Things My Husband Says

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.

In the last 6 months, dogwalking has become my responsibility. This has not been without its problems.

Despite what Sexy Husband believes, I love our dog. She’s a ridiculous monster, and a drama queen, granted, but she’s not a bad dog. She does, however have a couple behavioral quirks that cause problems for us when we walk. The major among these are that she does not listen to me very well, and she can be aggressive toward small dogs.

I’ll remind you that we live in Seattle’s most densely populated neighborhood, where there are tiny dogs a-plenty. It’s rare for us to go an entire day without encountering some tiny adorable yapper. Her typical response is to freak out a little bit, start jumping, burst the little one’s personal bubble then get snippy when the little one gets defensive. As you can imagine, other dog owners do not find this charming, and it makes me very uncomfortable. She’s never done any damage to a little dog on my watch, but I’m always really wary about how she’s going to act. So, I made some changes to our walking routine. Instead of letting her run up on little guys (or anybody, actually, dog or human), I’ve been making her sit and wait whenever we encounter another dog, or anything exciting, on our walks. Since we’ve started this system, she’s had almost no encounters with little dogs, even (especially) the ones that live right across the street and bark at us all the time from their bay window.

Except last night. Last night we headed out for our walk, and saw the nicer of the pair of schnauzer mixes out, and she didn’t see us. The Little Lady got all excited, but in a way that she doesn’t usually. Instead of pulling toward the other dog and wagging, she started playbowing, wagging, and jumping up (not out), pretty much simultaneously. And the best part? When I said, “just wait,” she sat (and wiggled) until the tiny dog came up to her. And then they played! Just played! No snapping, no growling, no whining! Just dashing around, smelling under bellies, and so many play bows. The play bows are particularly surprising because this dog is both considerably smaller and younger than Little Lady. Usually she’s not flirty with the littler set, but something happened yesterday.

I watched incredulously and chatted with the other, similarly incredulous, owner, and called a stop to it before things got out of hand. But still! Holy cow! I felt like I had won at dog ownership. I’m not going to run off to the off-leash park right away, but this whole experience has given me hope for a future where the Little Lady and I can have a more adventurous life together.

Um, so, yeah… moving! It’s awesome! We’re done!

I just unpacked the last box of kitchen stuff, which leaves us with just two big rubbermaid bins of ‘miscellaneous’ stuff to sort through, so I’m willing to say we’re actually done. Damn, though, this shit is exhausting. I left for the parents’ house Wednesday before last, and just unpacked my last box today. It’s actually a much better turn around than I’m used to when moving. Sexy Husband is a very industrious man, I must say.

Not only are we all moved in and unpacked, but it looks like adults live here! Adults who don’t have a ton of furniture, but adults nonetheless! We have art! I knew we did, but it looks like a lot in our little space. And we got houseplants, to supplement the ones that SH brought with him from before. So far we haven’t killed any of them, and they all seem to be thriving, which is awesome!

I don’t know whether I mentioned this before: new kitchen is super tiny. It’s actually bigger than the one in another apartment we looked at, but still only barely big enough for SH and myself to both stand in. Trying to fit my life into it is like playing epic Jenga, which would be awesome, if I didn’t totally blow at Jenga.

We got a gift off our registry over the weekend! A lovely giant stainless wok, full to brimming with mardi gras beads and tiny dinosaurs! OMG. And I made yogurt! New house is full of win!

I forgot to eat lunch yesterday. I hate when that happens. I did eat some trail mix, but it’s really not the same. Luckily for me, I was Stumbling the day before, and came across this recipe for 90 minute, no soak beans. After being chastised on the internet, I mended my ways and ate a hot bowl of leftover magic with salsa and avocado and grated cheese. And just like that, all was right with the world (y’know, kind of).

Now, my childhood was spent much closer to financial collapse than I ever realized, and beans have always been a significant part of my diet. Growing up, my mom (and eventually us kids) would rinse and sort them, soak them overnight in the crock pot, and let them cook all day. Lately I’ve been ‘power cooking’ them: covering with water, bringing to a boil, then simmering for a couple hours. It’s not the best method, but I’m not really doing very well at planning ahead, and it gets the job done. The 90-minute recipe is not that much different from my lazy way, but makes an astoundingly better bean. And it utilizes the Dutch Oven, which is always a bonus for me.

To quote someone on the internet, I’m not a food blogger; being a food blogger is hard. I barely feel like it’s appropriate to call myself a blogger at all. But you know what I am comfortable with? How much I love beans. I have eaten a lot of beans in my lifetime, and they make me happy. So happy! I suspect that Sexy Husband is not as thrilled as I am with my weekly decision to make a pot of beans and call it a meal, but he doesn’t say anything. And here’s the really nice thing: for the most part, they really don’t make me gassy. And knowing that they’re waiting for me in the fridge for that moment when I realize that I’m mad at the internet because I don’t have any blood sugar is definitely something everyone should be able to get behind.

