Easter and Thereabouts

The past few weekends have been fairly busy ones. I had plans for a relatively sedate Easter (i.e., relatively sedate meaning no relatives, just Ben, Henry and me sitting around doing nothing). Of course we all know what happens when I make plans. I know where half my laziness comes from-- being busy and then not wanting to do anything, then getting bored and then doing too much again. It's a sad cycle. Oh, well.
My sister had her baby on the 14th. Mom called that morning to inform me, since Maggie was busily occupied at the time. Ben got home early, so I was able to get to the hospital before dark (it's an hour and a half drive to my sister's neck of the woods). That was nice because the stupid mapquest directions to the hospital were craptastic. I never would have found the place in the dark. No matter, the baby wasn't born until nearly midnight. It was nice catching up with my mom and an old friend, commiserating on our own childbearing stories. All three of us had c-sections, mostly because we're all petite. Mom had it the easiest (if there's anything easy about it) because she never had to go through labor, but then again, she got saddled with twins... one of them being me... The nurse told Maggie the stale old, "you get no points for pain" line, nudging her towards an epidural. Yeah, but the hospital and anesthesiologist gets plenty of $,$$$. It's hard to think about that at the time, though. If the nurse had told me each pill was like sixty bucks I think I would've gone a little easy on 'em. Yeah, right.
The next Friday I hosted book club. Since the book was about Welsh people, I found a recipe online for bara brith, a kind of raisin bread. It called for tea, but I used apple juice instead. Other than being dense and having a crust that resembled a leather wrapped brick, it wasn't too bad. Everyone's kids but mine actually liked it. Don't think I'll be making it again, though.
Anyway, Easter was okay. At the last minute, well the day before, Ben's aunt and uncle invited everyone over for dinner. Henry got lots of junk food and I had to eat all the easter eggs because no one else in the family will eat eggs.

Embarrassed Sloth

This morning I was especially lazy, but knowing that Henry had Joy School in about an hour, I got up and fixed breakfast. I left the phone sitting within reach while I was in the shower in anticipation of its inevitable ring, and of course it did, a confirmation that Henry's ride would shortly arrive. I got Henry dressed and ready to go and figured I had just enough time to dry my hair. Just as I was finishing up, there was suddenly a person, an adult, standing in my room, which of course, surprised the crap out of me. Henry's ride had arrived a little early and hearing my hair dryer, had popped in to let me know they were leaving. After they left I had a brief moment to assess the situation. The first thought was crap, she saw my horrible house. My bed wasn't made, there was a huge pile of dirty laundry on the floor, not to mention the piles and piles of pack rat junk cluttering every available space. And she had to have seen the living room, littered with toys, papers, books, Ben's dirty socks, the occasional cheerio, etc. I can only hope she didn't get a gander at the state of the kitchen. There are basically two reasons why I was mortified, one, although I freely admit to all that I am a slob, out of common courtesy I will always clean up before an expected guest arrives and I feel like a jerk when I don't. And two, let's face it, I hate a messy house and hate how horribly I've surrendered against the tide of two messy males and let my lazy slob nature reign supreme. This led me to the sad truth of my disorganized life, my complete and utter lack of self discipline. Slothfulness is a sin and leads down a slippery slope to degradation, and here I am, teetering on the brink with my arms pinwheeling and everything. I guess while I still have a shred of dignity I ought to clean house, literally and figuratively.

That said, I have two hours before I have to go pick up Henry, so I better get started.

Secret Confessions

Ok, it's time for my secret confessions blog. Not that I feel a deep need to confess stuff, just bored and can't think of anything better to write about. Other than I still have this stupid cough! After two weeks!! Rahh!!

Confession one: I hate cleaning up. The only thing that keeps the whole house from filling with trash and caving in on itself is guilt. Growing up we had daily chores which was fine with me, except for the kitchen-- I hated it and still do. My dad was very strict about keeping the house clean, which is amazing since I never in my life have ever seen him lift a finger in the house. Sure, he'd bust tail keeping the yard clean, but never, never did I ever witness him washing a plate or scrubbing a toilet. Still he has an amazing work ethic, which I unfortunately did not inherit. Being a lazy slob, I am burdened by the knowledge that I shouldn't be a lazy slob, hence the guilt. It doesn't help that I'm the only one around here that does anything in the way of straightening up, cleaning, laundry, not to mention I do most of the cooking, which I also pretty much hate, only because of the cleaning that must be done afterwards. So I guess the motivation is guilt and resentment. I know, I volunteered for the job, so I should just suck it up and shut up.

