1st World Problems of a Haus Frau

Initially, I thought housewife was “Haus Brau” in German.  But, that was wrong.  And so is Haus Brats (a spicy house hot dog).  I almost stuck with Haus Brats because sometimes I feel like a house hot dog.

But, most days, I am your Haus Frau Extraordinaire.

Here are some of the high level decisions I have to make during my long and full days.  Did I already say long?  Yes. Yes, I did.

1.      Is it OK to wear your robe until 1:30 pm?  I play around with that quite often -- meaning, I wear it until 1:30 often.  A lot of good can happen in your robe.  For instance, I am much faster bringing in the empty garbage cans when I have my robe on.  It’s a “Quick look left. Look right. Scramble to the street.  Snatch the garbage can with one hand, clutch robe shut with the other.  One more frantic look left, look right. And then a sprint back to the house with the garbage can bumping behind me” kind of maneuver.  See, the robe saves me time.  It may not be at the speed of light, but it beats the usual morning shamble.  But, on the flip side, it could traumatize a neighbor if the wind shifts, and my hold on the robe slips….

2.      To volunteer or not?  Giving back and all that.  The only position currently open at the high school is a math tutor.

      Yeah. There’s a reason for that.  If I could do math, would I BE A HAUS FRAU?  I am going to give it a go, but my husband says to give it up.  It’s stressful.  What to wear, how cool to be/not be, to be a “mother” or a “Hitler mentor”.  Not to mention, the small problem of having knowledge of how to do the math.  All these things are very difficult to process when you are hopped up on a triple espresso and the teenager beside you is smacking her gum and frantically tapping her leg under the desk.  (Well, that could have been me as well, hard to know)  Also, I think I might have had an out of body experience involving flying above the classroom on a unicorn.

…Tutoring sounded so good when I was home in my robe.

      
      3.      Paper or Plastic?

4.      Dodge the Bug Exterminator Guy or talk to him?  He is creepy, but nice.  I think that is how all creepy people are – nice.  He always knocks.  Why? I know why he’s there; he knows why he’s there.  I have this moment every time where I think, “maybe there is some big bad bug situation I need to know about”.  There isn’t. EVER.  This interaction interferes with my robe wearing.  Though, it is funny that he doesn’t seem put off by the robe.  Now, that is creepy.  I think he wants to come in, take a load off, have tea, and talk bugs with me.  I don’t sank so, bug man.

5.      Does my hair look OK?  I know, I haven’t showered. (Not yet. But I will. Later). It is poofy AND flat all at the same time.  Go figure.  I think its OK because I have seen a similar look on the Real Housewives.  Oh yes, it is there. On days when I ask myself this question, I prefer to think of myself as one of them.

       Flippin tables, throwin drinks, calling women skanks while wearing cocktail dresses and hooker heels – THAT has Haus Frau written all over it.  And off I go to the grocery store.
       BAM!

6.      Should I eat Bon Bons? Are they really that bad?  I think it’s all good.  THEY are all good.  It’s a victimless crime really. Right? How’s this baby gonna get back of it’s xnay on the bon-nay?*  I think the real problem is Bitches be Hatin on the Haus Frau.  That is just one Haus Frau’s opinion.

*No Latins were hurt in the use of the very exotic pig Latin.

Sometimes I imagine my husband absentmindedly and unknowingly singing that song by The Talking Heads.  “This is not my beautiful house.  This is not my beautiful wife” as he drives into the garage.  But, then I hug him with my furry robe arms.  Welcome home, dear.  Bon Bon?

Does the heart always grow fonder in absence?

Alrightee then. It has been awhile.  I'm new at this writing thang (yeah be quiet all you smart asses-I know it shows).
Apparently, my relationship with writing, my mojo, steps out on me in the winter.

I guess that is how I roll.

But I've been thinking about you a lot.   

I've missed you.

You've been on my mind, and I've sat down a couple times to write to you, but I don't know where to start.  

I haven't been cheating, honestly.  

There isn't anyone else. 

It's not you.  It's me.

So last night, before the new day had begun, I was lying wide awake, in my bed, staring at the dark ceiling and listening to my sick/sleeping/coughing/snoring husband catching Zs.  It's one of the things I do at night, instead of sleep.

