Life is a Banquet

My Husband, The Velociraptor

I love everyone's suggestion about making & freezing food. I can't take it though. Why? It's certainly not from lack of freezer space--we are blessed with a separate freezer in the garage. Nor, is it from lack of plastic containers--I live with he-who-shall-not-throw-anything-away. No, it's because of what I like to term the dinner time black hole effect. Any quantity prepared shall be devoured immediately.

To wit: I make two salmon burgers, two ears of corn, and steamed broccoli (last night). I am thanked for a lovely and filling meal. Seconds aren't requested b/c the law of sauce has not been activated.

The law of sauce: I use my largest skillet, and make curry with 1.5 lbs of chicken, cauliflower, carrots, and onions all swimming in a coconut based sauce. The recipe feeds 6-8. I make a stack of potato roti to accompany the feast, and plan on freezing half the curry to have with instant rice post-Beta. We sit down to dine, and I am just helping myself to a roti, when I hear a giant slurping noise followed by footsteps beating a path to the stove.

Me:  "Oh, by the way, I'm hoping to have lots of leftovers." Him: "Oh." Me: "What do you mean, 'oh?" Him: "I suppose there might be enough for your lunch tomorrow." Translation: There are enough scrapings left in the bottom of the skillet to feed your average female sparrow for a snack. Cue me smacking my head against the table. Him: "You should make more next time."

The law of sauce in brief: If it has a sauce, it will be gone before you are done chewing.

Corollary to the law of sauce: The tastier it is, the faster it disappears. If there is a meal gone wrong, it will linger, and linger. Feel free to freeze the craptastic leftovers as they will endure until the next ice age.

Second corollary to the law of sauce: The longer it takes to make it, the faster it will disappear. Butter Chicken which marinates for 6 hours, then broils, then simmers in sauce? 25.5 seconds to an empty pan.

Third corollary to the law of sauce: Doubling the recipe results in the same amount of leftovers. The last time you made peanut sauce, you had 1 serving left. This time, you double the recipe, doubling sauce, chicken, and vegetables. The result: 1 serving left.

The law of not-for-you: The law of sauce is not the only law operating in my kitchen universe. The law of not-for-you states that if you make something specifically for someone, it is highly probable that their tastes have changed, they are not in the mood for it, they have sprung an allergy, they had it for lunch, or the dish fails. You will be stuck with leftovers for a near eternity--and just when the last is fed to the dog, you will be asked, "why don't you ever make X anymore?"  If in your frustration, you determine to cook ONLY FOR YOU, beware of the law of not-for-you.

For example, your spouse dislikes sushi in any way shape or form. You make six cooked-fish &  veggie rolls, hoping to get several meals/snacks for yourself out of your efforts. Four rolls will disappear while you are hunting for your adorable little Japanese plates that ABV gave you as a wedding gift. "This is fabulous!" your sushi-hating spouse will exclaim while eying the two remaining rolls with lust. The law of not-for-you has struck again.

Second example, your spouse is allergic to dairy. You purchase sugar-free chocolate pudding cups, intending to save them for chocolate emergencies. Result: They disappear along with your spouse's allergy.

Our third example is guaranteed to take years off your life: You are making a large batch of banana bread. Your spouse requests that one loaf not have chocolate chips or nuts. You oblige even though you hate to divide dough, imagining that your reward will be a loaf of your very own. Predictable result: The chocolate & nut loaf disappears first. If you are lucky, you got a piece.

Corollary to the law of not-for-you: The person you most need out of the house will return at the least opportune time. Are you cheating on your spouse with a gluten free eggs Benedict for one? He will emerge, ravenous from his cave right as you are about to take the first bite. He will shake off hours of inattention and shower you with love and compliments until half your brunch is on his plate. His gratitude will make you feel like a wench for wishing him gone. 

Second Corollary to the law of not-for-you: Male pattern blindness/memory loss will strike when you least expect it.  Say you freeze two servings of a spicy black bean soup that your spouse claims gives him heartburn. Your freezer is also stocked with husband friendly pizzas, burritos, and other nasty pre-wrapped items which you can't eat.  When you arrive in the kitchen to the smell of soup with your spouse poised with spoon in front of the microwave, you can expect one of the following responses: "There was nothing else to eat!" "I never said I didn't like it!" "It didn't upset my stomach!" "You weren't eating it!" and/or "I didn't want it to go to waste." It is hard to reason with such logic.

