Coming out of the fog



I'm finally coming out of a long winter's fog;
 the sunrise slowly lighting the road ahead of me.
My cousin Jared White took this picture. He's a brilliant photographer. Check out more of his stuff on his blog, Photology: Project 365.



Fortunately & Unfortunately…March pretty much sucked.

Quit looking at me like that. Rolling your eyes in disappointed-mother fashion. I know you tune in here for your daily (well, maybe monthly) laugh and I’ve been absent. Well, if you don’t know by now that us humorists are really just normal, occasionally depressed people who may have trouble dealing with crap in their lives from time to time, wearing clown costumes and face paint to make you laugh, well then, you’ve never heard of Richard Lewis. Or Richard Jeni. Or Richard Pryor. Or any comedian that’s had a stint on SNL. Two things you clearly want to avoid: naming your child Richard or having them work on SNL. My name’s not Richard, but it starts with R. Close enough.

To recap my life since my last post in….February (has it really been that long?), I’m going to do it in child-story format. We’ll ease back into this blog writing/reading thing together in 10-15 minute increments.

 My Life Since February

Unfortunately, after a really long winter, a huge snowstorm, and a few issues with my husband, I woke up one morning at the beginning of March with a headache.

Fortunately, I was still breathing and I had plenty of Ibuprofen in the house.

Unfortunately, the Ibuprofen didn’t work.

Fortunately, I had made plans to go to Arizona (and escape the grey New England winter) to visit my grandparents and family. Unfortunately my original flight was cancelled because of snow, but fortunately I rescheduled my trip for the beginning of March.

Unfortunately, my grandfather died before I got to Arizona. Fortunately, I was able to attend his service during my rescheduled trip as well as visit with my two grandmothers.

Unfortunately, my headaches continued during my trip, despite good weather, supportive family, and lack of snow.

Fortunately, I returned back home safely.

Unfortunately, my headaches decided to hang out with me twenty-four hours a day. And ibuprofen wasn’t working.

Fortunately, I went to see my Primary Care doctor, who was concerned about my  specific head pain and told me to get an MRI.

Unfortunately, I have a problem feeling trapped, but fortunately my husband came with me. Using the black eye mask I made it through the hour and a half MRI without freaking out. Bonus.

Unfortunately, I was expecting the worse possible outcome. MS. Brain tumor. Acoustic Neuroma. (I looked that one up online. It’s amazing what you can find when you google “head pain.”)

Fortunately, my MRI was clear.  I had nothing wrong with my brain. No lesions. No tumor. I was normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” my PC asked me. “Yes,” I replied. “A tad.” Hmmmmm, she said, jotting down notes in her notepad.

Unfortunately, the headaches, ear ringing, pain, and general malaise continued. I didn’t clean. I didn’t do errands. I didn’t do anything but want to stay in my pajamas and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Fortunately, I made an appointment with an ENT to have a hearing test and figure out what the ringing in my ears was all about.

Unfortunately, I was worried that my hearing test would hurt my already hurting ears.

Fortunately, my hearing tests were normal. My ears were not infected. They looked beautiful. My inner ear was fine. I was pronounced, normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” the ENT asked me. “Well, yes,” I replied. “A bit.” His professional suggestion was to do nothing. Wait it out. But just in case, I should see a neurologist because of all my headaches.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the neurologist for two weeks. I made the appointment anyway.

Fortunately, I woke up one Saturday morning two weeks ago and my headache was gone. Gone, just like that. As quick as a sneeze or a fart, they were gone. Five weeks of wanting to sever my head vanished like an apparition.

Unfortunately, I still didn’t know what caused them. What triggered them. What cheapy-plastic part in my brain snapped to make them last so long.

Fortunately, I still had my appointment with the neurologist who I hoped would have some answers.

Unfortunately, my appointment with the neurologist lasted two hours, during school vacation, and my children were home alone. Thankfully the doctor’s office wasn’t far away.

