leave town on June 23.

I have realized there is no way I will ever:

1) Get all the closets in the house cleaned out;
2) Sort, purge and organize storage room;
3) Pull all the weeds;
4) Lose sufficient amount of weight to look cute in my new swimsuit;
5) Leave house in pristine condition;
6) Win the Pulitzer Prize.

What I wish for:

1) Perfect health;
2) A clever birthday gift for my husband (44 years old today!), along with a delicious meal and perfect dessert;
3) The immediate end to school;
4) One entire day alone in my house;

What I have to do now:
1) Clean kitchen;
2) Wake up pre-teenagers still snoozing in their beds.

My motivation:
Zero.

Salamander in Her Pocket

Despite a rotten night of restless sleep, I met my friend for our morning walk at 5:30 a.m. I kind of wish it were still pitch black at that hour of the morning so no one could see how rumpled and bleary I am that early in the morning. How does my friend appear so fresh and with such smooth hair?

A drizzle fell on us, the exact kind of rain which characterizes our region and causes transplanted people from sunny states to curse and then forsake my Evergreen State. We chatted as we hurried along. I looked at the ground to avoid stepping on slugs and to keep the raindrops from falling into my eyes.

Right in the road, I spotted a lizard-like creature. “Look!” I said. She leaned over and peered at it, then said, “Cool!” and picked it up by its tail.


Not Actual Salamander Posted by Hello

She cupped the salamander in her hand said, “You can give it to [YoungestBoy].” She knows how much he loves animals. Then she zipped it into her pocket.

“I hope you don’t forget that thing in there.”

And on we walked, stepping carefully around the baby slugs which are growing larger each day.


Slimy Example of Full-Grown Slugs Posted by Hello

I worried in silence about that salamander. Would she expect me to transfer it to my pocket? What do salamanders eat? Could it live in a jar temporarily?

When we approached her house and my car, I remembered the salamander.

She did not and I didn’t say a word.

Call me squeamish, but I just didn’t want a slimy pocket pet, even for a moment. I’m not a very good Boy-Mom and clearly, I’m an even worse friend.

A Rambling Tale With No Point

My alarm rang at 5:00 a.m. and I slapped it into submission and slept until 5:10 a.m. I showered, half-dried my tresses, pulled on the clothes I’d draped on the exercise bike last night, wore glasses and a Mr. Rogers sweater. I drove to CuteBaby’s house, arriving at 5:50 a.m. His mom had to go to her military job early again, just to check in. (No physical testing for her because she’s still on the maternity plan.)

I was back home by 7:00 a.m.

By 7:30 a.m., I had baked my first pan of homemade chocolate chip cookies to satisfy Babygirl’s directives: “I want cookies! I want cookies!” Frankly, I wanted cookies, too.

My very long day included:

–twin 12-year old boys who spent more time exchanging nonsense-talk than doing literature lessons;
–two and a half year old daughter who is still coughing, gagging and wiping snot on her sleeves;
–DaycareKid who is not catching on to potty-training (but, hey, at least I know now that he is not constipated);
–infinite laundry;
–really out-of-control, bad hair which I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating today;
–and CuteBaby (but he took long naps today).

Oh. And a box came in the mail, which is generally cause for rejoicing. The box contained a giant, thick envelope from my mother-in-law. In the envelope were all the pictures I’ve sent her over the years (eighteen years, almost), including the sweet little Creative Memories scrapbook I made especially for her.

Only a few weeks ago, the same mother-in-law complained to me on the phone that I hadn’t sent her any pictures recently.

You figure that one out. I called my husband and he suggested she was preparing to die, which is a fairly morbid thing to say, but that demonstrates his sick sense of humor which is primarily why I love him so much.

We’ve recently been cracking up at the song-list we’re compiling for our imaginary twenty-fifth anniversary bash. (We hate parties. There will be no bash.) I suggested “Hard Habit to Break” and “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” He chose “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” and “If You Leave Me Now”. We think it would be hilarious to have these types of songs playing continuously in the background as partygoers clutch non-alcoholic drinks and little paper plates holding slabs of Costco cake. This joke–this pretend song-list–will go on for months, maybe years.