Third Corollary to the law of not-for-you: Party food as irresistible as freezer-destined food. If you make hummus for dinner, you will be questioned as to where the rest of the meal is. Make hummus for SOMEONE ELSE though, and you will be bombarded with questions as to why you didn't make more, and why do we *really* need to bring a dish when a package of crackers might suffice.

Fourth Corollary to the law of not-for-you: You will pay for missed opportunities. Does your spouse hate pesto? Do you turn down a bag full of basil b/c you're the "only one who will eat it," and instead, buy a small jar that costs as much as face cream when you have a craving? You, my friend, have just guaranteed that your husband is now a pesto-lover who will lick the inside of the jar. Spouse not a watermelon fan? That personal size watermelon you just bought? It's now serving two.

After all this, you're probably wondering, why cook? Actually, I wonder this on a nightly basis myself. But, the answer is quite simple: It's no fun cooking just for me! Men are like puppies--they're so adorable when they've just eaten something they shouldn't have, and so completely lacking in malice that you end up apologizing to THEM for your fit of temper. And there is no greater compliment than someone who loves your cooking enough to have seconds. Or twelfths.

Anyone have any leads on industrial size cookware? Perhaps that might thwart the black hole effect temporarily?

Male Pattern Blindness

Attention Pharmaceutical Companies: You're overlooking a common condition that affects millions of American men and their long-suffering spouses! This is the untapped market opportunity you've been waiting for--a disease that afflicts men (easy drug approval!) but affects women enough that they'll drag them in for a prescription (Male medical phobia overcome!). And when you launch this wonder drug, I'm going to be first in line.

Until that blessed day arrives, I'm going to help raise awareness of this dreaded condition. Male Pattern Blindness has a slow onset.  Some mothers report seeing early signs in sons who lose treasured items, permission slips, homework, and younger siblings with alarming regularity. But, it is not until marriage that the condition truly manifests. The early symptoms arrive during courtship, but most women ignore these signs. "How cute that he respects my privacy," the besotted heroine swoons when her hero asks where she keeps the towels, knives, peanut butter, and remote control.  Riding the monkey-sex phase high, she eagerly fetches the requested item. Little does she know that she's paving the way for Male Pattern Blindness run amok.

Given free reign to infest the brain of the hapless male, Male Pattern Blindness begins to show its most troubling symptom: Inability to find one's own items. The male may misplace his keys the second he passes through the door. Cell phone hunting replaces those hours of snuggling on the couch. In today's modern household, the male usually has his own dresser, closet, and workspace. Yet, men afflicted with Male Pattern Blindness suffer from a paradox: they wish absolute control over the items in said space (Woe to ye who throws out the t-shirt from 1987 or who culls the back issues of Science Digest) yet they cannot keep up with their own organizational scheme.

Thus, the woman of the house moves from finder-of-the-keys to walking blackberry. "Where's my work shirt?" can no longer be answered with a simple, "Same place it always is."  Male Pattern Blindness has ravaged the male brain until he no longer has any knowledge of such a place. In fact, he will deny that such a place ever existed. As the disease progresses,  "In the cabinet"  is heard by the Male Pattern Blindness brain as "X#@!  Blah! !@#$!"

Many women give up at this point. They stop requesting items or they enroll in Air Traffic control school. "Now turn 45 degrees to the left. Your other left. Stop. Bend down. Approach the target item. A little further now, then move in for the landing." Other women try to stem the course of the disease. They label drawers. They buy expensive key finder gadgets. They affix sticky notes to everything that moves. They single handedly keep the Container Store in business.

But, even these women are no match for Male Pattern Blindness. New symptoms emerge: illiteracy-- the male can no longer read labels or directions, spatial distortion--the male no longer recognizes common items or receipticles, tiny-sightedness--the male's field of vision is limited to items measured in pixels, and finally, total blindness.

The cunning nature of the disease means that total blindness usually does not emerge until the marriage is well established, and offspring are arriving. But, once it occurs, total Male Pattern Blindess is swift and irreversible. The male will look directly at the item he seeks and not recognize it. Case in point: Male is sent to attic for box. Male returns 15 seconds later unable to find said box. Female gives surgically precise directions. Male returns 3 minutes later: "I looked everywhere." Female hauls herself up to attic. Box is literally first thing she sees. It is so close to the stairs that one would have to step over it or push it aside to enter the attic and look elsewhere.