Fortunately, he gave me a complete exam. I answered a million questions about the life of my headaches. When they started (in college). Do I feel nauseous? (yes). Do I have urinary track problems? (what?)

Unfortunately, after reading my file and visiting with me, the neurologist told me...wait for it….that I was normal, normal, normal. Yes, I had migraines. I also had tension headaches caused by….tension. Was I under any stress lately? Ummmm,.... Try acupuncture, he said. Take magnesium oxide (but don’t confuse it with magnesium hydroxide, which is used to treat constipation. These are not interchangeable). Use a heating pad on your neck for 35-40 minutes to try and release the knots that are your shoulder and neck muscles. And stretch.

Fortunately, I am normal, normal, normal.

Unfortunately, the five weeks of headaches were apparently triggered by stress. Stress, that abstract noun without form or personality—you can’t feel it, touch, taste it, or put it in a paper sack, and yet, it can make you feel like a tumor is growing in your head. It tightens your muscles and fills your feet with cement. Covers your eyes so you stumble.

Fortunately, I’m in a better place now. The sun has actually come out (literally) and I’ve been able to prune my fruit trees, plant my sugar snap and shelling peas, and rake up the lawn debris from the winter. I’m back to doing laundry and picking up the house and occasionally preparing a meal. (Or ordering pizza.)

Unfortunately, there is a part of me that worries I’m going to wake up with another five weeks of headaches; or that the tiny headaches I feel everyday will morph into something larger. And of course I worry that all those many specialists missed something. But my husband would tell me that’s my worse-case-scenario-personality talking. Our counselor would agree.

Fortunately, I’m back. And not only am I back, but I also just signed up to do the monthly blogathon again this year, starting in May. And spring is here. Mostly.

That’s been my life in a nutshell, at least as much as I’m willing to divulge on the internet. I hope I haven’t lost you and you join me back here on Musings. I have a lot of stories to tell you when you return. Like I’m getting chickens. And my three-year-old told me she likes to eat boogers. And my son brought home THREE C’s on his last report card. And my husband built and installed a bat house. You’ll have to tune back in to get the juicy scoop on everything.

Happy spring!

Vacuuming the Lawn

 When it comes to being a mother, I’ve noted my mediocre status, but the truth of it is that I’m really mediocre across the board, which includes my status as wife.

When my husband married me, I think he had little idea of how deep my feministic tendencies ran, and I sometimes believe he’s spent the last 11 years of our marriage continually being blown away by all the things that I don’t or won’t do. It’s not because I can’t do them, just because I don’t want to do them. Or if you start expecting me to do something. Woe to the person who expects me to perform a duty simply because it’s viewed as women’s work. One thing I do not do is iron his clothes. On occasion (to be nice) I will press a shirt or pair of slacks, but 90% of the time, his wardrobe is up to him. I buy his clothes. I wash and dry his clothes. I fold and put away his clothes. He can iron them.

Another thing I did not do (up until three weeks ago) was mow the lawn. My feminism may run deep, but it also runs along my well-worn mental paths, namely, that women do not a) mow the lawn b) take out the trash c) fix anything that flushes or has a drain clogged with hairy debris. Those are men’s jobs. In addition to being mediocre, I understand this makes me a slight hypocrite. I’m okay with that.

The idea of females mowing the lawn wasn’t even on the radar until we moved back East, where plenty of women can lay witness to pushing a mower, their hair pulled up in a pony-bun. Back in Arizona, women do not mow the lawn. Heck, most men don’t mow the lawn, preferring to hire a landscaping crew who may or may not have correct documentation, and I can tell you not many people care, as long as they aren’t the ones cutting their grass in 110-degree weather. The exception to this is my brother-in-law who not only mows his lawn, but frequently enough that my nephew’s favorite toys are kid sized “mow-ahs and trim-ahs.” (The accent giving testimony to his four-year-old-age, not any East Coast dialects). He’s even been known to use empty wrapping paper tubes, the vacuum hose, and other long objects to pretend he’s mowing and trimming things in the house. (My nephew, not my brother-in-law.)