I also love him because he brought me salad for lunch at 2:30 p.m. when he called and I complained that I hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch yet. He brought Subway sandwiches for the boys’ dinner. When he returned home at 5:30 p.m. to find Babygirl imprisoned in her crib throwing a tantrum while I chatted with CuteBaby’s mom while she was picking him up–looking sweaty and disheveled, me, not her–he rescued Babygirl and she stopped crying long enough for him to transfer her to me.

After the switcharoo, she wrapped her sweaty arms around my neck and tried to steer me. No rocking chair. No kitchen chair. She insisted that I stand precisely in the center of the kitchen, no leaning on counters allowed. As you can imagine, this was great fun for me. Okay, it was annoying. My back began to ache.

My husband suggested he take her for a van ride, knowing she would scream, then sleep. That’s exactly what happened. While I buckled her in, she threw a fit worthy of any child seen on Nanny 9-1-1. That’s my sweetie-pie.

So the day ends. Mrs. Darling would be completely horrified if she saw the state of my carpets. She vacuums every day and once a week–ONCE A WEEK–she vacuums under all the furniture in her house (beds, dressers, everything). I am amazed, jealous and mostly, I wish I could hire her to be my Personal Vacuumer.

I want my floors to be vacuumed. I just want someone else to do it.

I am a horrible housewife. When I told my husband about Mrs. Darling’s spic-and-span carpets and lamented about my own dismal housewifery standards, he said, “That’s okay. I’m not a handyman, either, and you don’t hold that against me.”

And when I say, “I hate my hair! What shall I do with it?” He says, as if preprogrammed, “No matter what you do, I always like your hair.”

He’s a liar, but he’s my liar and he makes me laugh.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

We’ve been friends such a long time. I remember rifling through my mother’s hidden stash of marshmallows. You were there. When I sneaked cookies from the jar and restacked them so no one would notice, you were there. You even came along to my grandmother’s house that summer when I was just nine. How embarrassing to find that Grandma had taped closed the jar where she kept M&Ms after she noticed I’d pilfered some. You understood, though.

You were my friend, even when my parents became enemies. You stood by me when I found myself lost in middle school. Even though we parted ways for a year or so in junior high, you were waiting for me when I needed you again. You have been a steady friend, available at any moment of any day. Boring weekend? Nothing to do? You were there offering a bowl of ice cream slathered by peanut butter and chocolate syrup, and on a lucky day, miniature marshmallows.

My friends liked you, too. We’d all go out and eat french fries at that dumpy little drive-in which was demolished years ago. And a salty main course always called for something sweet, so we’d head over to the new Dairy Queen for a Peanut Buster Parfait. We were all pals. We stuck together.

Who needs boys when you have popcorn drizzled with butter?

My high school job made it convenient to spend time with you, which was great, wasn’t it? All those tacos and freshly deep-fried chips? I loved those “Crustos,” even though the name is disgusting–what’s not to like about deep-fried flour tortillas dusted with cinnamon sugar?

I know we weren’t on the best of terms in college, but I was so busy! I did appreciate how you’d lurk in the basement on the off chance I might come downstairs with fifty cents for a Twix bar, but I know we didn’t see each other too much. As it turns out, boys are more interesting than you, at least they were at the time. You have to admit, though, that occasionally, when we did get together, a whole pizza would disappear and sometimes a pound-size bag of M&Ms, too. And I never did practice moderation on those rare occasion we’d go a buffet. Hello!? Starving college student! I had to get my money’s worth.

Even though I didn’t see you all that much while I was preparing for my wedding (all that sewing, what was I thinking?), I did perfect my one-pan brownies, didn’t I? And let’s not forget those jumbo muffins at the bakery next to work! See? Always, forever friends, even though my wedding was coming. I still thought of you often.

I didn’t really expect to see you once I got married. And I probably wouldn’t have if my husband hadn’t started working the night-shift. I will never forget the first time we were together again. They’re not kidding, are they? Once you pop, you just can’t stop. I had to hide that Pringles can when it was all over so my husband wouldn’t realize how much I ate when we reunited. We picked up right where we left off, didn’t we?