Incidents like this occur millions of times each day in American homes. Peanut butter, dog medicine, tools, bread, socks, shoes--all rendered invisible to the male eye. Countless female hours are wasted pointing out the obvious and hunting down items which are not missing. Think of work American wives could accomplish if they weren't spending so much time combating male pattern blindness. One wonders how many marriages are lost to Male Pattern Blindness. How many arguments start: "But it's right there!"  How many women are right now secretly shacking up with the organizational consultant down the street?  How many women fantasize about that stranger buying four kinds of labels and a package of sharpies?

I shudder to think about the inevitable progression of the disease. Men wandering around helpless, women unable to communicate with them, themselves rendered invisible by the disease.

Please do your part and spread awareness about this terrible disease. Together we can find a cure. Or some really good drugs. I'd settle for some really good drugs most days.

Lenny

For the last several months, I've found myself unwittingly involved in a polyamorous relationship.  It didn't start out that way. At first, I thought I was simply cheating with my husband's permission. I went to the Big Blue Box and hooked up with this total stuffed shirt. He was the silent type, and never told us his name, so I just started calling him "Lenny." He was short and squat, rather dumpy actually. But, I went into total girlfriend mode, and gave him a fashion makeover. Now, he sports flannel and actually changes his clothes every so often. But, he's still dumpy and squat.

At first, I just took naps with him, but I loyally spooned up to my husband every night. Then my hips started hurting more, and my back ached, and I tossed and turned all night long. "You need Lenny," Freak advised. He was very sympathetic about the whole thing. So I invited Lenny, lover of gravid women, to share our bed at night too. It did feel like Freak was now on the other side of a mountain, or like we were involved in some odd Amish bed ritual, but I slept better with Lenny there.

Lenny also shares my hobbies. He's content to prop me up while I read as long as I want, and never complains about how long the light is on. So despite feeling more distant from my husband, the perks of my love affair kept me committed. Before long, I couldn't sleep without Lenny, and even the pets bonded with him. One day, he accidentally took a nap on the floor, and I came in to find all 3 pets sprawled out on him. But, he didn't seem to mind. He's easygoing like that. 

Even though Lenny slept with us every night, I still saw him as mine, and as something Freak was merely tolerating. Then, something strange started happening. I'd get up to use the bathroom (one of my 50 million trips a night) and Freak would be draped across Lenny. Thinking that this was an accident, I'd grab Lenny back and gently push Freak on to his own side. A few times, I woke up because Freak was trying to pull Lenny to his side of the bed. I figured this was just normal jealousy, so I tried to cuddle with Freak more.

But, still strange things kept happening. I'd go use the bathroom, and now Freak would have dragged Lenny across the bed to his side. Incidentally, Lenny didn't seem to mind this at all. But, I finally figured out what was going on (I'm a little slow), when I came downstairs one day while Freak was taking a nap. He was sleeping with Lenny! And this wasn't a one time occurrence! He was napping with Lenny a lot! And liking it! He'd make little snuffling sounds if I tried to take Lenny away. I don't know why it took me so long to realize that Freak had been seeing Lenny too! He really loved him.

So now, we share Lenny. I've offered to expand our little threesome to a foursome but Freak insists that our bed can't accommodate TWO Lennys. I think he's just bonded to MY Lenny though.  It's kind of cute. If I need to roll to the right with Lenny, I have to stick a pillow under Freak's arm so that he doesn't flounder searching for his friend. I'm not sure what we'll do after the baby comes. I wasn't planning on needing Lenny much beyond the pregnancy.

In fact, I was thinking I might let the pets have him. Or maybe cannibalize him for a craft project. But, now he's become a part of the family. I wonder if we could adopt Lenny? But, then the judge might look at us kind of strangely when we brought a big body pillow in and asked to make our relationship legal. In fact, they might try to take Lenny away from us, and we can't have that.

To you, he's a pillow. To us, he's so much more.

End of an Era

I met Freak through a mutual friend. Said friend sent me Freak's personal webpage as proof that "hey, dude's not a serial killer." Since I was in the middle of horrifically painful break-up, I kept repeating my  "not looking for anything serious" mantra, but I clicked anyway.  He had a ponytail. He made beautiful art. He drove an Insight. Hook. Line. Sinker.

I asked about the car during our first phone conversation. His enthusiasm about his 2001 Blue Honda Insight Hybrid that could get 70 mpg was infectious. My usual rule of "never ride in the guy's car on the first date" flew out the window. Hey, when had this become a date? My mantra was gone. I loved the crystal he kept in the front seat of his car. I think I loved the driver a little bit too, even in those first few days. I hugged Freak for the first time next to his car, and it's not much of an exaggeration to say that something in the universe shifted.

