Archive | September, 2011

September and The Chores You Can’t Do Right

September - at a glance

 So – does your house have chores?  Stupid question, Sarah. OF COURSE YOUR HOUSE HAS CHORES. My question is – how do you delineate who does which chore?  Do you have a routine? DOES YOUR SPOUSE SUCK AT CHORES?

Lemme splain.

We don’t have a set routine when it comes to chores, but there are some UNDERSTOOD assignments. 1) I cannot clean the litter box because I was pregnant once, about four years ago, so this is Bryan’s chore.  I know, I know, those of you who say I am no longer pregnant and therefore there is no danger – BUT YOU ARE WRONG AND CAT POOP IS GROSS.  2) Whomever cooked shall not do the dishes.

I want to talk about #2 right there. (The chore #2, not the function #2, cat or otherwise.) See, this is where we have a fundamental difference in our approach.  When I say “Do the dishes”, I mean, “Rinse all dishes and put in dishwasher and then clean up the area in which the cooking and/or eating occurred.”  I do not mean “Put some dishes away and leave others ‘to soak’ until Sarah can’t look at them anymore and just does them herself”, but this is somehow what Bryan perceives.

I don’t blame him for this, because I know it’s one of my OCD ticks, and he does not suffer as I do.  But still.  When he says he’s “done the dishes” and I see dishes “soaking” all over the place and there’s still food particles all over the stove and/or counter, I smile at him as you would a small child, and just end up doing it my damn self.

NOW.  I know that sounds awful and like I’m criticizing my husband here on the internet (which .. okay, yeah, I am), but I know I do the same thing.  I am HORRIBLÈ (like, french-bad) at completing laundry duty. I’m actually really good at getting laundry into the washer and even turning the washer on, but after that?  I CANNOT BE BOTHERED.  I know, I know, that is so stupid, but it’s true. Getting it out of the dryer (if I manage to get it in) and putting the laundry away? CANNOT BE BOTHERED. OH, I hate it so so much. If I get the clean clothes back into my room, guess where they go? GUESS? If you answered “In a pile by Sarah’s closet”, you win! Hooray for you! (My husband HATES that. The pile. Oh, it grates on him.)

It’s just .. my clothes are so cooommmplicated. They have to be huuuunnng uuuuup. And I don’t waaaannnnnaa.

(In my defense, if I do Tony’s laundry? It’s put away within a day.)(And I am the only one, for some reason, who can put Tony’s laundry away.)

So it’s not just me, and it’s not just Bryan. Do you guys have chores that your spouse doesn’t do ALL THE WAY? (Or, okay, that maybe YOU don’t do?)(Or if you totally just want to bitch about your spouse, cool too.)(I’m here for you.)

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And Now for Something Completely Different.

Since the last post was kind of a bummer, here’s my take on an Accent Vlog.  I tried to keep it under five minutes, but didn’t.

(Stolen entirely from Christina’s Rocking the Suburbs.)

Say the following words:

Aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting image, Alabama, lawyer, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught

And answer these questions:

What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?

What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?

What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?

What do you call gym shoes?

What do you say to address a group of people?

What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?

What do you call your grandparents?

What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?

What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?

What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?

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Screaming into the Wind

There are days when I just am exhausted, and I feel like my voice isn’t loud enough.  I have this horribly nagging feeling lately that everything I do is just useless, pointless, just screaming into the wind.

It’s not in any one area particularly, but spread out in such an even and thin layer across everything that I don’t really get a break from it.  It’s frustrating to someone like me, someone who is usually credited with having her voice heard (sometimes to a fault).  Sometimes it’s not blatant, with people just doing things that they want to do, regardless of my input or opinion, because it’s easier or quicker or what have you.  But sometimes it’s a smack in the face, someone parroting me in a fashion that makes me wonder Didn’t I just say that?  I DID say that, right?  Out loud?  That WAS me that said that, right? 

It’s a test in patience, obviously, one that I know to look for.  It’s one of those messages where you pray for something, and instead of just being magically gifted it, you’re instead given an opportunity to craft it.  I’ve been at this precipice in my life, one where I look over the edge and see that I could be something bigger and better than I am today, and I just wonder How?  How do I get there? and the answer doesn’t ever magically appear.  It never will.  Instead, I just have to look for these windows of opportunity, these chances for me to figure out how to make my voice heard.