Another reason people don’t mow in Arizona, is that most front and back yard areas have gone the way of xeriscaping, in order to save precious water in the land of desert drought. If grass does make an appearance, it’s usually a pubic-sized patch of green surrounded by thighs of flesh toned rocks, just so you can claim you have a “lawn,” which could easily be maintained with a good sharp beard trimmer. No large lawn mowers necessary.

My husband will not admit this, but there is a little part of him that coveted those  mower-pushing women, if only for the idea of how much time it would free up for him to do other items on my list. Three or four weeks ago, the to-do list was long and in my usual Controlling Woman state, I was eager to have the items crossed off. I offered to mow the lawn for the first time.

I realize now what a mistake this was, and am reminded of the time I was five and my mother asked me with bubbly excitement, “Do you want to help me do the dishes!?” in her sing-songy voice. What? Is my mother inviting me to do the dishes with her? Finally?

“Yes, Yes!” I cried with glee. “I bet I can do them all by myself!”

Well, you know the rest of the story. That one brief moment of virgin excitement has been followed by a lifetime of mundane dish washing, all because I thought I was being invited to do something cool. After about  twice, you realize what an idiot you were and the next time someone asks you if you want to learn how to do something else (cook scrambled eggs, run the washer, hem some pants) it’s best to say no thanks and get the hell out of there.

My husband was outside while I mowed the lawn for the first time which I was grateful for, namely because I am slightly afraid of the lawn mower. This may stem from the fact that as a kid I wasn’t allowed to be outside while my father mowed the lawn in case he hit a rock, and that rock went smashing into my head, took out my shins, or worse yet, sucked up one of my appendages. Mowers are scary business, don’t you realize, and I never understood why things like these never happened to my father, but apparently it was an adult thing. I could play outside when he  finished.

You can imagine my apprehension then, at finally using a Husqvarna 6.5 horsepower bright orange mower, that could in theory, eat me. Or send rocks flying at my dry, hairy legs, or chew my hand off. But I sucked it up in true I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-fashion and mowed the entire lawn, which is no small feat. How hard could it be really? If I can push a vacuum (however infrequently) surely I can push a mower. They can’t be that different.

My husband said I did a fabulous job. What’s he going to say? That I missed a spot? Because he knows, just like my mother knew when I was five, that when you want people to add some skill to their repertoire that invariably benefits you, you do not criticize on the first go-round. Or the fifth. You do not point out where they f’ed up the lawn, the spots they missed, or the ridiculous mow patterns in the grass. You pat that person on the back, give them a big hug and kiss, and say, “Damn the yard looks great!”

Today I mowed the lawn for the second time by myself, my husband being at work. The grass was really long, and since he started a new job yesterday, I’m trying to make his week as easy for him as I can. I actually had to pull-start it by myself this time, which is another thing to check off my list of “man jobs that I can perform.” It’s clear I’m still an amateur grass mower, because I haven’t figured out an efficient route around our yard. I start off at the outside, mowing along the border, figuring I’ll loop the whole thing, but then our trees and bushes get in the way, and I start cutting down the middle. In inevitably this leaves me walking back and forth in a two foot square once I get to the middle of the section, which is difficult since I’m pushing a mower twice that size. So I figure that I’ll try to use the mower like a vacuum, pushing it back and forth to get the last few long grass hairs. Or to get under the bushes and around trees. Or to mow beneath the slide and ladder on the playset.

I have come to realize that mowing is like vacuuming only when you look at it from a pushing perspective; a lawn mower doesn’t pull back very easily, (unlike the vacuum) and even less easily when you keep forgetting to ungrip the forward moving wheels. I’m sure my neighbors looked out the window at me today and had a hearty laugh. “Look honey, there’s Rachel. Trying to vacuum the grass again. She’s such an idiot.” And though I finished mowing the front and back lawn in two hours, when I looked at my handiwork from the porch and front window, the yard leaves a little to be desired. Many homeowners on our street mow their lawn in pretty diagonal stripes, reminiscent of ball fields and golf courses. But one side of my lawn looks like the Mother Ship landed; concentric circles leading to nowhere, and the other side reflects curvy lines and stripes, looking like I chased a rabid animal across the lawn. I also avoided the close edges of all the mulch beds and didn’t even go near the rock path in the backyard because I’m scared of the blades cutting out or braking altogether. Just last week my husband bent the mower blade after running over a rock from the path…and while it’s only a $20 fix, the cost to counsel me from the resulting post traumatic stress just wouldn’t be worth it.