Married life stressed me out, but not because of the marriage itself. The other stuff that happens to grown-ups challenged, teased and tested me–my dad’s death, the infertility, adoption, moving, job changes, financial woes, my husband’s cancer, parenting twins, pregnancy, moving again–oh, and let’s not forget the breast lump and biopsy. I am so glad you were there for all of that. I am, really. You were the one I could count on. Making friends is tough when you’re a grown-up!

But here’s the thing. I outgrew you, just as surely as I outgrew those size 10 blue jeans. Sure, you still feel comfortable to me, you calm me down, you welcome me with open arms. But I’m tired of sneaking around with you. I realize that you act like my Best Friend, but you are sabotaging me. You stab me in the back. You do not have my best interests at heart. It’s really all about you and never about what is really best for me.

So why is breaking up so hard to do? You have become my worst bad habit, the dark sin I repent of every Monday morning. I am embarrassed by my association with you and I pretend that we aren’t really that close. But it’s clear enough to anyone who looks at me and my extra chin. We are on intimate terms.

You have got to go. Food, you are the sorriest excuse for a friend ever. All that time when I thought you were helping me, bringing me peace, entertaining me, you were wrapping your chubby little fingers around my heart, ready to cut off the circulation.

You are demoted. Go back to your proper place, that of serving me, nourishing me, keeping me healthy. Our sick relationship is clearly out of hand.

I’ll be lonely for you and I’ll be tempted to call you. You are so familiar to me! The easiest possible solution to every problem I have! Bored? Sad? Happy? Tired? Cause for celebration? I want to call you. But I can’t. I’ve got to stop. You are no friend, despite your chumminess.

We’ve got to break-up.

And I mean it this time.

I Shouldn’t Even Say This

You know how you like to look as if you have things together? Or at least you try to keep from looking like a lunatic? You might be frothing at the mouth, screaming at your kids, but the phone rings and you say, “Hello?” in the sweetest voice imaginable? Or someone says to you in public, “How are you?” and you say, “Oh, fine. Busy, but fine!” when you are really thinking, “I’m drowning! If I have to wipe one more nose or smell one more stinky kid, I will throw myself out the window!”

Mostly, I strive to appear like a sane woman who has it sort of together. I mean, most days I don’t wear foundation and mascara and blush, so my face is bleary and lipless and blotchy which is always embarrassing when someone unexpectedly stops by. And recently a mom-friend told me she’d never seen me in jeans, only sweatpants, which is purely coincidental, because I don’t wear sweatpants all the time. Really. I don’t. But I don’t look like Sar*h J*ssica Parker, dancing my way through a Gap commercial, either. (Everytime I see that, I think, she’s my age, which is clearly wrong.)

But I know people think I am calm and sedate and rational. And today I wasn’t. At all.

I shouldn’t even say this–after all, what will you think–but today my twins made me furious. All I wanted them to complete for school was one unit of spelling and a few vocabulary lessons. Simple, right? They both woke up with the emotional stability of a teenage girl experiencing premenstrual syndrome. TwinBoyA actually narrowed his left eye at me while snarling through a curled lip when I went over his science assessment from yesterday. Both twins refused to do their spelling. Their defiance is what set me off.

Pretty soon I was gritting my teeth and demanding that they work. They dug their heels in. The baby was fussing in my arms while Babygirl and DaycareKid squabbled over toys. At some point, TwinBoyA expressed his displeasure with me by walking through the kitchen and casually knocking a high chair tray and a couple other items to the floor. He has been throwing things in fits of anger since before he could walk. He used to throw furniture–the child-sized rocker was a favorite–but now, he just slyly displaces things–I will find a stack of CDs on the floor or a pencil snapped in two and discarded behind a chair.

When he purposely tipped things onto the floor, I went berserk inside my head. I pursed my lips into a tight line and then went to his room and opened his headboard and threw his stack of playing cards on the floor. I dumped his bedding (unmade bedding) on the floor. I tossed some books on the floor. I emptied a plastic container full of blocks on the floor. TwinBoyB watched me do this. He was completely shocked. I did not care. I took the folded laundry from the couch and deposited it on the floor between their beds.

