New Here?

“The first year of a marriage is the hardest.”

I totally agree.   My husband and I are trying to adapt to being a “team”.  It’s annoying as fuck difficult having someone all up in your space.  In most new marriages, you both are trying to not piss off the other one.  You’re listening closely when they tell you something you did irritated them.  You try not to do it again.  

You share the bills and you both put all your money into the same account.  Because you are a “team”.

That might not happen immediately, I totally get it.  At first one of you may have an ego issue and fight the system.  That person, in my situation it’s the male counterpart, might try to hold onto their money and tell the other one “I can only give this much towards bills this pay period”  and then the other one has to figure out how to make ends meet.  But this gets ironed out because it is, after all, a new concept to the testosterone poisoned male man who has “suddenly” found himself in a “partnership” instead of being a selfish bastard....oops, I meant silly  BACHELOR.

On top of trying to merge finances, you’re trying to merge your habits of living.  You’re figuring out the other ones quirks.  You’re figuring out which one of you suddenly snores like a freight train even though you can’t recall any snoring going on when you were just dating.  

You’re figuring out which one of you decides deodorant is a necessity.  You notice you aren’t the one that smells like rotting flesh that has been sitting in the desert sun for 12 years, because the last you checked, people fucking STINK.  Unless they are A CHILD!

You buy the deodorant that he assumed you would have bought him months ago when he ran out and telepathically sent you the request for said deodorant.  

Telepathically because why speak?  You are partners.  You are merging.  You are one with the other.  You are rocking the marriage bullshit phenomenon.  Rocking it.  For real.

You come up with a system - who takes out the trash, picks up the dog shit, or who manages the vehicle maintenance.  You may think that the man of the house most often does the dirty work, and you find yourself taking out bag after bag AFTER BAG of trash, but don’t worry, he’s new here, he’ll catch on.  

You get into silly disagreements, and maybe find yourself looking at him as if he’s grown a second head, but have no fear....he means well when he sees you carry the last of 15 bags of groceries in and he says, “Is there anymore out there I need to bring in?”

No, no dear.  I got them.  Don’t sweat it.  (Unless you are wearing that deodorant stuff....then go ahead and sweat all you want.)

It’s all new to him, this marriage, this partnership.  

Even after twelve years some time has passed, it’s still new, so you gotta cut him some slack.  Or just cut him.  Your choice.

“Do we have any pasta?”, he asks one night when he decides he’s making dinner.  You say, “Yes.  Yes we do.”  He asks, “Where would it be?”  Hmmmm...”In the cupboard, you silly man.  The cupboard in the kitchen.”  Because where else do you keep pasta?  

It’s ok.  He’s new here.  

Still.

This “beginning” of a partnership can be pure hell sometimes.  Each day trying to figure out who’s making dinner, who feeds the animals, who makes the bed, or who cares for the children.....it can be exhausting....when one half of the couple is new to this.  

It’s ALL new.  Like that movie...what was it called?  With Bill Murray??  Oh!!!

Groundhog Day!!!

Over and over and OVER again you guide him in the daily activities that need to take place each day.  You know....like asking him to pick up his socks from the living room floor.  And the bedroom floor.  Thank God for the dog!

You continue on as if after 12 years of a partnership it’s completely NORMAL to not know your wife hates Mexican rice.  It’s all good.  You got this.

It shouldn’t matter that he was nearly 40 years old when the partnership began.  He was a bachelor until then.  He was comfortable flicking his ashes in the tub as he sat on the toilet and took a dump.  You can help him break that habit.  Keep working on it.  He’ll eventually catch on to what’s considered acceptable human behavior.

Maybe.

He’s trying.  He wants things to go smoothly.  From making dinners to grocery shopping.  He’s trying to adult.

He comes up with a plan so that we both know what’s needed from the store at any given time.  He downloads a grocery list app to his phone.  He’s excited.  He downloads it to yours.  You can both add to the list on your phones, and the other one can see the updated list on their phone.  You think, what the flying fuck is this shit?  Why’s he controlling your shopping experience?  Why?  Oh, that’s right, he’s new at this.  Play the game.  Makes him feel like he’s got a perfect plan.  One that will keep the “shopper”, aka YOU, from running to the store every fucking day.  