Those who sleep are weak - I think Confucius said that.  Or maybe just me. But, anyway, I've adopted this stance because I can no longer think clearly.

As I lay there,  I thought of something funny. I started to laugh, and then stopped short.  Jeez, I might wake him up.  I really did think that -- I'm nice like that. Sometimes.  Even though at that moment I happened to be awake and not of my own accord. In the early morning hours. Dark outside.  It's dark and I'm awake. !@#%!

So, I'm laughing out loud (lol, people, lol).  I quickly curled up in a ball, pulled the covers over my head and giggled.  Then I laughed more because I was laughing under the covers.  Absurd.  Absurdly funny. Now, I don't make a habit of laughing under the covers. Mind you, that can be hurtful - to others.  Made me laugh even more.

I had Mojo.  It was back.

I would share with you what was so funny but I have forgotten. Tbh, I forgot what I was thinking just like 5 minutes later because that is what happens when you are sleep depraved (no, I meant depraved, not deprived. Depraved is closer to where I live).   "Hahahaha" I think in my crazy-tired brain

But, I couldn't stop- I couldn't shut it down.  I was so happy to be giggling at the oh-so-funny thought in bed that I wanted to dance a jig. You know, quietly and in slow motion under the covers.  Throw out a horizontal running man or  sprinkler move.

My little snicker-fit was quite a change from the moment before. I've had been a rough go of it lately. Moments earlier I was a bit, how do say, homocidal?   7-20 sleepless nights, who can count anymore? Maybe it was the snoring. Or maybe the coughing.  And then the snoring. And the fact he was sleeping....and I was not.

But now I was so concerned about waking him with my seizure -like activities, that I deftly scrambled out of bed before I peed myself.  Went to the bathroom (priority) and slipped downstairs. No wakey -- he sleeps on- damn him.

But, no, that's good.
But, damn him.
(Can you say Sybil?)
Just a snore and a snort, but no wakey.

I was so excited.
And the feeling was STILL there as I twinkle toed down those creaking stairs.
Someone was knocking at the door in my idea-brain. I suddenly had an appointment to keep, and it couldn't wait.  No reservations, first come first serve.  Heeeerrrrrreee's Johnny.

Wait. Wait.

Need coffee. Got coffee.

At the computer, getting settled.

Hungry cat. Fed cat.

On my way to the den....

Dog on my heels speaking "Scooby" - the language of pee. Let dog out.

omg.  I am gritting my teeth as I sip my coffee.  (Don't do that, by the way, it makes a mess.)

Jeez, I have to make this happen before my husband wakes up.  I wipe up my mess.

Watch dog dig holes to faraway places, and leap happily about the yard.  Call dog, but casually because if I really want her in, she won't come.  It's just getting more and more complicated.  Lord.

Yell at dog in a suppressed kind of way.

Wait.

Yell at dog again. Stomp outside in thin cotton jammies and robe to yell at dog at close range.

Dog finally back in.

Jesus Christ.  Help me.

Husband asks for coffee. Ahh Jeez.  Got coffee.

Back in the computer room, I shut the door. I'm alone. I begin by logging into my own secret world. I smile, knowing what should happen next. I start to type. Hahaha.  I'm laughing like a crazy lady (only on the inside -- you never let the people see Crazy).  Hahahaha. I'm going to keep the appointment!

thump thump thumpity thump. thump. Teen daughter tears down the stairs yelling at me, (aka her personal human alarm clock and whipping-boy extraordinaire), about my obvious job inadequacies.

Grit teeth, but smile like Mary Poppins.
Make lunch for fair-haired witch-girl and send her off on her broom-I mean, her ride - to school.

Stomp into the computer room.  The whole world is freakin awake. Sassafrassin rootin tootin....

And it was gone. My Mojo had left the building without a "how do you do". He'd slipped into my bed, got me excited, and then was gone before I got what I needed.  Now I know my hair was sticking up and my robe had coffee on the front, but Really?

I've heard that people are more creative when they are sleep deprived.
Welll then, here I come Leno.

Really, I just want to be friends.  I think we were getting too serious too fast.