I made my friend Jim start taking me out for stick-shift driving lessons in his ancient BMW. I think I wanted to impress Freak. I never did master the stick, and four years later, my Insight driving experience has been limited to parking lots. But, I did become an Insight evangelist, just like Freak. When we drove out West (a whole month after meeting), I loved the looks that we got from surprised Farmers at rest stops. "Do you have to plug that thing in?" "How many miles to the gallon?" Freak once talked himself out of a ticket in Wyoming because the cop just wanted to learn more about the hybrid, and Freak convinced him that an Insight might be fast enough to be a traffic car. 

A few months later, I was living out here, and the Insight made its third Western voyage (the first was without me), packed to the gills. Freak had been practicing for a few weeks, driving his cat around St. Louis. I teased him about driving Miss Terzo. But, nothing prepared him for the hellacious drive he endured with an unhappy, unmedicated, unable to sleep cat.  He arrived looking like he'd emerged from a war zone. There was not a spare inch of space in the Insight.  The man limited all his wordly goods to an Insight just to be with me. I was awed, humbled, and scared.  This was serious.

That fear led me to try to break up with him in the Insight while driving around a tony Portland subdivision. He still reminds me of this. But, instead of breaking up, a few weeks later, he was moving in. He now had two Insights full of stuff, thanks to a few visits to the goodwill. He never complained about what he'd left in St. Louis. The first year here, he was delighted to be in the land of hybrids, and would get giddy when he saw another Insight on the road.

During that first, difficult year, we got in the habit of taking long weekend drives. Freak took me to the beach when my depression threatened to engulf me, south when frustration had me climbing the walls, and a thousand other places. I truly believe that these drives are what kept us from breaking up. Our drives often followed a pattern: initial excitement, followed by finally having out whatever issue was between us, and making up. The having-it-out part could last several hours. The 70 mpg thing really came in handy. But, thanks to the drives, we got to know our new state really well.

The Insight took me to my first visit to Ikea, my mecca. It continually proved just how much stuff a two-seater roller skate could hold. We house hunted in the Insight. Once it was parked in the driveway, it felt like it was truly our house. And it was a house that needed a dog.  We brought Caylis home in the Insight. She rode on my lap.  But, she outgrew my lap in the first 48 hours, and we wondered if we'd only be able to haul her in my ancient Jeep.

But, Freak taught her how to ride in the back hatch, hopping in and out, wriggling to the front and center. Soon, she went on most of our drives too. She loves the word "drive" almost as much as she loves the word "ball," and she's endured sharing painfully cramped quarters with luggage just to get to the beach.  When I taught late classes, Freak would often bring her to fetch me, and her wriggly enthusiasm as she emerged from the hatch was enough to break through the crushing depression following me around then.

The Insight drove me to Reno, my first writer's convention. We drove the to Insight to our wedding and stuck a "just married" flag on the window.  It seemed only fitting that the car was at our wedding. After all, it was kind of symbolic of us: multiple sources of power, two seats to explore the world, and an alternative way of thinking about something so basic as transit.

The Insight was a part of our lives for four years in so many big and small ways. It brought Freak back safely all the nights he worked overtime in Portland, it brought me to countless doctor's appointments, it survived torrential rain in South Dakota, unexpected snow in Oregon, and blazing heat in Nevada. It made it up Mountains and down beach roads. It can practically make the trip to the vet and the dog park without a driver, and it's suffered the abuse of one dog and six different cats (not all the cats at once, thankfully).

Last summer, when we started investigating adoption, we knew that the Insight's days were numbered. Or rather, I knew. Our few limited car shopping investigations ended in disaster as we realized that we could not afford to adopt AND get a new (to us) car AND keep the Insight. But the Insight has no legal way to carry more than two adults, and no way to carry a small child at all. My jeep embodies the word "decrepit," and with one side-view mirror, a death rattle, and a peculiar odor, no social worker (or grandparent) would be comfortable with us calling it, "the family car."

But, luckily, when you reproduce on your own, no social worker comes out to investigate your cars and your home. So, while I have made noisy (okay, endless) proclamations about the need for a Beta mobile, Freak was okay with the idea of the Jeep for hauling Beta. But, then two weeks ago, the Jeep suffered yet another major repair, the Insight started showing its age, and gas prices skyrocketed. I think it was the skyrocketing gas prices that drove Freak to list the Insight, figuring that he could get a good price, despite its well-loved state.