So the app is used.  Mostly by you, but he’s done his part, he downloaded it to both phones, for FOX sake.  You mean you want him to actually USE it too?  

I know, this marriage thing, partnership, is a lot of work.  We are no longer separate beings.  He’s no longer a bachelor living with his bachelor brother.  I’m no longer a single mom with one child.  We have merged. We are one.  One what?  

One fucking hot mess.  That’s what we are.  Today he asked what was needed from the store because he was running out to get lightbulbs.  I said, “There’s a short list of things....like Diet Coke, dog treats, DEODORANT...”.  He says, “Oh, ok.  I can do that.”

Yay!

Then he says, “Where’s the list?”

Ummm......

So, as we continue to “merge” our lives, in the PARTNERSHIP, twelve fucking years later, we still don’t have a system.  He doesn’t know I despise Mexican rice and will still make it and want kudos for making dinner.  I take out the trash most days.  I feed the animals and pick up a kazillion piles of dog shit each week.  I make the bed.  

But I need to remember, TWELVE YEARS later, he’s NEW at this.  He’ll catch on.

Or not.


Peace out!!

Just T.

You prefer WHAT??

Ok, the weekend started off ok.  I didn’t have to work, outside of the home, that is.  I did my usual waking up later than everyone.  Because I can.  Do not judge.  In my defense, I’m up way later than the rest of the world other humans in this house.  

After getting my shower, I began the ritual of cleaning.  I start with the kitchen and I sweep, do everyone’s dishes, wipe the counters down, ask if the dog ate because, as usual, it’s now several hours since the spouse has been up and I see her dish is empty.  I swear, one day I will just KNOW she was fed, and not have to worry about being reported to the APL for pet neglect.  And wait.....oh great, the back door is still locked so I KNOW she hasn’t even been let out yet.  Good flippin lord!!!  Is there another adult in this house or not??

After feeding the dog, letting her out, and giving her smooches and hugs to redeem myself, I continue the cleaning of the rest of this hell hole house.  My vacuum won’t suck up all the “stuff”.  I call it “stuff” because God knows what it is.  I feel like all I’m succeeding in doing is making little hair balls on the carpet.  Dammit to hell.  So I get my tools, aka scissors, and sit down on the floor to do the required maintenance (meaning I have to cut off a pound of fur from the roller-thingy).  Then I finish vacuuming the living room.  

Move on to vacuum Lil Lady’s room which requires picking up of the area rug, the blankets on the floor, the containers of glittery slime, the stuffed animals, a book bag, chrome book, the water bottle, the bowl of half eaten ramens, the taffy wrappers....wait, WUT??  Seriously, Lil??  Get yo ass in here!!!!  

Next stop, Lil Man’s room.  He has no carpeting so I just need to suck up the dust and dog hair that gathers around the edges.  Thank goodn......WHAT THE FLIPPING DUCK HAS HAPPENED IN HERE????  Clothes on the floor, several shoes in the middle of the room yet none match, a box of Christmas gifts that he hasn’t done anything with, nerf balls scattered everywhere you look, I can’t find his desk....he has a desk, I know he does.  Well, he had one before Christmas break anyways.... 

I move on downstairs....why?  Because I need to throw in some laundry.  And I need a fucking smoke!!!  

The spouse is on the computer.  The nice warm space heater keeping him toasty because he hasn’t fucking moved from that spot since waking and I’m sure his circulation at this point is subpar.  

I get some laundry going, I start picking up the stuff laying around down stairs, I start dusting, shit...gotta blow my nose.  Do I dare use the tissue in the downstairs bathroom that I NEVER go in because it’s worse than any public bathroom I’ve ever been in since it’s my fourth child’s spouse’s bathroom??  I cave....close one eye, plug my nose, don’t turn on the light as I quickly grab the tissue and get the fuck out before something reaches out and contaminates me!!