My husband came home from work tonight with a big grin on his face, muttering thanks and words like “Mom’s the best.” Honestly, heat notwithstanding today, I didn't really mind mowing the lawn. I’d rather do that than clean toilets, pick up the house, or wash laundry. (Which is evidenced by how my house looks today.) Just as long as my husband doesn’t start expecting it. He needs to have a few things to do around here just so he feels needed and useful. But if he ever asks me in a sing-songy voice if I want to help him change the oil, just in case, you know, the oil needs to be changed and he’s out of town, I’m going to say no thanks, and get the hell out of there. Changing the oil is a man’s job.

One Day at a Time, Nah Nah Nah, One Day at a Time

It's been one of those days-when you find yourself running and driving from one activity to the next, only to come home and realize your house is a complete pig hole. And you son has a tri-fold board and speech due this week and you haven't made his Union soldier outfit yet. And your daughter wants you to draw on her back as you tuck her in but you haven't peed in like, 10 hours, so you tell her no. And your husband is flustered because getting the kids ready for bed and actually in bed takes more energy and time than he thought it would. (Well, duh.) And you have a blog to post, but you haven't even had one moment to think about a subject, let alone be funny about it, oh and by the way self, tomorrow is guest post day. Better be dang hilarious.

I made choices that led to this though. Like choosing to get my hair cut and colored today for four hours. I can't tell you too much about it because I'm planning on using it as a full post in two days, but lets just say that right now I look hot. Well, maybe not hot. Maybe just warm. Perhaps warm is too strong a word right now, actually. I've already showered, am wearing no makeup, and am sitting in my fuzzy blue mom robe, so maybe I just look tepid. But right now I look tepid because I got my hair cut and highlighted today-and the best part? It was half price. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I know how to treat myself right, and today I volunteered to be a "model" not a "client" which means it's the cut and color you desire with a *small*possibilty that he might screw up. The good news here is that he didn't, and now I have had my once annual cut and I don't have to get it done again until next May. Whew. One more thing off my list.

But since it's been that kind of day, and the two glasses of wine I drank this evening are now causing my eyelids to feel beddy, beddy, hebby, (that's very very heavy for those without an accent in your imagination), I'm going to post this lame blog tonight so I can call myself done. It counts. If you have issues with this blog, please take it up with the management.

Oh wait. That would be me too. Looks like you'll have to tune in tomorrow to see what else ends up here. And hope I don't end tomorrow with two more glasses of wine.

My Own Red Tent

Today is not the day to blog. But since I haven’t posted since Tuesday, I feel an obligation to you to post something, especially since I said I would do my best to blog at least every other day. As my mother always said, “Be careful what you ask for.”

It’s the beginning of the third week of the month and the third week of the month is not a good one for me. I am not rational. I am not level-headed. If I hear someone breathing wrong, there is a good chance this will incite me to yell. It is not a day (or week for that matter) to ask me too many questions, or need me in any way that requires even a tiny bit of effort on my part. And you can be damn sure I’m not going to cook anything.

Years ago, after a rant with my PCP that went something like, “I hate my kids I hate my life I hate my husband I hate where I live I hate my haircut I hate how my finger nail grows out with a split in it I hate the way the baseboards are always dusty I hate how my husband blinks I hate how the cat is fluffy” she decided I probably suffered from PMDD or pre-menstrual disphoric disorder. In other words, PMS with a really, really bad case of PMS.