And he did. Yesterday, an excited college student drove off in the Insight. She wanted an Insight at this price badly enough to drive several hours. We know that it will be well-loved. Heck, *I* know that was my idea. But, still the driveway looked mighty lonely. We went out for dinner to console ourselves, and returned with a Subaru. In the easiest deal ever, we are the proud owners of a used Forester. Low miles. Decent MPG, and perfect for the new dog + baby era. But, still I think we'll be missing the Insight for quite some time. It was truly one-of-a-kind. 

Gift of the Magi

The bad: Santa brought me the flu as an early Christmas present (This is what I get for skipping the shot this year. PSA: The shots really work.) So I've spent four days huddled on couch and bed, watching bad TV and filling two legal pads with scenes for the WIP (to be typed later). 

The really bad: Why, you might ask, was my beloved laptop appendage not in bed with me? It broke. Kaput. Blue screen of death squealing into the night. Kidneys will be sold to get new one.

The sweet: This was a very broke Christmas at Chez Wavybrains. It was very UnChristmas thanks to the flu as well--no soup, no brunch, no cookies.  But, Freak saved Christmas. He saw me admire a bag that my friend had made for a craft show. Unbeknown to me, he traded her one of his beloved Roombas (from the refurbished programming fleet) for the bag. I could not be more touched if he really DID sell a kidney for me. Oh and the bag is kickass too.

The also sweet: Amidst all my crying about missing my family on Christmas, my brothers and my mother took pictures of their Christmas eve, and sent them to me so that I'd feel like I was there. I, of course, cried harder with the sweetness of it. 

The funny: My brothers have blog aversion so I can't show you the pictures of this one. But, trust me, it's even funnier than it sounds. What do you get a broke college student for Christmas? Money is the logical choice.  But, older brother Monkey thought that was too BORING to give younger brother Mattydog.  Instead, he emerged Christmas morning, in full mafia gear: Trench coat, suit/tie, sunglasses, toy guns, and a briefcase.  Mattydog opened the briefcase at "gunpoint." The contents: overflowing monopoly money disguising $50 in singles that Mattydog had to dig for.  If you know these two, the mafia reference is also an in-joke to their favorite pastime: Turning their SIMS neighborhood into a festering comic Sopranos episode. 

Hope your Christmas was better, but just as sweet and funny!

This, That, and the Other

This:  I'm now part of a group writing blog.  This feels like a very productive use of blogging time.

That: Dawn has a even better idea for productive blogging. 

The Other:  I finally sent my first query letter for the book.  Someone hold me while I throw up, please. After so many months of not writing, if it took going through the depression, breaking my foot, and loosing my job to get me to the this point, I have to say: it was worth it.  The last few weeks have been nothing short of a godsend.  I feel like a walking poster child for my particular medication, because it is WORKING, but more importantly, so I am.   I have to say, at the risk of sounding like a blogging heritic, that dealing with my internet addiction may be the biggest factor in my new productivity and outlook on life. I'm planning for NaNoWriMo, but I'm taking the writing in slow, manageable chunks right now. I'm also selling some articles which helps with the whole no-job thing.

The Other Other: Freak is struggling right now. I can't go into too much detail here, but Freak is dealing with some health issues that have taken a major toll.  Please think good thoughts for him as he has some upcoming tests and Dr's visits.   

I wish it were easier . . . .

A commenter over at Dawn's remarked on how "I know for me if I am holding my daughter from China in my arms and contemplating *still* about the moral and ethical issues and my place within it surrounding the social construct of how these children came to be in my arms, I wasn’t ready to adopt."  She admits that she is the type of person to make a decision and never look back.  My god, how I envy this type of person. 

Freak is this way too.  He simply doesn't understand all the jumping around I do.  I spend hours, HOURS on the internet researching each option for us, researching agencies, types of adoptions, issues, and this me *knowing* without a doubt this is what I want to do.  For Freak, x= we are taking classes in September for foster-adopt, we lack immediate funds for IA, wife wants kids now, =end of story. 