And I continue to clean.

Everything.

It’s 3pm by then.  The spouse turns around in his nice swivel chair, eyes glazed over from the several hours of internet surfing and he says, “I’m going to set an alarm for 5.”  That means he’s tired from being a lazy ogre and now he needs a nap while his wife continues to slave.  

Ok, honey, you do that.  5 would be perfect for you.  

Toodles!!

So on to the next day....Sunday.....a day of rest, they say.  Who are THEY?  Fucking jerks, that’s who they are.  

I get up, the spouse was already up and on the computer.  The dog not let out nor fed.  I do both.  I finish up laundry.  Clean up a few things that managed to put themselves on the floor, cuz you know nobody touched them.  Then I go grocery shopping.  It took 2 1/2 hours because apparently I didn’t get the memo that said “Walmart is a flippin madhouse today, stay away if you can.”  

I make my way home, traumatized from too much Walmarting, and by this time it’s 530pm.  I sure was hoping dinner was started.  Nope.  The spouse wanders up from the bowels of the basement to get ready to head to his Scout meeting at 6.  I put the groceries away, he leaves, I make the kids dinner.  

I proceed to clean out the sugar glider’s cage and then the cats litter box.  I bag up trash.  I get the kids to organize book bags for school tomorrow.  I sign the required school planners.  He gets home.  Feeds his face.  I get the dishes from the sugar glider’s cage to feed her, and he decides that he’ll wash dinner dishes since I “left them for him” and “oh, by the way, I prefer the dirty pot stays on the stove until washed instead of everything being stacked on it in the sink”.  

Wait....what??  You PREFER?  You PREFER???  

Oh hell no.

Hell. To. The. NO.

For fox sake, I draw the line.  Hey Mister, I have a list of things a mile long that I PREFER.  When you get your head out of your testosterone-poisoned ass, I’ll share them with you.  

Peace out.

Rockin' the Van

Not too long ago all of us (meaning the whole lot of the dysfunctional family) had to go somewhere together.  This in itself is usually traumatic, especially when the time in the van is longer than say 11 or 12 minutes.  Yes, 12 minutes is just about the limit for us.  After that someone either gets emotional, pissed off, or decides to let one rip which causes someone else to have to roll down a window then another gets ticked off because her hair is whipping around her face from the breeze.  No names (maybe me) to be mentioned.

That's neither here nor there and not really what this post is about.  No judging.

What it IS about is learning that my spouse who is only 9 months older than I am can tend to act like a fuddy duddy.  For example, when having a bonfire and someone (again no names) comes up with an innocent game of "Jump The Fire", he's the one to point out how dangerous it can be and someone's going to get burned.  Oh come on.....really?  We are all pretty good jumpers.  I've won that game countless times and only singed my leg hairs on one occasion.

So, we all hop in the van.  There's a bit of bickering from the 2 shorties about which one of them gets to be cool and sit in the back with the teen, but that doesn't last more than 7 minutes.  After everyone is settled and buckled in, we head to our destination.

It's eerily quiet for a moment.  I can hear people breathing.  Not good.  Not good at all.  I turn on the radio.  I hear some talking...thinking it was a commercial, I let it go for a moment.  A few minutes later, still more talking.  WTF?  Where's the music, dammit?  And why is this station so flippin static-y?

I ask the spouse:  Hey you, why is this station so FLIPPIN static-y??

The spouse:  It's AM.

Me:

Still Me:  It's fucking WHAT??  Are you fucking kidding me??  Seriously?  AM as in TALK RADIO??  

He gives some spiel about radio waves, transmitters and whatnot.  I look at him like he's grown a second head.  I think, who ARE you??  When did you become my Dad??  AM??  Where's Bruno Mars with Uptown Funk??  Where's SHUT UP AND DANCE WITH ME??  

Where's my FLIPPIN muuuuuu-zic??

I'm acting like a spoiled brat.  I know this.  The teen is actually quiet, taking it all in, probably jotting down pointers to use on me some day.  The Lil Lady is sitting there, smirking.  My serious Little Man says:  "Come on, Dad.  Turn on her music.  Don't you want to rock the van with Mom?"

