Some Pig

The Consolation of Philosophy

Soooo, yeah. 

Here's how it's been lately:

If you're waiting on that package from me - you know, the one with the tasteful, handmade Christmas gifts?  And the custom-made photo card, replete with holiday letter and a personally-written message just for you in it?  Well, don't hold your breath.  You'll be lucky to get a mass-produced card with our names scrawled at the bottom, probably with a stain of mysterious origin in one corner and a stamp from last year on it. Cuz that is the way it's rolling right now.  The sink is full of dishes, the basket's full of laundry, the bookbag's full of work, and I am full of self-pity.  FFS, I spend all freaking week doing dishes, laundry, and work, just so I can collapse on the couch for a few minutes on the weekend and recuperate enough to do the whole routine all over again the next week.  And it seems like no sooner do I get things beaten into shape (or at least, vaguely beaten into shape as long as you don't look too closely), then the kids drag out all 2,763 Polly Pockets, Warren decides to make one of his signature recipes that dirties every dish and plate in the house, the cat throws up on the nice rug and someone announces that he or she is out of underwear; is there any clean?

Siiiigghhhh. 

Maybe Santa will bring me my very own Alice Nelson for Christmas.  Or my friend Audra the pharma rep will send some opiate derivatives my way; one or the other. 

Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, as threatened, I stormed through the kids' crap like the Huns thundering across the Mongolian plains, wreaking order from chaos wherever I went.  Not only that, but I did laundry, ran errands, finished the week's grocery shopping, bought Christmas cards, AND set up Sunday night's dinner in the crock pot.  By 7 p.m., I was sitting down in front of the TV to fill out cards; by 9:30, I was tucked up in bed.  The house, I might add, was immaculate.  If I took something out,  I put it back.  If I dirtied it, I cleaned it.  If it needed folding or storing or filing or recycling, I folded or stored or filed or recycled it.  The house was an oasis of serenity and calm.

Fast-forward 24 hours later.   We had just finished dinner, the remnants of which were smeared across the plates that stood stacked in the sink waiting to be washed.  The counter was strewn with pieces of the mixer, waiting for Warren to replace the stripped gears and reassemble it so he could START making the bread for the next day's sandwiches.  Celeste had recreated a Jackson Pollack painting out of chicken and dumplings  on the dining room table, while her sister screeched about some transgression, real or imaginary, that we all had committed against her.  The day's outfits were scattered the length of the hall, next to the damp towels left on the floor. Yet another load of unfolded laundry sat in the living room, while stacks of folded, clean laundry teetered on top of every bureau.  At regular intervals, the dog got up, shuffled across the floor, and slumped back down with a heavy sigh, just to let us all know that, sheesh, some of us need to go outside to go potty, yanno.  Needless to say, the Zen-like calm that permeated the premises 24 hours previously?  Was gone.  Or more like, annihilated. 

That's when I realized something:  IT'S NOT ME;  IT'S THEM.  They are the reason why our house always looks like a documentary about the aftermath of a natural disaster!  It's no wonder I sound like one of the adults in a Charlie Brown tv special when I have to say the same damn things every damn day about fifteen gajillion times!  Pick up your clothes.  Pick up your books.  Pick up your laundry.  Pick up your damp towels.   Please don't leave your stuff there.  Please put your plate in the sink.  Please don't antagonize your sister.  Please do what I just asked you to do instead of making me repeat it until my head blows up.  Please just do whatI ask you to do the first time I ask you to do it, instead of engaging in huge philosophical and teleological debates about why you have to do everything, anyway.  Because you know who's really doing everything?  ME, that's who!  And if ya keep asking, I'll be more than glad to give some of it to YOU. 

So, in a way, I'm actually heartened by this turn of events.  Why?  Because it proves beyond a shadwo of a doubt -  It's not me, it's them.  This means I get carte blanche to ignore all the chaos and clutter hanging around the happy halls of my home, because, hey!  That ain't MY mess!  If you can't find your stuff anymore because the level of disorganization is unlivable, well, good luck and vaya con Dios, cuz I ain't helping ya. 