That was some years back and since then I’d like to think my hormone levels have regulated themselves back to something more along the lines of your run-of-the-mill PMS. Maybe it’s the weather that also has me all messed up, because this particular third week of the month it seems like my PMDD symptoms are back. Mainly because I’m feeling like I hate my kids I hate my life I hate my husband I hate where I live I hate my haircut I hate how my finger nail grows out with a split in it I hate the way the baseboards are always dusty I hate how my husband blinks I hate how the cat is fluffy even though my cat kicked it two years ago.

Now I’m starting to cry. F’ing dead cat.

Just to be sure I’m still sane, I went online to check out the symptoms for PMDD, you know, to reassure my crying, unreasonable psyche that I’m normal and not experiencing anything out of the ordinary. Here’s what I found on the Google Health Website:

“The symptoms of PMDD are similar to those of PMS, but they are generally more severe and debilitating. Five or more of the following symptoms must be present:

• Disinterest in daily activities and relationships

Is the fact that I don’t want to make dinner, fold laundry, or talk to my children considered ‘disinterest’ or occasional normal mom behavior?

• Fatigue or low energy

After my two hour nap today, it took every ounce of strength I could muster to open my eye lids. Don’t even get me started about how long it took to put my slippers back on.

• Feeling of sadness or hopelessness, possible suicidal thoughts

The good news here is that I’m not experiencing any suicidal thoughts, but I am seriously thinking about applying for a year-long sabbatical from this house. I am feeling some sadness at the fact that we’re not going anywhere exotic for spring break (or anywhere at all actually) and hopeless that my house will ever have more than two rooms that are clean simultaneously.

• Feelings of tension or anxiety

This is pretty much how I live everyday. What’s wrong with tension and anxiety? They are practically my writing muses. They live on each shoulder. I wouldn’t even know how to wake up in the morning without Tension and Anxiety.

• Feeling out of control

Yes. Practically my whole life. If this is a tell-tale sign of PMDD, then I’ve had it since I was 10 and while I was pregnant.

• Food cravings or binge eating

Do the six M&M cookies I ate before dinner and the five I’m eating after dinner count as binge eating? Or that I want to eat anything from Paula Deen's cookbook?

• Mood swings marked by periods of teariness

Doesn’t every wife cry when her husband calls and says he’s going to be late coming home from work? Or when the box of spaghetti falls onto the nasty floor? Or when you just missed Cooking with Paula Deen and now Rachael Ray is on and you CAN’T STAND Rachel Ray? I don’t think I’m an anomaly here.

• Panic attacks

I know something about panic attacks and can safely say I haven’t had one in a really long time. Which makes me worry that I’m long overdue for one, which leaves me feeling our of control.

• Persistent irritability or anger that affects other people

Affects how? I’d like them to clarify this because sometimes my persistent irritability and anger doesn’t affect anyone. Most of the time my family ignores me.

• Trouble concentrating

I’m sorry,….what?

• Physical symptoms, such as bloating, breast tenderness, headaches, and joint or muscle pain

Maybe bloating is the reason my normal jeans are getting snug and I have a slight case of dun-lap disease. Yes, yes, it’s got to be bloating and not the cookies I’m binge eating.

• Sleep disturbances

Like my two year old running into my room every 10 minutes during my nap when my son was supposed to be keeping an eye on her? The kids are a sleep disturbance for sure, but I’m not sure that a third person qualifies as a PMDD symptom. I’m happy to blame it on them though.

After reading the list of symptoms I’m no closer at knowing if what I’m experiencing is PMDD or just a normal case of the bad-day-blues. I can tell you that Leah, Rachel, and Dinah had the right idea escaping to a red tent for one week of every month. I could use my own red tent in the backyard right now; affixed with a large flat screen TV, a bucket of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, a comfy couch and cozy warm blanket for snuggling, and a mile-high stack of romantic comedies and chic flicks. And a kid-proof zipper.

Sending Cards and Thank You Notes

For those paying attention, you’ll notice I added “Blogging in timely fashion,” to my list of things I suck at. Just so you know I’m aware I have a problem. It’s not just blogging however. It’s doing anything on or before a timeline. This includes sending cards.