I'm just standing around in my cape-and the wind's blowing.

It is Election Eve.  Who will be the next president?  Obama or Romney*?

*Now I know there are other candidates, but we all know it will come down to those two.  Just being real.

No matter who you vote for, you have to ask yourself:  What do they stand for?

Tough question, because both have spent the last 2 years dancing around the answer.  They both want you to believe that they would stand for you. We can get so caught up in the little details highlighted by the media (who, by the way, have their own agenda).  Big Bird and Bayonets? Really? 

But, when push comes to shove, I want substance, not stupid slams.

And so, that leads me to this question: What would you stand for?

What do I stand for?

I think we need to know the answer to that question before we can ask ourselves if either Romney or Obama stands for the same thing because at this point, I think they would do head stands if that is what it took. (Wouldn't that be funny?  They get up and they have grass and twigs all stuck in their hair-dids.  They would just keep nodding and waving and shaking hands.  Such dweebs -- good thing they have helpers and wives.)

It is easier to answer what the democrats or republicans stand for, or even your church.  But, I think we need to think about ourselves.

What would I literally stand up for?  Where does my passion lie?

I have been thinking about this for a while. 

Here is my starter list:

I would stand for my children. I would stand for them til the end of time and then stand some more after it’s all over.  I would also cart wheel, and head stand.  (I can do neither, but I would try. And they would be embarrassed. And ask me to stop. Jeez - I'm sooo weird.)

I would stand for my husband-plain and simple. He drives me crazy but I wouldn't sit down.

I would stand for my birth family and my family beyond. They are crazy, wet-your-pants-funny, unbalanced, precious, fierce, passionate and they represent a deep sense of who I am because they are like me & vice versa. Except the unbalanced part, I’m the balanced one – just wanted that out there for the record.  Jussayin – Family!

I would stand up for those who cannot stand for themselves. Not in a way that I think I need to save the world in my Super Cape, but in empathetic "I get it" sort of way.  However, if they needed me in my Super Cape, I would put it on and stand.  It would be blowing behind me in a very cool super friend sort of way.  Yep.

I stand for the freedom of music. It is something that speaks to my soul and it has "stood" for me in times that I needed it most.

I would stand for my friends. Because that is what friends do.  That is why they are friends.

And, so I have to shamelessly admit, I would stand for myself. I'm not perfect, or always right/wrong/funny/smart, but I am here. And not going anywhere.

It is a start – but by no means complete. 

I voted absentee a couple weeks ago – I am hoping that in the four years to come I will see that I voted wisely.

Regardless, I will still be standing for the above list.  I hope he joins me.

I'll be right here.

Standing.

With my cape on.  (just because)

And with the wind blowing it just so. (because it would be)

Go vote people, for what it’s worth.

Confessions of one who swims with the sharks

Hey, I'm back.  Again.
I'd like to say I was away on a fab vaca, but I was not.  I was waiting for the next idea, a new muse.
Did Einstein have days like this?  Where he was on a precipice - crouched, waiting for the next good -- and I mean really good-- idea to come along.
Oh Einstein, you crazy haired dude.
I haven't been doing nothing all this time though. I did create a new kind of jelly -- take that Einstein.  I will not divulge the secret ingredient as it would explode all over the internet and then where would I be?  Without royalties, that's where.  OK maybe not.  But it is good.
I took some over to my spice loving neighbor.  He likes hot spice.  He is the kind that would also like Hot Spice of the Pussycat Dolls -- but today we are talking about cooking spices.
He was painting but did stop to taste my new creation.  He did like it.  But, you know, I think I will have him try it again today.  Maybe he was high from the fumes, hard to say.  But he did keep asking if I could see the spiders and he kept swatting at the air...maybe today will be a better day.
Neighbors.  Always high when you need them.  Jeesh.
(Ok he wasn't really hallucinating, but it is fun to think about that, huh?!)

So, here is a little something I wrote in the days gone by.  I was holding it, crouched on the precipice for some time.  It could be a little wrinkled and sweaty, so I apologize.

Confession time -- sorry it doesn't include sex or money.  I'm keeping it on the level.