The spouse looks at me, he's got that gleam in his eye.....you know the one.  I may or may not have rocked some vans in my lifetime, not this one playing AM TALK RADIO though.  But seriously, if all you listen to is blah blah blahblah blah, when the hell do you lighten up?  How do you unwind?? No wonder he's afraid to jump the freakin fire!

So I get to jam a little, sing and shout a little, and even rock the van a little.....just like the shorties and I do after I pick them up from school.  I think I even saw the old fuddy duddy tapping the steering wheel a few times.

Mission accomplished.

Next challenge?

Peace out, people.  And don't forget to rock the van once in a while.  It's good therapy.

Just T.

For Real.

Ok, so I had damn good intentions when I said I was gonna blog again.  But do you see what has happened?

Right.  Nothing.  Nothing but 2 measly posts.  Oh For Fox Sake, what was I thinking??

So, what happened?  I'll tell you what happened.  LIFE,  That's what happened.  Just LIFE.

Really,  does anyone else find that they don't have enough hours in a day?  Is it me?  Do I dilly dally all day long?  No,  I'm sure I don't.  I'm a nurse.  A hospice nurse.  I provide end of life care to my patients in their homes.  Most people cringe at the thought.  Not me.  I find it to be an honor, but that's another blog post.

Let's figure this out together.

I get up at 5:00am.  Ok, so my alarm goes off at 5:00am and I am out of the bed by 5:30.  I currently have 2 shorties that I have to get ready for school.  First and second graders.  The Little Man is the younger of the two and he's more self sufficient although sometimes I wish he would wait for a little help.  He will tell me he's going to make toast, and in my morning stupor I say ok, yeah, whatevs Man.  Then I hear the blazing siren of the smoke detector and I'm brought back into the present moment.

Lil Lady is less self sufficient.  In fact, putting it in a nice way, I can certainly say she is one hot mess.  Not sure where she gets it.  Certainly not from me.  I blame the girl teen.  Yes, I have one of those as well.  Neither of the girls likes to get up, and neither of them likes to go to bed.  I am raising night owls.  I love that they will be great party people some day.  

Except for one thing.  I work a day job!  Seriously people.  If I say it once, I say it a kazillion times in the morning.....HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN I HAVE A J-O-B?????  And yes, I spell it out.  Just like that.  They all look at me like I've lost my mind.  Spelling J-O-B like it's a dirty word.

So, for my J-O-B I am a nurse.  I run from house to house, medicating, managing pain and symptoms during the end of life, supporting families as best I can.  I give it my all, I truly do.  Even to the crotchety old guy that refers to Starbuck's as Starbuckles.  Yes, even he gets my 110%.  

During work I answer several texts from the teen girl.  Somehow the rule of no cell phones during classes has gone to the wayside, because either she's not in school when she's supposed to be, or the teachers have given up.  I must admit that sometimes I'm the one that starts the texting to her. Sometimes I just can't help it.  I see something funny, and I MUST share it.  Like this doozie.....

How could I NOT send that??  In my defense, she is nearly 18, so it's not like she hasn't heard profanity before.  I know you were thinking it.  Stop the judging. 

Anywhoozle, where was I?  Oh yeah, how my days go.  So after work I pick up the shorties, I listen to how their days have gone.  I ooooh and ahhhhh at the precisely the right times.  They are pleased I have paid attention.  We get home, I start to cook dinner, I start to get them going on their homework, I start to pet the dog, I start to vacuum, I start to fold some clothes, I rewash the ones in the washer since they have been in there for 3 days and smell like funk......I START all this shit, but never complete a thing.  We have dinner eventually after the spouse is home and saves me from the madness.  Actually, there is no saving happening.  He THINKS there is saving when in fact, he's my fourth child.  