If you’ve given me a gift in the last 10 years (well...ever) and I haven’t sent a thank you, let me do that now.

Thank you so much!

If you’ve sent my children a present, card or check for their birthday or any gift-giving holiday and you have yet to receive a thank you, then for my children I say,

Thank you very much!

It’s not that we are an ungrateful bunch, on the contrary, I know (and I tell my children) how blessed we are and how we should be grateful grateful grateful everyday for simply living in our home, but for some reason I simply cannot get it together enough to send cards of thanks. In fact, my daughter has just finished her thank you’s from her birthday party in February. While they are written, they are currently sitting on the back of the hutch. I have not sent my thank you’s for the donations that were made to the MS society for the walk I completed. And I’m sure there are a few baby presents I received when the baby was born that slid under the radar and now my daughter is going on one and I can tell you, a card is not coming.

It’s not just thank-you’s I have trouble with. Sending cards of any type is truly an issue for me. My sister’s birthday was three weeks ago, her daughters birthday is Saturday and although it’s been on the calendar since January, have I sent either one a card? Of course not.

I’m not sure why I bother to write birthday’s, anniversaries, and whatnot on my calendar since those reminders only serve to remind me what I’ve missed. I look at my calendar every day at least twice. It takes that much for me to keep up with what the kids are doing. How do I continue to get myself into these situations? You ask. How the hell hard is it to slap a stamp on an envelope put it in the mail and be done? Here’s a brief example of my thought process. So you know, C=calendar and TB=thought bubble. Mine of course.

I stand in front of the calendar on Monday.
C: 10:00 home cleaning estimate; Girl Scouts
TB: crapcrapcrap. I didn’t clean the house enough for the cleaning lady she’ll probably think I’m a slob dammit I have to plan for Girl Scouts what are we going to do oh Mimes might be fun [glancing ahead in the week] it’s a busy week will I even have time for a nap I don’t think so, oh my sister’s birthday is on Thursday I have to remember to send her a card.

I stand in front of the calendar on Tuesday.
C: Teddy Bear Picnic 2:00-3:00 daughter’s class, bring snacks, blanket; Karate 4:30-5:00; Baseball practice 5:00
TB: crapcrapcrap. I didn’t get anything for the teddy bear picnic, maybe I’ll have time to make cookies who am I kidding don’t forget the blanket is the camera battery even charged I don’t think so dammit. Karate and baseball practice start at the same time how can I be two places at once I wish my husband were home well someone won’t be going to something maybe I can get the neighbor to take my daughter to Karate [glancing ahead in the week] in-laws coming tomorrow still haven’t cleaned the lower level for them, oh and I need to get a card in the mail today for my sister’s birthday.

Wednesday
C: Mom & Dad in-law arrive 3:15-Providence
TB: plan on having house all cleaned by 10:00 a.m.,will go to buy a card for my sister, get it in the mail then maybe it will only be a day (or two) late. I can apologize for that I need to find someone to get the kids off the bus so I can get mom and dad from the airport I still need to finish the laundry before they get here, what will we be eating for dinner I can’t stand making dinner maybe we’ll go out get a card get a card get a card.

Thursday
C: Sister birthday; Karate 4:30-5:00.
TB: dammit dammit dammit. Didn’t send sister a card make sure that I call her today and apologize for not sending a card, cleaned all day yesterday and still was late picking mom and dad up, I didn't pick up a card yet well screw the card because now it's late and since it's late I might as well not send it...

And then all the family arrived for the baby’s baptism and the next week the kids were off from school, and now it’s May and my neice’s birthday is tomorrow and while she is only turning two, have I sent anything yet? Right. You know the answer.

In fact I was talking to my neighbor the other day who was relating to me that a mutual acquaintance had had a tragedy in her family. While we both don’t know the woman all that well, a card or thoughtful note would have been nice, so I said to my friend, “It is my intention to send a card.” That was a few weeks ago and now it just seems weird to send one.