For me it looks something more like:

x= Foster adopt ((classes + straightforward process + inexpensive)/(legal risk - no toddlers - substantial health problems - abuse issues))

> = < 

International adoption (Colombia (low fees + young children + healthy/cost of travel -unsafe country- fees still high) OR Guatemala (very young children, home soon/ high fees, risk of birth mother coercion, risk of program closing) OR Haiti (low fees + many kids + no travel/ many ethnic/cultural issues to consider - unpredictable program) OR Mexico (we love program + young children + healthy + doable travel/ risky program, variable to high fees, risk of coercion) OR  X, Y, Z other countries. 

----->  More research. More reading on trans-racial adoption.  More adoption blogs.  More reading.  Redo equations.  Budget stays the same.  Hair is pulled out.  I flip and I flop.  I moan.  I engage in what Dawn's commenter would call "mental anguish."  Mental anguish tastes a lot like chocolate.  For Freak, each option is black and white.  Countries which the US state department does not advise travel in are immediately off the list.  If we don't have the money in the bank account, that is off the list too.  If we have decided that will parent in X way, then we simply shall until it is impractical to do so.  For him, each option is approached in a very practical way. 

I envy him this.  I really do.  For me, if I feel pulled towards something, if my heart says that this is the way, then I try to line all the practical up.  My decision making process is fluid.  I said last night that "I'll see how I feel after the first class."  Freak simply didn't get this---to him, I said I wanted to do this, so what was the issue.  The issue is all I have learned in the meantime. 

But, I wouldn't want to give that knowledge back.   I relish these hard questions.  This is probably why I am the writer and he is the programmer.  I will be considering these issues on an existential level from here on out.  Freak will be my reality check, the practical day-to-day parent while I wrestle with each choice.   I actively seek out more choices just to gum up his well ordered program. Bring on the choices.   

Little Moments of Freakiness

The key to a successful marriage, in my humble opinion, is realizing that marriage is made up of a series of little moments that mean everything held together by seemingly big moments that mean nothing. The trick is knowing the difference. Yesterday morning coming up the stairs, bleary eyed and far-from bushy tailed at

6:00 a.m.

trailing a dog with a full bladder, I happened to catch Freak at the top of the stairs, just as he was leaving out the door. He turned and caught my eye for a long second, pressed his fingers against mine and gave me a quick kiss, mouthing “I love you,” as he closed the door. In that moment, I knew why all of everything else that goes into marriage is worth it.  

Dirty socks and an inability to put things in the RIGHT place are temporary aberrations on my Donna Reed Radar. The feel of his hip pressed into my stomach in the middle of the night cancels out these temporary annoyances. In these wee hours between night and day when our bed is an oasis, his warmth is my blanket, and whispered goodbyes and I-love-yous are my lullabyes. In those hours I love him so much my heart feels ready to burst.

Sometimes I feel like a gapping pool of need, creating impossible expectations for him to live up to. Other times it feels like we are irritable planets circling each other in uneasy orbit. And I know I’m hardly the neediest person on earth, or the bitchiest wife, but I also know that I am a perfectionist about all things, including my marriage. I have the delightful tendency to see judgment where there is none, to confuse my standards for myself with his for me.  

And then in the midst of an argument, he rips open a new pack of canvases and I wordlessly dig for the new oil pastels we bought, and we start drawing. Tentatively at first, our words doing more work than the colors as we wrestled a tough issue to the ground. Then the color took root, and we fed off each other’s energy. There, right, there, as we finished the painting, emotionally spent, another of those little moments, unplanned and unexpected crept up on me and took my breathe away. Later, as we fell asleep, our hands met across our big bed, and I thought to myself “I could never write enough love letters to you, to me, to us, to encapsulate how lucky I am.” 

Why DINK's should not be allowed out on Weekends . . .

Freak and I should not be trusted to make rational decisions on weekends. It’s that simple really. All of our pets were acquired on a weekend. Most, if not all, of our biggest fights have happened on a weekend. We have come perilously close to buying houses we could not afford in sketchy neighborhoods in distant cities on weekends. Dubious items of furniture and garage-sale refugees have joined our household on weekends. Many, many ill-advised meals have been eaten on weekends. And this weekend, we came within FEET of buying an RV.

I, Wavybrains

As the goddess which we all agree I am, I should not have to strain my back cleaning *certain* people’s long hair out of tub drains, weaken my knees bending for stray socks, hyperextend my shoulders vacuuming, and I most certainly should never have to foul my oxygen with the scent of over-ripe cat box. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I am ever so much more intelligent than that Bewitched chick, and would never wear sheer harem pants like that Jeanie broad, mother nature neglected to give me the talent to point at something and say “cleanius maximus immedius” or something like that.