Both boys went upstairs and I found them playing Nintendo. I took the controllers out and told them to finish their lessons. They tried to make deals with me: “We’re not doing spelling. How about if we do music instead?” No. No. No.

I was so angry that I fantasized about grabbing the car keys and leaving the house. I imagined enrolling them back in public school next year. In fact, I called TwinBoyA over to me and I informed him how very close he was to returning to school. I said, “So if you’d like to be back in the halls of school, having people make fun of you, just go ahead because that’s where you’re heading.”

I thought of Mt. St. Helen’s . . . how it explodes when there is no easy outlet for its molten lava. I was like that volcano today–bubbling with fiery hot fury.

I thought I was such an easy-going, calm, patient, loving person. And then I had kids. Motherhood is a continual lesson in disappointment with myself. I thought I’d be better. I thought I’d have more control over how this situation turned out. I thought my kids would be more like me and less like themselves. I thought my kids would want to please me.

I thought parenting would be a stroll through a flower-filled park (quit laughing) and instead, it turns out to be an uphill climb in the rain. At night. Carrying four kids on my back. Without adequate footwear. Or a light. Or food. And all the while, they are chattering in my ears and arguing and calling each other “Stupid.”

My kids are more like magnifying glasses than anything else. They have supersized spotlights which peer into the very corners of my being, illuminating the cockroaches and dust and mucky ugliness that lurks in me. I much preferred the public me that I used to know, the unruffled person who was unchallenged and unquestioned, the person who excelled at things she tried. My kids will never know that person. They only know the screaming me who retaliates like a child and who says things like, “STOP. TALKING. TO. ME.”

For the record, I did clean up the mess I made. So did TwinBoyA. They also both finished their spelling units and we discussed their behavior later. They promise to be better, to do better, to work harder tomorrow.

When TwinBoyA said I overreacted, I peered at him and said, “Child, if you light a fuse, you just might set off a bomb.”

I need a vacation.

I’ve Been Unfaithful

I have a confession to make. I never, ever dreamed I would be in this situation, but an email last week changed everything. Before I knew it, I was climbing into the cab of a super-sized pick-up truck and heading out of my neighborhood, leaving my husband and kids behind. Oh sure, I returned that night, but something inside me has irrevocably changed and I will never be the same. Even though I’m here, my heart is there.

You wouldn’t be so suprised if I detailed my current living situation, the drabness, how things have broken down without warning. When I was there the other night, I felt whole and new, like a rereleased song with enhanced digital remixing. And when the all-too-short moments passed, we went to Starbucks and drank hot drinks and shivered in the air-conditioning and talked about it. We talked about other things, too, and then I climbed back into the pick-up and back to my regular life in my worn house built in 1972 filled with shabby-not-chic furniture.

I’m in love (you might call it “lust,” but I think this is the Real Thing) and I don’t think it’s too soon to admit it. When you fall in love, no amount of boring logic and reasonable thought matters. When I saw how big it was, that’s when I knew. I hadn’t even recognized my longing until that night when I walked into a small room and found a pantry that went on and on. That’s right. A pantry. (What did you think I was talking about?)

You believe you are content with your own house until an out-of-state friend emails and asks if you’ll take a look at a house they hope to buy. That’s what happened to me the other night. The housing market here is hopping, so when my friend, RealEstateAgentFriend, alerted my friend, MarathonMom, that a house was available, MarathonMom (who lives across the country) asked me to check it out for her. RealEstateAgentFriend came and picked me up in her husband’s pick-up truck and off we went.

Here is what $370,000 will buy you–a house built in 2002 with a giant living room, even bigger upstairs family room, formal dining room, eat-in kitchen with cozy gas-fireplace room/family room attached, two ovens, a built-in microwave, a enormous laundry room with attached pantry (that was when I fell in love–it’s a long, narrow room with shelving all along one side), three bedrooms, three bathrooms, HUGE CLOSETS EVERYWHERE, a two-car garage, oh, and did I mention the PANTRY? Everything was shiny and clean and new and in contrast, I am living in a Goodwill store with poor hygiene and body odor.