Confession #3Trillion 200 million 537 & 538 (Obviously, there have been other "things" I've had to get off my chest.  Later, later.):

#537: I am a big fan of water wings.  If only they were socially acceptable for adults.  I don’t know why they shouldn’t be.  Sometimes we all need a life preserver. 

#538:  I don’t swim. (Well, mostly because of #537 -- I'm not stupid.)

I mean, I can’t swim.  Well, technically, I CAN swim, but it is a little frantic. 

Obviously, there is a story -- there always is.  Grab a beer (I am a Coug after all -- all stories require a beer).
I never learned to swim until I reached college.  I enrolled in a swimming class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Just thinking about enrolling made me breathless, but I knew it must be done. I'm breathless right now.  

To back up a little -- all my life, I couldn’t learn.  There were a couple opportunities, some missed and some I took full advantage of, no matter how idiotic and poorly thought out they were.

Like in grade school. I went to a poor grade school where I think it might have been like a public service to teach the poor kids how to swim. 

It was not good.  I was freaked out and poor.  Nothing worse than a freaked out and poor girl who can’t swim.  Think:  skinny white girl thrashing in a poorly fitting swimsuit – technically it was my older sister’s suit, and her older sister’s suit before her.  Lucky for me I got swimmers ear (ironic cuz I don’t swim), and got out of the class.  Even my ears knew better than to get in the water when I couldn’t swim.  Even poor girls can figure that out. 

Duh.

The next “Opportunity” came when I was in high school.  I was at my friend’s house lying in the “sun” (I live in the NW – sun is always in quotes) by her pool.  I think it was the only outdoor pool in the NW at that time.  (They had moved up from Georgia and didn’t know any better yet.) 

So, I was lying there thinking in my teenage underdeveloped impulsive brain that I should really learn to swim.  I was missing out on all kinds of stuff by not knowing that one particular skill.  I was not one to miss out on anything.  I decided in that moment that it was time to learn. I would teach myself, damn that water and my made-up swimmers ear.

What to do….what to do…..

I watched my friend as she would casually come and go from the pool to the towel and back again so effortlessly and thought, “meh, what can happen?  If I sink to the bottom I will just walk along the bottom of the pool til I get to the other side”. 

WTH?  This is why I cannot let my daughter out of my sight.  What kind of logic is that?

The long and short of it is that I got up – thinking my 70lb, 4 foot 8 inch BFF could save my life if things went awry, and jumped off the diving board.  I distinctly remember thrashing about in my tiny polka dotted bikini, and I think I touched the bottom with a toe one time to give myself a push.  No walking on the bottom occurred as I had anticipated.  Mostly thrashing in a propelling way til I made it to the side.  My friend was watching me (not saving me as I had thought could happen in the case that plan A – the walking under water part —wasn’t as effective as originally believed) and laughing because she had no idea of my swimming impaired status.  I calmly pulled myself out of the pool and said, “what?” and laid back down.

Disappointedly I thought, “Damn.  I didn’t learn how to swim. And I have water in my nose.  I hate water. Maybe I should have told Jann I couldn’t swim – nah.  Man, it’s hot out here, I better put on some more baby oil.” 

Never mind that I ALMOST DROWN.  

Damn, I was stupid. And teenaged. Same thing,huh?

Time passed, and somehow I stayed alive in spite of my stupidity.

I grew older (wiser? Maybe not.) and enrolled in a swimming class my freshman year in college.  I think I might have PTSD because as I sit here I can still feel the fear and trepidation I felt every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 10am.  The class was at 10:30 and I would go to bfast before and sit with my friends in the dining hall and try not to freak out.  I did freak out.  Quietly every Tuesday and Thursday. 

It was a hard class for the instructor.  She was not a big fan of walking underwater.  I think she wanted to hold me under the water sometimes. But, too many witnesses, and once again, I persevered and stayed alive.

I am a survivor. Nbd.

After 3 months of terror, I mean teaching, I did learn to swim from Point A to Point B.

Treading water was right out.  I think it looked like there was a shark attack going on in the water when I was attempting this hard and daring feat.  I drank A LOT of pool water.  Pool water that other college students had been in. Ewwe.