After dinner I re-visit the homework situation.  Nope, Lil Lady is not done.  Not even started.  Little Man has been done for hours.  Remember?  Self sufficient.  I get Lil Lady to do her homework in between cleaning up the kitchen, picking up toys, emptying back packs, getting clothes ready for the next day, signing planners, wondering where my fourth kid spouse went, running bath water, getting my next day planned, charting if I slacked off during the work day like people think I do.  As if. (insert eyeroll)

I then retreat to the bathroom aka my office to check facebook, check email, play DOTS....and then all of a sudden it's after 11pm.  I have graduated from wherethehellismyspouse to wherethehellistheteengirl???  Seriously.  Hasn't she been given a curfew?  Who's in charge here??  So then starts the series of texts to find her whereabouts and tell her to get her scrawny ass home.  I don't know when I am supposed to not wait up for her.  Age 22?  35?  I don't know.  But I don't think it's 17.  Or 18.  Does any one know?  

There you have it.  The day is done.  The missing spouse is found on the kid's bedroom floor passed out, snoring like a freight train.  I leave him because I despise the snoring wouldn't want to disrupt his sleep.  The teen girl walks in the door, all happy and ready to chit chat when I'm ready to pass out. The dog is patiently waiting for her bedtime treat.....

She gets her goodnight cookie and I finally crawl into bed.  I don't look at the clock because I know it will flip me out.  I secretly convince myself I am getting more than 4 hours of sleep.  In fact, my clock isn't even set on the correct time.  About four years ago I gave up resetting it for daylight savings and shit.  And I also had it set to be 20 minutes fast, so I would get up and rush but then find that I was early.  It's a great feeling I recommend to anyone trying to pull a fast one on themselves.  

Before I know it, the alarm goes off and it's a mad rush to do it all over again.  I'm still wondering for how long my body can continue this madness.  There has to be a limit, yes?

So, peeps.....that's my life. 

For real.  

Peace out,

Just T.

Psycho Papercutter??

Ever since I picked up the shorties from school today, I can't get this out of my mind.  There was a sign on the teacher's lounge door that read:

This is an elementary school.  

Couple thoughts went through my head....

This is a scary sign.
The paper cutter could be ready to jump out at me at any moment.
Is the picture of the paper cutter just a decoy?  
Is the "paper cutter" really a person?
Is the "paper cutter" really a disgruntled teacher?

Why all the caution?
For fox sake!
Why not warn people that are going to USE the paper cutter to be careful, instead of warning people to watch out for the paper cutter?
I'm back to looking over my shoulder for the paper cutter.
I picture a paper cutter hiding in there behind the door.
Ready to cut me in half.
I should run.
Wait, I should grab my kids and run.
Run fast.

Then I remembered something else.

Like a paper cutter.


Putting more thought into that suit of armor for when I visit the schools.  

Happy day to you and yours!

Just T.

I'm Back

That's right, you heard me. I Am Back. I used to be over at Oh For Pete's Sake but I figured since I haven't blogged in a kazillion years, I should start fresh. Not that you can't go over there and see how flippin psycho I was, and STILL am. Feel free to check it out.  I will deny everything.

 I can't even explain where I have been between that blog and this one. I think I've been here, at home, trying to keep house, work full-time, and teach children right from wrong.  But most days I'm cleaning up messes, busting my ass at work, and keeping the shorties (aka my two youngest) from killing each other.  When I'm not doing that, I'm a wife.  It's true.  I have the papers to prove it.

Ok ok, so the mister and I have issues, but isn't that what makes us unique?  There is no perfect marriage, and after 8 years, we have almost perfected this.  I know he's perfect at snoring and keeping me awake most nights.  I know he's perfect at leaving facial stubble in the sink right after I've cleaned the bathroom.  And he's also perfect at falling asleep wherever his ass lands any time after 6pm.

On the other hand, he knows I'm perfect at finding the one thing that is out of place, even if he has picked up all the other things.  He is CERTAIN that I will notice when he has started a load of his own clothes and left them in the dryer all week long done his laundry.  He is well aware that I can be the perfect biotch, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

So, that's where I've been.  PERFECTING my marriage.  It's been a rough road, but I think we almost have it together.

So, .  There's more to come.

See you on the flip side!

Just T.