Things My Husband Says

Oh hey, it’s Daylight Savings time again! I’ve lived in the PNW for twelve years now, and I still find this whole business confusing. Having come to terms with the way that the lack of winter light affects me, I’m totally in favor of squeezing out whatever tiny drops are to be had, I just can’t ever quite get into a routine with it. I get the whole “spring forward/fall back” part, so my clocks get changed in the right direction, but it’s really a crapshoot whether I’ll guess right about whether we’re on Daylight or Standard time at any given point. Today I know that it’s Daylight, which I guess makes sense, Daylight in the summer. But why are we saving daylight in the summer? Shouldn’t we save it in the winter?

I feel like this is a particularly bad weekend for me to lose an hour of. In just about six hours I need to have Sexy Husband out of the house and on his way to the airport for a very big day tomorrow. I also need to go to the store so I can bring something to potluck brunch. In an hour. And I need to make sure my secret project is as close to ready as I can get it, before the aforementioned SH-on-the-road thing starts. So, naturally, I’m typing this. In my defense, I’m dressed, and drinking my coffee, which is a mandatory part of my morning. I regret nothing!

Also, yes, it’s pouring rain and 48 degrees outside. I know it’s not summer. You know what I mean.

I don’t really talk about it much, but I grew up in a really small town. Small like 800 people. Smaller than most people can imagine. It was too small for me to be me. It’s hard to find yourself when everyone you know has known you since birth, you know? I don’t remember ever feeling like I fit there, and knew from a really young age that I needed to get away. So, when I went to college, I really went. I moved 1500 miles away, to the place that I knew I belonged, even before I had been there: the Pacific Northwest. Hello, trees and seasons; goodbye, lonesome high desert. And I never looked back (OK, kinda). For a while, my parents still lived there, and I would visit when my school closed the dorms, but it had already changed, and so had I. Eventually, the rest of my family left, and I was left with no obligation to ever return, which was perfect for me.

Kinda.

Even though it was the locus of all my childhood unhappiness, I still have this lingering fascination with the place. I’ve replaced my desire to leave with a need to hear the gossip, which inevitably bring back the same feelings of alienation that I felt while I was living there. Why do I do that to myself?

For years, I had no contact with anyone from that part of my life. That was before Facebook. Now, one by one, the people I grew up with are coming back into my life, and my efforts to keep that part of my past at bay are crumbling. It’s been really weird to watch the way they come back, actually. The first person to friend me was someone who never a friend when we were young. The first time I saw her name again I didn’t recognize it. Why would she want to be friends with me? I debated ignoring her, returning some of that childhood unkindness back to her, but ultimately let her be my Facebook friend. The past is the past, after all. And she was always a good source of gossip (about me, back then). That was almost a year ago, and since then, most of the people from my clique (though we were anything but a clique) have found me. I get a peek into their lives, their kids, the ways that we’ve grown apart, and the ways that we haven’t. I enjoy it, actually, though it doesn’t make me want to go back.

Then I read an article this month, about the drug war and the Minute Men, and felt inexplicable ire over the way outsiders have always looked at that town. I’m sure it hasn’t always been that way, but it was definitely true in my childhood and teen years. The landscape is beautiful, the economy always looks like it could use a boost, and something about it seems to call out to people looking to escape, or to ‘save’ a place. But it’s not the place that they imagine it to be. It’s not some kind of Shangri-La, a perfect oasis hidden away in the mountains. It’s a small town, just like every other small town. It has some nice qualities, and some shitty ones. Seeing that treatment of it in a national publication left my heart a little broken.

So, after waking up with some ennui this morning, I decided to Google Map it, for reasons that I can’t fully explain. Maybe it helps me keep my perspective, seeing how far it is from anything, and how small. Except that it turns out the Street View car had been there since the last time I looked at it. Despite my insistence, for 8 years now, that I’m never going back there, I went back there, at least a little. I stood outside my childhood home, and marveled at how the ivy has overtaken the north side. I saw the helicopter pad where they airlifted my friend’s brother after he shot himself on a dare. I wondered who was standing out in front of the place where I worked in high school. I looked for the haunted house we lived in, and was sad to find it replaced. Sad is a good adjective for the whole experience, actually. I never wanted to go back, and today I realized that I really can’t. I never expected that to make me feel sad.

“I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but I really love the layout of your blog” (his doing, btw)

“Yeah?”

“I like the way it has the bird at the top, then when you get to the bottom it’s Drinky Crow!”