I was so late on my Christmas letters, but had already printed the pictures, that I sent out Merry Spring letters instead. Those went out in March.

My other niece and nephew had birthday’s in February and March. It was my intention to take them to Build-A-Bear while I back visiting so we could have some bonding time and celebrate together. Well, family tragedy trumped the birthday event plans, and now it’s May and have I sent them gift cards to Build-A-Bear? Have they received anything from sorry ol’ Aunt Rachel? Nothing. Nada. Zip. "Sucking as an Aunt" --add it to the list.

We still haven’t had my son’s birthday party. His birthday was in April and we’re planning on having it towards the end of May, but it requires me to send out invitations. They're on the hutch, but they remain blank

I need to enroll my daughter in day camp for a week this summer. The forms are filled out. The check is written. The doctor has signed her off in good health. The envelope is sitting on the back of my hutch.

I mailed the last of the Christmas presents to family at the end of February. They were family calendars with our pictures. Family was never able to use the first two months. I’m just happy the calendars aren’t on the back of the hutch anymore.

Maybe I need to get rid of my hutch.

According to the latest wedding etiquette, brides and grooms have three months to send out all their thank you notes. Now this is something I might be able to accomplish.

If I had a three month window for all cards and correspondence, I may actually be more successful in sending things off. Another option would be to just send everyone a package containing a year’s worth of greetings: Christmas, birthday, anniversary, Easter, what-have-you. Then I would only need to get one thing in the mail per family. That idea might actually work.

Keeping the house clean

In the interest of keeping my valued readers occupied and to help any “blank page syndrome” I may experience in the upcoming days, I have decided to start a series of related columns all falling under the category, “Things I Suck At.” There is nothing like a bit of self-deprecating humor to keep the finger-pointers away. So every few days I’ll write an entry based on the list I’ve put in the sidebar. That way, when I’m on #7, you’ll know which ones I’ve hit and which ones I still have to go. When I told my husband I was going to do a blog about things I suck at, he said to me, “Be careful. You might not quit writing.”
Ha ha.
Be careful, I retorted. I might put, “Picking my husband” on that list.
But I realized he is correct, in that I thought they would all fit into one blog, and after starting, they are all clearly each a blog of their own. So you know, they aren’t in hierarchical order. I suck at them all pretty equally.

#1- Keeping my house clean
When I got married I had these visions of how I wanted to be. How I wanted my house, how I would act and behave, how I would rule my little domestic paradise. My home would be organized and clean, well decorated and cozy, full of indirect light and honey colored walls that made you want to snuggle up with a good book and a warm cup of tea. I would deep sigh at my lovely abode, my immaculate carpet and revel at how very much my home looked like those pristine sets in the Pottery Barn catalogue.

I think it was about day four of my marriage when that image started tilting and I found myself hanging onto the magazine page as I raced around trying to pick up and keep organizingorganizingorganizing, looking at the page and then my house and then the page and then my house, and now the page has faded and I realized I was holding the wrong magazine.

Every now and then you have those little revelations—the clouds clear and that heavenly glow illuminates the darkness—when you realize things you previously had not known, or perhaps would have liked to ignore. I had one of those epiphanies the other day, as I walked into my house after being gone in Arizona for a week.

I realized that I am one of THOSE PEOPLE who live in one of THOSE HOUSES.

There is nothing like being gone from your home to make you aware of the true state of things upon your return. I ascended the five steps to the upper level and briefly scanned the living room. Pile upon pile of domestic clutter greeted me. Toys, papers, computer bags, duffel bags and books. There were piles on the mantel. There were piles next to the couch, on the couch and under the couch. Clean laundry, dirty laundry, too small clothes, out of season clothes, and these-do-not-belong-to-us-clothes. Piles on the excersaucer. Piles on every available surface in the kitchen. Old food, empty cereal boxes, clean cups, dirty cups and measuring spoons the baby plays with. I deep sighed and headed toward my bedroom. As I high-stepped my way over the laundry, I realized there are probably more clothes on the floor of the hallway than in all the drawers in my house combined. I dropped off my suitcase, which by the way was full of more crap to put away and more dirty laundry, and went to use the restroom.