So, that is my confession.  The weird thing is that I want a pool.  I have not given up my dream of learning how to swim better & tread water.  I still envision myself lying in the sun, going from pool to towel effortlessly and NOT walking on the bottom of the pool.

UPDATE:  The newest and greatest thing in pool building – 4 foot deep pools.  Hooray!  This summer I did my first complete summer sault in the pool. 

And I did walk on the bottom. On both my hands and feet-but not at the same time. With my head under water -- well, just when I was on my hands.  It really wasn't as complicated and daring as it sounds. I'm just your run of the mill Circus performer.  That's how I roll now.

Watch me, Mom.  Watch me. Watch....watch.

Ha Zaah, swim teacher.  Take that!

Breakin stuff. Opening cans. What ev.

“But now I’m hot and baby you’re gonna get it.” Breakin Dishes by Rhianna

Too bad she didn’t open that can of whoop a$$ on B. Brown.

But that’s the thing about women, you just never know.  Why didn’t she open that can on him?

Move in close, boys, I’m going to tell you something you should never forget.

Never underestimate a woman.  

We are most likely not what you think.  

We are that and more.   

That’s the good news.

The bad news, is “never underestimate a woman”.  Especially one that is familiar with can openers.

Now, we should not be feared.  We are a loving race. We love kittens, babies, and fresh laundry.  We love men and women, sunsets, cosmos, coffee in bed.

But, we can be mean.  Very mean. To each other and to other men and innocent women.  (Never to kittens, babies or fresh laundry).  Always to vandals.

Sometimes we are mean during that one week a month, sometimes during the other three weeks.  

It is, apparently, our prerogative.

Take me for instance.  I have a mouth like a trucker.  Some might blush if they were ever privy to what was in my head.  For the most part, I keep it inside.  Most days.

Ladies: choose your weapons

Sometimes that is hard though.  I have a devil with a flamethrower on one shoulder and two angels with fire extinguishers that are always running low, on the other.  Sometimes, the angels can’t keep up and there is a fire.  Jussayin’

On the outside, I am usually quiet.  I was shy in middle school, and sometimes I am shy now. But, sometimes it will slip, the White Center will shine, and I unleash the Krakken.  I think it is shocking to some when it happens, but I was raised by a father who could put together a string of profanity only a sailor could be proud of.

This has only happened a handful of times and mostly when someone has crossed my family or me.  One time it was when our house was being repeatedly vandalized.  I stayed up one night and caught the little “buggers”. And I will tell you, they looked frightened when I flew out of the house in my bathrobe, hair all this way and that, slinging my badass string of profanity like a cowboy in a shootout at the OK corral.  The Good, the Bad, and, particularly, the Ugly.  They must have sensed it was that one week during the month, because they ran like hell.  I can only guess they have a mother at home because they were a bit frightened. 

So frightened, one little “bugger” (“bugger” is short for another name I like to call him) left his backpack on our lawn.  As they were running down the street, all elbows and bony knees every which way, I paused in my profanity spree and looked down to see the blessed backpack.  He used it to pack his vandal supplies in.  He yelled to his vandal friends, "Hey, did you get my backpack?"  I picked it up and shook it in the air shouting, "Yeah, I got your ____  ___  ____packback, you stupid ___ _______  _____ __ __".  It turns out that he also used it during the week to leave his homework in.  Stupid bugger.  And he WAS sort of stupid, bad grade on the paper but, lucky for me, he put his name at the top.

I plotted his demise for some time (funny, for just about a week. Huh…), but in the end, I gave up the fight.  After speaking to his mother and to him, I could only feel pity.  I had to deal with him for only one night, she has a lifetime.  So, everybody gets what they deserve, I guess.  She gets him, he gets a life of confusion and stupidity, and I got to open a can of whoop-a** on that one week of the month. 

You can't always get what you want, you get what you need. Yes, Mick, I did get what I needed.

But in doing so, I realized I couldn’t change the world, even as a profanity slinger. (cut to the lonely sound of my spurs ka-chiiinnging off into the dusty outback)

UH HUH, that's what I'm talkin about.

So see, I am that and so much more.  And I always always have my can opener on the ready.

I’m killin time, you know, bleachin your clothes – Rhianna

(Come on, we’ve all been there…)