“Yeah?” (I’m drinking, not the best conversation, sorry)

“Yeah! It starts out all cute, and then it gets dirty. Just like you.”

Him: “Soon we’ll be a two-income family again!”
Me: “And they’re both yours! I’m going to earn my keep with [redacted].”
HIm: “Write me your job description.”

Today I am finishing my job description, for a job that I am baffled to have, and also extraordinarily lucky.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am a Housewife.

Last week a friend asked me, “don’t housewives usually have kids? What do you have, a dog?”
Yes, we have a dog, and no children. But a housewife is not a stay-at-home mom, or whatever the appropriate description is for that challenging role. My mom dislikes the term ‘housewife,’ even when I was doing that job for her. She & my dad really enjoyed “Stay at Home Daughter,” but that’s really not a good way to describe my relationship to my husband. The most important thing about what I will do as a housewife is this: make his life easy. Because he makes my life.

One of the items going into my list is this blog. I will be writing. More, better, consistently. It’s probably going to be a lot of self-important navel-gazing about what it’s like to be an accidentalish housewife. I have some other things I think I want to write about, but I’m not sure whether they’ll be up here. As you can expect, it will be erratic. Probably also drunk.

For now, though, back to codifying my goals, then on to another accountability, shaving my legs, in pursuit of a third, which I won’t spell out here, but you can probably guess. It is Wednesday, after all… (wink, wink).

ps: don’t let me forget to tell you about the many ways I have bruised myself this week. Because I am awesome.

Well, the goddamn housemates did not pay the cable, for what appears to be the bulk of this year, so we don’t have internet at home. We could solve this problem by just paying the bill, but that’s not going to happen again. They’re out of town most of this weekend, and they can pay the bill when the come back. Until then, I’ll be taking advantage of the myriad places in our neighborhood that have wifi, and playing Beautiful Katamari.

But! There’s good news! We totally have our own place, in less than a month! A lovely, hard-wood floored, gas-stove having, east-and-south facing, gigantic closeted, lovely, clean, quiet place of our own! I am the happiest Trophy Wife ever this week!

The other night, as we were hunkered down to watch some cartoons and drink beer in bed:

SH: “You know what I like about you living here?”

TW: “Do tell!”

SH: “I get to harass you both at the same time!” and then he squished the dog and me both into a giant pile. Hurray for family time!

Bonus conversation!

We built a pile of pillows on the bed, for the above-mentioned cartoons and beer, and once he and I got ourselves settled in, the dog decided that she wanted to lay on the (sleeping) pillows, which is Not Allowed. So he made her move, and she went with her second choice of position, which was on the opposite side of him from where I was (which is how the dual-squishing above was made possible).

SH: “Aw, this is my favorite kind of sandwich, where I’m the meat.”
TW: “I mostly prefer to be bread. I don’t mind being the meat if she’s the outside spoon, but when she’s the inside bread, I hate it.”
SH: “When she’s the what?”
TW: “It’s okay when she’s the little spoon. But if you’re the little spoon and she’s the inside bread, I don’t like to be the meat.”
SH: “Spoons? Why are there spoons in this sandwich? Why do we let you make the sandwiches?!”

Right this moment the housemates are in the kitchen, making their afternoon meal and making some noise about washing the dishes. “I guess I’ll wash the dishes today…” “Yeah, I guess so.” Seriously? Yes, I put your dirty plate in the sink. You left it on the table, where my dog has no problem climbing on the chairs to lick crap-knows-whatever you had for dinner off of it while I have my back turned. I didn’t complain about running the dishwasher yesterday, or the fact that I always have to wash the cutting board. Go back to watching iCarly. /rant

In other news, I took two internet quizzes to determine what I should make for dinner. It’s a stereotypical Northwest winter day here today, and the household is (surprise!) in need of some nurturing, and I like/hate the internet. The answer? One told me to make ‘comfort food.’ For real? Thanks, dude. I would not have invested the three minutes that took me if I had known it would not give me an actual instruction. Jerks. The other one told me to make chili con carne, which is an idea so good that I did it on Monday. Surprisingly helpful advice was found on an Old English Sheepdog community. Ultimately, I’ll probably make tacos. Whatever.

Back in the day, before all this ‘marriage and cohabitation’ business was anywhere on our horizon, Sexy Husband and I had a conversation about trophy wives. We talked about the things that I imagine they do, and that our culture seems to expect of them, and the things that I would do in that position. I don’t remember everything that I said I would do, but I definitely said that I would take piano lessons, and do a lot of yoga. I am not going to take piano lessons at this point, though I do play this sometimes. And I have not been doing any yoga, because I am lazy and I don’t like our floors. After this morning’s humpstarting, though, I am going to have to. My hip is not going to be right tomorrow; the rest of my leg is already not okay.