Confession two: I'm a miserable coward three feet off the ground. My deepest lamest phobia is my pathetic fear of heights. It really is pathetic. I can be standing on a ladder to change a light bulb and get the willies. In fact last time I changed the light bulb on the front porch I nearly hyperventilated even though I was barely five feet off the ground. I'm perfectly aware of how stupid it is, I know that I couldn't possibly be hurt even if I fell and landed on my head. The stupidest I've ever felt was when I went to the Blue Ridge Parkway with my sister and got so freaked out from driving on the edge of cliffs that when we got to the top of the mountain I couldn't even get out of the car because the wind was blowing. Today I visited my sister who's nine months pregnant and needed some help getting stuff into her attic. There's only a small access panel in the hallway ceiling and I was standing on a ladder propped against the wall trying to get the stupid panel open but was too scared to climb any higher because I'd have to let go of the ladder and Maggie got so disgusted with me she climbed up there herself, huge baby belly and all, and made me hand stuff up to her. I always said the reason I never reached five feet (I'm four feet ten and a half inches) was because I'd be too scared to stand up.

Confession three: I'm sensitive sometimes-- but don't tell anyone!! There are probably only about ten people in the world who have ever seen me cry, and if you're one of them, feel lucky. I'm not the heartless jerk I pretend to be; there are times when I get teary, but I'd rather be bludgeoned with a rotting walrus carcass than have anyone witness it when I do. Like the other day when I was finishing up "How Green Was My Valley" and the narrator gets all nostalgic and starts talking about how all his dead loved ones are still alive in his mind. Of course I was recovering from the flu and in a weakened state-- luckily everyone else was downstairs watching tv so I could wipe my eyes with my sleeves in privacy.

Last confession (and the lamest one by far): I wish I could sing like Karen Carpenter. Not that I'd ever sing in public if I could. Just the satisfaction of knowing I could would be enough. It's embarrassing enough that I have a Carpenters CD and that I listen to it enough in the car that Henry will ask me to put something else on (He's not really a fan, except for that "sing a song" one they did for Sesame Street).

Well, that's it. Hope you had a good laugh at my expense. I set myself up for it anyway.

Longest/Shortest Week Ever

Today is Monday, right? Right. Yes, Monday, finally. I've just emerged from the week long hell known as the flu. Ok I have to say that I haven't had a bout with influenza for something like twenty years at least so when I got slammed with it last week I was in complete shock. For some reason I had it in my head that the flu was like a 24 hour virus and then you were on your way. I started coughing on Tuesday morning and by that evening I was shivering and felt like I've been pummeled in the back with a baseball bat. I went to bed in the guest room to save Ben a sleepless night and a wrassle with my germs, singing, "crap, crap, crap," all the way upstairs. And got no sleep because of stupid fever-induced freak dreams. Ah the joys of catering to a little boy all week whilst trying not to touch him in any way lest germs rub off and get him sick, too. My favorite phrase was, "mommy can't, mommy's sick," to just about every one of Henry's millions of trivial requests, though I did refrain when I had to help him wipe his butt. As I lay dying in the bed upstairs my sad little son kept begging me to help him play video games or play legos or anything and I weakly responded that I was really really sick and that he needed to stay away from me, he yelled back, "Then go to the doctor!" What an excellent idea! Will you drive me? Never mind that when I tell them what I have they'll drop kick me out the door and tell me to go home and quit shedding germs on everybody. That was only day two. By day three the random drill bits to my head and ears had started up, Henry was playing video games and watching movies on an all day streak and I didn't even care. Ben stayed home from work Friday so I got my first chance to sleep all day and completely ignore everyone. Then Henry got a fever and Ben wasn't feeling too hot and I wanted very seriously to smack Ben for playing video games with Henry in the same room with me while I was coughing and rolling around in a fever bed of filthy flu germs. Sunday I got up feeling well enough to make breakfast and noticed as I was about to place a pot on the stove a rather large pile of debris including but not limited to a large clump of several day old frozen pizza cheese/sauce smeared across the stove top, dessicated macaroni and cheese bits, crumbs, and please don't let me know what that sticky stuff was... Not only was Ben not ashamed of the state of the kitchen, he was unconcerned.

"I cleaned up," he said.

"Oh, really? Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?"

"No. The dishwasher's not full."

"Then why are both sinks full of dirty dishes?"

That's when he tells me I must be feeling better. I tried reminding him about the commercial where the sick mom finally emerges from the sickroom and her family goes, "Uh, oh, mom's feeling better," and the mom looks like she wants to throw herself down the stairs because the house is a complete hellhole. Feeling any empathy? Ben just said it was funny because it was based on reality. Then I wanted to punch his teeth in. I felt so great I cleaned the kitchen, fixed Henry and myself some oatmeal and went back to bed. Damnation, I wish I could escape to work for ten hours a day away from a sick spouse and kid and then come home and do jack squat after I make huge messes and have the huevos to not even blink when the whole house goes to hell.

Now Ben's completely laid up and I'm not even done with the stupid cough.

Yeah, see if I do the dishes tonight.