And with that, I believe I have a date with my pillow and a nice, lengthy book. 

Oh, Silent Night

At this very moment, guess what is happening?

My husband is in the car, on his way to visit my parents.

My children are in the car, on their way to visit my parents.

My dog is in the car, on his way to visit my parents.

You know who is not in the car? 

ME.  I am not in the car!  I am not on the way to visit my parents!

And you know what?

That is just fine by me.

When my darling husband, who is too wonderful for words, mentioned that it would be nice to see my parents before the holiday rolled around, all I could think of was all the eleventy jillion chores, errands, and tasks that would get pushed off yet again, only to be added to the next weekend's already-burgeoning to-do list, and it was all I could do not to sob.  Plus, I had been invited to a coworker's party, and every time I get invited to do something social with other grownup friends, it gets pre-empted by one family-centric obligation or another.  So, feeling both guilty and truculent, I took a stand. 

"I'm not going," I announced, preparing for a - well, not a fight, really, but a prolonged negotiation session.

"That's okay," said my hubs, who is too wonderful for words, and he proceeded apace with plans to go without me.  And whole vistas of me-centric behaviors are now open to explore!  To wit:

I get to listen to Christmas music featuring original instruments from the 1700's, not the original cast of the PBS show Arthur.

I get to fall asleep, stay asleep, and wake up by myself, on my own, without anyone needing a drink of water, a cuddle, help falling asleep, or someone to close their door. 

I get to spend an entire weekend without being woken up at 4 a.m. by Murphy the Co-dependent Dog, who prefers going on his 5 a.m. walks with me at the other end of the leash.  (Thanks, mother's instincts, for gracing me with the ability to wake up on a dime as soon as I hear him shuffle down the hall, the way I used to snap awake when the baby cried.  Murphy's figured that out and uses that like a weapon against me.  Damn it.)

I get to spread out on the couch and correct papers the way I like, without having to move my stuff, answer a question, referee a fight, or worry about any interruptions other than our paper-loving cat trying to sit on the papers - the uncorrected ones, of course.

I get to watch History Boys, which I have been dying to see, instead of hiding from Breaking Bad, which Warren loves and I absolutely cannot watch. 

I get to indulge in ALL my naughty, illicit pleasures AT ONCE.  Like turning the heat up to 65 and leaving it there!  Eating cereal any time of day!  Drowning everything in Thai peanut sauce!  Reading in bed without someone assuming that "still awake at 10 pm" equals "open for business"!  Listening to music on the computer in the kitchen, where I'm working, instead of on the stereo, which requires a traverse across the room and operating three different remotes, thanks to Captain Technology.  (That last one?  Makes him bonkers.)

There's a price to all this, of course.  I promised Warren I would march through the downstairs toy room like the wrath of God, and divest ourselves of a couple metric tons of outgrown and unloved toys before Santa dumps another sh!tton of crap on us.  (And yeah, I know, I know, but when you have the only two grandkids on one side of the family, they tend to get a little overly gifted at the holidays.) I have to deal with Christmas cards now, or they will never get done.  I have to sort out the contents of the girls' closets and figure out just what the heck they still can wear, what needs to be packed away, and what can get the heave-ho to the next family of small ones. 

Having said all that, I have to admit, things around here are a little... weird.  A little TOO peaceful.  Usually we spend our Friday nights in post-long-week-meltdown mode, with a lot of sibling squabbling, some mental anguish over figuring out what's for dinner, the dog shuffling around in the background and one of us playing the NewsHour at volume 11 like Nigel Tufnel (because you can't understand what Margaret Warner's saying about the latest euro crisis unless it's blasting through your head like an air raid siren, apparently).  Most Fridays, I catch myself thinking at least once that it would be nice if Calgon would show up and take me away, or better yet, take them away.  Who knew I'd actually miss it? 

(PS Don't worry - I'll struggle through somehow.)

In Which Several First-World Problems Collide

Okay, first, a disclaimer:  Every single thing I am about to share with you?  Is a first-world problem.  I know, I am thankful for all the many, many blessings I have of hearth, home, and health.  So lest you read this and think, sheesh, what a self-absorbed, shallow whiner, keep in mind:  I am a self-absorbed, shallow whiner with perspective!