And finally, a conversation with our (not my, that was only rant-related) dog, as I was sitting on the couch on the laptop this morning:
her: hoot, hoot hoot (she doesn’t whine, she hoots)
me: what’s up pumpkin? (looking at her this time)
her: hoot hoot (walk away)
me: (back to laptop)
her: hoot hoot
me: (not looking) seriously, what’s up?

(it goes on like this for several turns, her hooting, me talking back but not looking at what she’s doing. And full-disclosure, this was after we’d been out twice, she’d pooped, eaten, and gotten on the table, and had no outstanding physical needs)

finally, once more, ‘Hoot hoot hoot hoot!’ So I look up, and discover that she’s made a pile of toys in front of me, and is staring at me across them. Gawd is she adorable.

I was at the grocery store this afternoon, doing the housewife thing, and they kept playing this Hallmark commercial over and over. “Blah, blah, blah, get your loved ones a card instead of doing something meaningful. It’s the biggest little thing you can do for them.” After a recent conversation Sexy Husband and I had about our feelings about Valentine’s Day, I had an epiphany. The biggest little thing I can do? Hold up my half of Steak and Blowjob Day.

Let’s take a moment to check in on our ‘four adults, two dogs, one bathroom’ adventure, shall we? Today marks the end of our first week of official cohabitation, so let’s take a moment to see how it’s going.

For the most part, so far so good! The dog and I have gone to the dog park almost every day, and managed to do so at times when there are no other dogs there. I’ve got to say, it’s nice to run around outside with her, but she clearly has more fun when she gets to play with another dog. She thinks momma is boring. For my part, I think she’s kind of a jerk, but an adorable one, and it’s amazingly refreshing to live in an actual neighborhood. The death of my car turns out to be a huge blessing. I really like walking, and can be a little lazy, but don’t have that option now. By the wedding, my ass is going to be a-mazing.

As far as the non-dog housemates go, things also seem to be okay. Today they seem to be heading out of town, which I assume is related to his band practice this week, but I don’t really know. What I do know is that they went to bed at 7 this morning, approximately an hour before we (generally) get up. I do have to say, though, that except for one night over the weekend, I haven’t woken up to drunk people yelling. And mrs. housemate and I have been hanging out watching TV with the dogs in the afternoon, like grown-ups, which has been nice. I take the dog to the park and come back before they’re up, so they don’t see me do much but make dinner, but whatever. I am going to clean the bathroom next week, again. That’ll show ‘em!

On the less-bright side: Our goddamned bedroom ate my wonderful little device, and the change to Sexy Husband working outside the home means that I miss out on the humpstarting. I am happy to be sleeping in the same bed all the time, and even the dog seems to be figuring out her place in the pack (hint: it’s not under the blankets between us). The first night I was back in my parents’ house after our grand Xmas adventure, I woke up in a panic because I rolled over and couldn’t find Sexy Husband. Totally ridiculous, but I am very happy here, even if I have to have sex at night.

So, big developments this week in the Sexy/Trophy household. Actually, the household is the development; the long-distance love will soon be at an end, replaced by living in sin. More accurately, we’ll be living in awkward, cramped quarters: four adults, two dogs, two bedrooms, one bathroom. But whatever! Cohabitation, hurray!

I have, for the most part, really enjoyed my time in my parents’ basement these last few months. I needed some space to breathe and clear my head, and my family is really excellent for that. As I’m embarking on this adventure of married life, it’s been really good for me to spend some time with the folks whose marriage has been my best example: built of love and shared desires, maintained by cooperation, patience, humor, and thinly-veiled innuendo (ok, more often it’s making out in the kitchen, but you see my point). I know they’re glad see me leave the basement, and I’m glad to go, but I have been very lucky to be there.

So, on to the next stage: house-wifing in the house crowded apartment of my Sexy Husband. Today we talked about it, and he said, “it’ll be nice not to have to worry about getting home to walk the dog. She’s going to like having you here.”
I said, “I’m all about walking the dog. It’s going to be my primary housewife objective: make the dog love me more.”
“It would also be okay with me if you made me sandwiches.”
“Of course I’ll make you sandwiches. Sandwiches like you’ve never seen!”
“That’s the plan! I’ll make the money, you make the sandwiches.”*
“Yeah!”

*I should probably write a longer disclaimer post, but in short: no, this isn’t our long-term plan.