MarathonMom (named for the marathons she insists on running even though she is now the mother of three and has a Ph.D., oh, and did I mention that she also has long, straight, naturally blond hair and is the sweetest person on the planet? I hate her, no, I love her! I can’t help it!)–oh, where was I? MarathonMom and her husband (the doctor) won a bidding war and now own the house. They aren’t moving in until July, so they’ve asked me to go by once a week and open the windows and check on it. She said I could have a party or roll around on the carpet or whatever I want.

She has no idea. I’m in lust love and there’s no way I’m leaving the new object of my affections, even if I have to move into the pantry. Just call me Alice and give me an apron. I’m staying.

Excuse Me While I Turn Invisible

I’m transcribing again, job due Sunday morning.

And tomorrow, 3-month old CuteBaby arrives for his first official half-day of childcare. He arrives at nap-time for the toddlers, so I haven’t quite worked that out since I normally lay down with Babygirl and outlast her kicking me in the back until she falls asleep, which can take up to an hour.

But, hey, it’s Friday and I can most certainly manage.

Because I am not Martha Stewart and I do not have a housekeeper (drat!), I will have to spend my morning cleaning my kitchen floor and putting away the stacks of folded laundry that sit on the back of the couch. I need to vacuum and pick up the ten thousand pencils the boys never notice that they’ve dropped on the floor. Oh wait, I can make them pick up the pencils, even though they are to be concentrating on science and history tomorrow. We’re supposed to make a brain out of instant mashed potatoes, clean sand and water–I’m told this will approximate a brain when we’re finished, which seems about right. My brain is pretty much equal parts sand and instant mashed potatoes.

That explains what happened during the Gallup phone poll today. At about 5:00 p.m., as I waited for DaycareKid’s mom (oh, boy, she was SO late today), the phone rang and it was the Gallup poll people. A woman phoning from Nebraska gave me what amounted to a pop quiz on political matters. At one point, she asked me which country I believed was the greatest threat to the United States and I paused. I wanted to Phone a Friend, but instead, I blurted out, “Iraq?” And then paused again. “No! Wait!” I wanted to poll the audience, but Babygirl was trying to open the sliding glass door and DaycareKid was whining about his runny nose and the neighbor boys were tromping through the house and I said, “China!”

China?

China?

She said, “You want me to change your answer from Iraq to China?” I could tell she was incredulous, even though she’s trained to be impartial. I was incredulous myself.

But I said, “Yes, China.” Only I said it with great doubt and the sudden sinking feelings of losing $32,000. China?

What I meant was North Korea! I just read in the newspaper this morning that North Korea has admitted they possess nuclear weapons. That’s a threat, right?

I continued to feel like a third-grader posing as a college-eduated mother as I answered endless questions. I’m pretty sure I did not get an A+ on that quiz poll.

China. I know! I’m an idiot! Eggrolls, fried rice, cashew chicken . . . what’s not to love about China? They love us, too, right? What’s not to love about the United States, where mothers have make mashed potato and sand brains?

True Confessions

I hardly ever wash my face at night because I’m too tired by the time I go upstairs to bed. I sleep with mascara still on my lashes. I have no skin care regimen, even though I’ve had the same face for almost 40 years. I wear my contact lenses longer than I should each day.

I have the same jeans I wore in college because I refuse to believe that they will not fit again some day.

The other day, at Michael’s (the craft store), I tried to shop in the clearance aisle, but a woman in a gigantic wheelchair was blocking the whole aisle. I went around and came in through the other end of the aisle and she moved and blocked me again. I actually rolled my eyes at her and I think I may have let an audible sigh of exasperation escape my lips.

I have been known to change my mind about an item in a store and have left it on a random shelf. Sometimes, I don’t return my shopping cart.

I did not have my first kiss until I was a college freshman.

Sometimes, I’ll pretend I don’t see someone in a store so I don’t have to chat. I pretend I’m invisible.

I say to my kids, “Because I said so!” and “You are driving me crazy!” I yell more than I ever anticipated in my pre-motherhood days.

I’d rather read than go to a party.

I judge people by their grammar, both verbal and written.

I am avoiding my transcription job and my laundry.

Every once in awhile, I say something outrageous just to get a reaction from people.