The back story:  Several weeks ago, I happened to mention to Warren that I would like my own iPad because there are lots of cool educational apps out there I could use and it would be nice to have connectivity without having to lug my school laptop thither and yon (because another first world problem I have is that the school buys the cheap laptops, which are lunky and heavy).  

The back-back story:  Warren just bought himself a car.  It was a used car, and he got it for a good price, but the point is, this man LOVES buying cars and will buy one at the least provocation.  In the ten years we've been married, he has bought and sold six cars, many of which were purchased with what I consider to be marginal justification.  However, he loves the whole process.  He loves the hunt, he loves the wheeling-dealing, he loves fixing them up.  Since he is careful with our money and is a good husband and provider, my attitude has been, knock yourself out.  That means I have to endure participate in more discussions about torque and horsepower relative to frame size and differential slip than I ordinarily would (which is none), but if it makes him happy, then it makes me happy.

Meanwhile, I've discussed here before that what *I* like is small and sparkly and comes in carat weight. However, since my husband is relentlessly practical, and since jewelry admittedly has very little application in daily life unless you're using it as portable wealth, he has steadfastly ignored my subtle hints and oblique comments (e.g., "I'd love a diamond ring for our tenth anniversary!"). In his view, he had to get me a diamond in order to get engaged, and now that the necessity for diamond procurement is gone, so he is off the hook.  Whenever I point out that at least three of the car purchases we've made have been superfluous, at least technically, he gives lengthy justification for his actions that somehow manages to portray my acquiescence to this frequent car procurement as active participation in the process, and acceptance for the necessity thereof.  Which is a nice bit of barracks lawyering, as far as I'm concerned. 

Fast-forward back to the present moment.  A couple of days ago, I was tidying up way too late at night when Warren came in the kitchen.  "What color iPad do you want?" he asked, in the same tone of exasperation in which he'd say, "where is the checkbook," or "what do we need at the store?"

"Way to ruin the gift-giving experience," I replied. 

"Look, it's like ripping off a band-aid," he continued.  "Let's just get this over with."

!!!!!

?????

Um, exsqueeze me?????????  Let's just get this over with???????????  That's what he thinks about giving his loving wife a present - that it's an onerous chore to be disposed of as handily as possible? Isn't the point of giving a present that you WANT the other person to have something that they will like and appreciate, to show that you like and appreciate THEM?  If it's about the color of the iPad cover, after ten years of marriage, could he not make SOME kind of educated guess about what color I'd like?  For the love of Steve Jobs, when Warren got HIS iPad, he asked me to order him a cover and warned me sternly not to order a pink one, which you think would be a PRETTY SOLID CLUE which color I'd like, but even that is BESIDES THE POINT.  The point is, if he's going to get me an iPad as a GIFT, then how about choosing it for me based on the fact that he'd like me to have it instead of acting like it's some kind of obligation he can't get out of?  And now that I KNOW about it, it doesn't seem very GIFT-LIKE - would it have been all that hard to, oh, I don't know, buy it and wrap it and put it under the tree?  Now I don't even WANT the stupid iPad anyway, SO THERE.

[NB:  This is the point in the story where my ever-quotable coworker looked at me and said, "I hate you."  Then he took out a piece of paper and made a list:  "First-world problems - my husband got me an iPad."  Another coworker chimed in and said, "No - it's 'I don't want the iPad my husband got me.'"  And yeah, I deserve that, a little bit.]

So here's my argument:  Warren seems to feel perfectly justified in going out and procuring 'new" cars because it makes him happy.  Let's say that over the course of buying and selling all these cars, he's shelled out maybe $5k out of pocket that didn't get any kind of return on investment other than his increased happiness and satisfaction.  I consider that $5 grand well spent, in that case.  So if that's the case, and if the above scenario is indicative of his approach to gift-giving (which it is), then why the hell don't I just go out and buy myself the big-ticket item I'd like that he clearly is never going to get me?  $5,000 would buy a very nice ring, I do believe, and I wouldn't turn around and sell it in three years, either.