Scratching the Writing Itch

Ok, so I'm soooo eager to write a post that'll air my frustrations with our home renovations-in-progress, but I just don't have the time...for now I've got just a few quick musings:

I just about had a panic attack this morning when my husband discovered that the keyboard to our big computer (aka "mine", the non-laptop) is non-functioning and...AND...he left for work without fixing it. Now, I don't do well with trying to fix inanimate objects. I've no patience with them. And those are the times when I pull out that sexist, discriminatory-against-myself card: Honey, That's Your Job. That's right, when I'm too lazy or too short-tempered to take care of something I pawn it off on my husband with the It's a Man's Job excuse. (As a feminist should I feel guilty about that?? Cuz I don't) But he went to work leaving me keyboardless. What the hell is that about?? He's my fix-it guy!! And I certainly don't have time to fuss with a broken keyboard! Doesn't he know I've got Facebooking to do??? I mean, come on! there are Status Updates to tend to and Comments to comment on. How am I to get through the day like this???? Then I remembered that I still have his computer, the laptop. Phew. Panic attack temporarily averted. Even if I am sexist.

Now that I'm using the laptop for my blogging, you should know that the "G" on this keyboard is a bum G: it doesn't always work, and I often have to go back and add in the Gs that are missing. So, if at some point you notice a G missing from my writing it just means I got too lazy to add the
G. And, as you may have guessed, fixing the G on this keyboard is also the man's job.

So there it is, giving the Writer's Itch a lil bitty scratch until I can find more time.

Trying To Be Grateful For The Little Things...

My kids are watching t.v. And as a Proactive commercial plays I found myself feeling pretty good about my clear complexion. And my dear, sweet, ought-to-have-a-little-more-social-graces-than-that, almost-nine-year-old pipes up with:

"Mommy you ought to get that."

I tell her I don't really need it because I don't have acne and I don't break out, and I'm feeling even more fortunate about this as I've now said it out loud. Yea!! for the small triumphs, right? She then replies, waving the palm of her hand over her entire face:

"Well you could use it for all those brown spots."

Trying not to wince I tell her that I don't believe that product does anything for age spots, and the appreciation I feel for my clear skin is quickly fading in direct proportion to how my brown spots are not. (note: I once explained to my oldest that my "brown face spots" are freckles and her eyes screamed "Liar!" Apparently the freckles I once had have morphed into something else.)

"Well maybe it'll help your wrinkles."

And this is why I must embrace each tiny little moment that has me feeling good: because my beloved offspring will rip it out from under me in a heartbeat, and knock me on the ass of my self-esteem.

When It Rains...

It's raining on my head. I'm putting away silverware and it's raining on my head. Not rain, but sheetrock shavings and chunks of drywall joint compound. My husband, with his copious amounts of spare time (read: Friday evening) is piecing our kitchen/dining area ceilings back together. And because he's working solo tonight and we're cheap or broke (depending on if you see the glass 1/2 full or 1/2 empty) he thought it would be best to patch itty bitty pieces here and there. I say rip out the whole damn thing and replace it with brand-spankin' new drywall. But what do I know? I'm not a contractor...just a woman who likes to tell her husband what to do and how to do it and to point out No, You're Not Doing That Quite Right.

So I'm emptying the dishwasher, doing so around the fridge, which is blocking 1/2 the cabinets, and trying not to trip over the shop-vac that's as big as my mini-van, or step on any number of construction-related tools, contraptions, or debris. For once the crap that's aggravating me in my quest to get from Point A to Point B is not the kids' shoes, dirty socks, or backpacks. nor laundry basket full of clean-and-getting-more-wrinkled-by-the-minute clothing (although there is one of those sitting politely in my living room chair, vying for my attention. Perhaps if I ignore it it will go away. Better yet, maybe it will fold itself?)

Where was I? Oh: the normal crap & clutter that makes my head rotate is a current non-issue. And I'd be enjoying that moment if it weren't for my husband's crap & clutter all over the place. And by "husband's crap..." I do mean all the stuff that he has so that he can spend the little bit of family time he has reconfiguring our house just exactly the way I want it. Yeah, that's right: I'm the reason behind my husband's crap. So I can't get upset with him when it reno.-rains on my head in the kitchen...and I can't get upset with him when he flicks "mud" on the brown chair where my ever-so-patient laundry awaits.

And our kids: they are 8, 6, 4, and 8 months. Living in a 1400 square foot house (with 2 large dogs) while you're renovating the entire common area (living room, kitchen/office/dining) is easy. Really. To quote a great photographer I once knew It's Like Herding Cats. What the hell was I thinking? Really? Really??? What??!?