Be louder?  Be softer?  Speak with more inflection?  Less?  Interpretive dance?

Tony’s in this kick where his nighttime ritual centers squarely around Dr. Seuss’ Oh, The Places You’ll Go! and I don’t discourage it.  Someone gave me the book “to be read in-utero” when I was pregnant with Tony, and I like to think that this new phase is a direct result.  But also, the book is always a reminder to me that life is incredibly cyclical, and that difficulties now are just part of the story.

Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be!
With the whole wide world watching you win on TV.
.. except when they don’t.
Because sometimes, they won’t.
I’m afraid that sometimes you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
Cause you’ll play against you.

And I’m learning, although it’s a struggle, to not let my hackles rise when my voice isn’t heard.  I’m learning to stop, to wonder why? when I realize I didn’t get through.  And I’m learning to realize that the problem isn’t always my voice.  Sometimes it’s the message.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will! Indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)
Kid, you’ll move mountains.

(That’s the part that always makes my voice crack with tears.)

If you’ve ever literally screamed into the wind, you know how pointless it is.  But you also know that your lungs?  Are immediately filled again.  Choose the next exhale wisely.

 

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No Strings Attached Giggles

For no reason other than Sometimes, It’s Simple.  I give you –

BABY LOVES THE BALL-POPPING DOG.

(Thanks, Mint!)

 

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That Wake-Up Call.

About a week ago, one of my online/in-real-life friends wrote about her year at Bootcamp.

I was all, Yeah, Kim!  You rock!  Man, I wish I could do that.

So this morning was Bring a Visitor Day to Bootcamp, and I told Kim I’d join her.  When I arrived, at The Time Before Even Jesus is Awake, she said, “I’m so glad you’re here!  You’re the reason I started bootcamp!”

::big ole flush of happiness::

::followed by disappointment in my own body::

You see, I used to DO this.  Every morning, for a few months, I’d get up and work my body.  HARD.  And then I stopped because I began proposal work, and 14-16 hour days at the office didn’t really allow for anything else.  I’ve done stuff here and there – Crossfit, Zumba, Hot Yoga – but nothing really stuck.  Because nothing really made me feel as good as Bootcamp did, so I kind of stopped trying.

I kind of had this stupid swagger walking into Bootcamp this morning, like I’d already conquered it once.  My self-humbling Karma then swiftly kicked my knees out from under me and I had to SIT THE HELL DOWN.  A LOT.  Gah, I was MORTIFIED.  I used to do this!  I used to be good at this!  And now, one hour of this made my body mutiny.

So.  I was struggling to raise my arms to condition my hair this morning after an hour (okay, realistically, more like 45 minutes) of working out and I thought, Man, I’ve really missed this.  I had.  I have missed feeling like I actually USE my body.  The hurt meant I utilized a muscle past, you know, cooking dinner or cleaning a boy’s room.  And I looked at the clock and realized that I was ready for work by 7:00.  Um, THAT is unusual for me.  I had time to cuddle a bit with Tony, feed the dogs, make beds, make breakfast – hell, y’all, I even stopped for coffee on the way in.  I HAD TIME.  CAUSE I ATE MY FROG.

Then it was decided.  I have to start making time for myself.  Oh, the Mommy Guilt – it is strong with me – and I cannot deal with missing any time in the evenings.  That’s when the boys are home, and that’s family time.  I cannot allow myself to not give them that. (The Curse of the Working Mom.) So – back to Bootcamp I go.

If you’re in the area (and you have ovaries), you should consider it too.  It’s such a great environment.  No one even mocks you for taking a timeout while you wonder why there are pretty flashes of light around your eyeballs. (Seriously. Almost puked. SO EMBARRASSED.)

I’ll start back for a year long run on October 24th.  And really?  Dude, I can’t wait.

This post is in no way sponsored by anyone, but if you’re looking for a dose of awesome, Joe truly delivers with his local Adventure Bootcamps for Women.  You’re guaranteed a lot of sweat, probably a lot of laughs, and Joe’s mentioned some yodeling now for motivational purposes.

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