My bathroom smelled like pee. It’s difficult to admit, but I turned to verify I was actually in my bathroom and that the doorway didn’t go all Narnia on me and send me reeling into a nursing home. The opening of the toilet bowl is 10 inches (I’ve measured) but that is clearly too small an opening for a 1 cm stream of urine, because inside the bowl is never where the urine ends up. There was more hair on my bathroom floor and in the corners of the bathtub than are currently growing on my head. That linty-dusty-black-film covered the corners of my floors especially behind the door, and for the life of me, I cannot find where this originates. After lining the seat in my own home—afraid of catching some new disease—I used the restroom and left, shutting the door behind me. God forbid my latest baby ends up sucking on that toilet seat like her sister. Visions of e-coli poisoning dancing through my head, I high stepped back to the bedroom to lay down for a respite and realized I couldn't do that either.

My bed looked like a homeless doll shelter. There were more babies, stuffed animals, doll blankets, and miniature pillows on my bed than reside in FAO Shwartz. The bed has not been made since I got married in 1998. As I tried to butt-slide onto the mattress, the air from my movement caused a small dust-surge from my side table, which glistened beautifully in the light streaming through my cobweb covered windows. This was not restful. This was not respite. And believe it or not, this was not the epiphany.

The epiphany came when I high-stepped back through the hallway into the kitchen littered with last week's old dishes and dirty saucepans, opened the refrigerator to be greeted by cancer-causing molded food and a painters pallet of doorway condiments, closed the refrigerator in disgust, wiped crumbs-and-chunks off my bare feet from the kitchen floor while cursing and realized:

We live like this more than we don’t live like this.

Which makes me one of THOSE people. THOSE people who live in filth and squalor, whose houses you are afraid to go into because you’re never sure what you’ll be sitting on or what you’ll be breathing. There isn't fecal matter on the walls currently, but give me time: the baby hasn't figured that one out yet. I’m one of THOSE mothers who just can’t get it together enough to keep her house clean (read: What does she do all day, she stays home after all), and lives in one of THOSE houses (read: It’s sooo pretty on the outside) and I’m pretty sure that CPS would have some ammunition if it weren’t for the way I wipe everyone’s noses before sending them to school. (I can at least pretend I have a good game.) I’m one of THOSE people who apologize up and down for the current state of their house and how busy it’s been, how it was clean last week, while the guests nod and offer up, Oh don’t worry about it, Puh-lease, I’m not concerned at all, I totally understand, but what they are really thinking is, This is disgusting. How does she live like this? I’ve got three kids and my house looks WAY better. How does her husband put up with her slovenly nature?

This epiphany hits me and I realize I’m not only sooo not Pottery Barn, but that my house really belongs in an episode of “Storm Stories: The Aftermath,” and what I’d really like to do is stand on top of my life’s roof and exclaim at the top of my lungs, “I CAN KEEP A CLEAN HOUSE, REALLY I CAN, IF IT WEREN’T FOR THIS FAMILY THAT LIVES HERE WITH ME,” if for no other reason than it might give people pause before they nod their heads muttering under their breath, “Poor wretched woman… Poor wretched family…”

After this epiphany I did what any good mother—heck good woman—does when faced with a truth of this proportion: I grabbed my gardening book and sat on the front steps and read about planting vegetables. There’s no way this house is gonna change, say before the kids go to college, so why bother? What’s my hurry?

I have decided it is easier to hand people a hospital mask and latex-free gloves than to try and dig myself out of the hole that has become my home. My two hands simply do not work as fast as the 6 other hands working against me. I have decided to be a positive thinker and find the sliver lining. At least my children will have a strong and healthy immune system. My guests will have such low expectations that the slightest bit of straightening will elicit oohs and ahhs. I will be able to read those poems about old age and regrets and never be able to relate to the one that says, “I would have cleaned less and played more.” I suppose sucking at house cleaning does have its advantages.