I feel guilty about my broken relationship with my ex-sister, but I can’t figure out how to mend it without apologizing, but I can’t figure out what I would be apologizing for.

I regret going to Bible College and wish I’d just gotten a real degree in nursing, instead.

I quit taking art and music in high school because I was terrified I’d get a “B” in those classes because they are subjective.

I hide chocolate.

I emailed my arch enemy from college, a girl I caught talking behind my back. I wondered how she was doing and I was all friendly. I ignored her when she asked how I found her email address–just to drive her crazy. Turns out, she’s divorced and a small, sinful part of me thought, “Good! Serves you right!”

Now. Anyone have anything to confess?

The Naked Truth

My husband has no pants to wear. Well, he has pants, but they are all members of various suits he owns. His khakis and his jeans have all disappeared into the black hole of laundry and this week, he’s had to rely on suits and odd nylon exercise pants to get by. Fortunately, he spent a day at home while I was on death’s door, and then a day in bed, so he suffered minimally.

But he said when he goes to work naked next week and people ask, what should he say? And I said, “Tell them your wife has been sick. No, tell them you are helpless and can’t iron your own pants.”

We are so traditional. He’d happily take them to the dry cleaners to be pressed but do you realize that would cost $4.00 per pair? I can iron six pairs–maybe more–in an hour, which gives us a rate of $24.00 per hour to have those pants pressed. I can’t bear to pay for what I do so quickly. And no. He doesn’t iron. He also doesn’t cook, do laundry or breastfeed babies.

The sad and obvious fact is that I am ill-suited to house-wifery. Perhaps it’s because a truly traditional housewife, in the 1950s sense of the word, would not be schooling her children at home. She would not be fooling around on the internet or watching cable television. She’d be wearing pearls and pumps and ironing her grateful husband’s pants. And she’d do it while wearing perfectly applied lipstick.

I am a sorry excuse for a housewife. I admit it. Not only do I not keep up with the ironing, I also don’t do a very good job keeping things spic and span. The other day I read an obituary (I always read them) in which a deceased woman was described: “she loved keeping an immaculate house for her husband.” Oh dear. That will so NOT be in my obituary. Mine will read more like, “She read a lot and liked People magazine and wrote her own blog. She dusted as little as possible and often forgot to plan dinner.”

It’s not that I don’t enjoy an immaculately kept home. Oh no, far from it. It’s just that I live with these other people who are constantly undoing what I’ve done. They have no regard for tidy rooms and neat cupboards. They feel no compunction to pick up trash they might have dropped. They leave their shoes exactly wherever they take them off. Laundry never finds its way to the laundry room. They leave crumbs on the counters, grease on the stove, and a sticky trail wherever they go.

And I’ve tried to train them, teach them, encourage them. I have. And as a recovering perfectionist, I’ve decided to just surrender to the chaos rather than drive them all into therapy.

If I could stand it, I’d be like one of those people you see in shopping mall food courts–you know the ones with the rolling trashcan and the little spray bottle who wipe up after slobs who leave messes? But I don’t want to spend my time following people around, straightening up and putting stuff away and wiping down the tables. It’s hopeless and boring and repetitive. And did I mention repetitive?

A couple of days ago, I saw Dr. Phil’s wife on his show. She’s fifty, you know, and terminally cute and perky and well-groomed. And the whole show was about how she does it, how You, Too, Should Take Care of Yourself. Apparently, she is wholly devoted to remaining attractive for Dr. Phil–she uses a team of professionals, a skin-care regimen, an exercise regimen, all kinds of regimens, laser treatments, plus a nightly bath filled with expensive potions. Staying cute sounded like a full-time job to me, the kind of job a former cheerleader would sign up for. I was not a cheerleader.

I’m not that kind of a wife, either, one devoted to my looks and my body. My physical self hardly rates a thought, not to mention expensive cosmetic counter products. I haven’t even had a haircut in fifteen months. I don’t buy outfits and I never shop for shoes. My workout equipment is holding all the wrinkled pants my husband can’t wear.

As I said, I am ill-suited to be a wife. And that’s the naked truth. Just don’t tell my husband.