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!

Okay, no, I don’t actually get to go home yet. I still have to wait another two hours to pick the rest of the family up at the airport, but I realized that I’ve been circling the downstairs and not actually accomplishing anything, so I figured it was a good time to call it quits.

So, how was my week of solitude? In short: pretty good. As I said previously, I was a lot more stressed out than I realized when I got here, then I came down hard with the cold that Sexy Husband had last week, and that ate up a lot of my productivity in the beginning of the week. But by about Wednesday I got back into a reasonable rhythm.

At the beginning of the week I wrote myself a to-do list that seemed only a little bit ambitious. I’m a little sad to say that I will only be able to cross a couple things off it completely, but they are the important ones. I also accomplished some (less) important (to me) non-list items. The insane one? An organizational sweep of the garage, including cleaning the floors. I’m not sure that’s been done in at least a year, and probably longer. I actually found a protective face mask to wear while doing it, then changed out of all my clothes afterward. Terrifyingly gross. On the brightside, it was beautiful outside, so I let the dogs wander around in the front yard and pee on things.

Also? I succeeded at paring down a lot of the miscellaneous tiny crap that has accumulated over the course of my last several moves. Like, for the last 5 years, easily. I still have a giant tower of boxes that make up my kitchen, but soon I get to actually make use of them again! SO MANY EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!! Dear Universe, I know it’s the Ides of March and everything, but please, come through for us on this apartment thing, ok?

I have a really hard time with packing and moving. I’m terrible about accumulating items that I have no want or need for, and failing to get rid of them. Partly as a result of this, and probably in part just because I’m a weirdo, I really hate handling my own possessions. I finally buckled down this week, and got serious about the “Need it, Use it, Love it or Ditch it” rule. Seriously, it’s the easiest way for me to deal with this crap. I think I first learned it in “Spring Clean Your Life”, one of the unexpectedly best gifts my crazy-pants ex-housemate ever gave me. Here’s a good summary, specific to clothes, but the same rules apply. My stuff is still not as streamlined as I’d like it to be, but it’s getting close. High five, me!

And! I may succeed at selling my car, which would be fantastic. Fingers crossed. Even if I didn’t do that, I did listen to a full night of All Blues with John Kessler. I forgot how much I love it, and how good it is for getting stuff done. I wish it was on during the week, but I’m going to start trying to catch it on Sunday more often. Love it!

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.

Once upon a time, many years ago, a young woman awoke on December 25th, late into her pregnancy, feeling unusualy unwell. Or something – she’s asleep now, so I can’t ask her. What I do know is that on Christmas morning, she made her husband drive her to the hospital, an hour away, where they told her that she had preeclampsia. Since she lived in the sticks and had to be put on bed rest, they admitted her to the hospital. Merry Christmas! Some days later, after more hours of labor than there are in a day, she gave birth to everyone’s favorite Trophy Wife-to-be.

Apparently this experience has left her with some amnesia. This is actually an evolutionary function; postpartum amnesia allows us to forget how horrifically painful the experience of extracting a living human being from inside our pelvis is (or so I am told), so that we’ll consent to doing it again. Clearly she had that, as the existence of my two younger siblings can attest, but that’s not the amnesia that I mean.

No, the amnesia I’m referring to is the one that, after many Decembers spent nursing my hurt feelings over birthday gifts in Santa paper, and lubricating everyone’s bad moods with (the best) eggnog (ever!), allowed her to ask me Tuesday, in all earnestness, “You don’t hate Christmas, do you?”

Well, it’s not that I hate hate Christmas. I don’t need to be visited by ghosts to understand that there’s a seasonal spirit of joy and togetherness and sharing and love for our fellow man and blah blah blah. My feelings about Christmas are a lot like my feelings about weddings – at the core, they’re great, but all the commercial crap surrounding them makes my eyes glaze over. Admittedly, as a younger person I was a serious Grinch, and to this day I’m not sending cards or putting up lights on the house.

However, it will come as no surprise to learn that there is a part of the holiday that I do especially enjoy. Any guesses? Yes, the food. During the rest of the year, I feel pretty accomplished if I manage to run the bread machine weekly, and do a little dance when I get around to a pie. But once Halloween is over, I become a food-motron. Thanksgiving this year was unusually light for me, because of the adventure to the in-laws, but Christmas promises to make up for it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad bake anything (except maybe salmon), so his absence from the kitchen this season isn’t particularly remarkable. My mom, however, has historically spent the better part of her December down-time diligently ensuring that our loved ones do put on some winter weight. This December, though, she appears to have run out of down-time before she started, thanks to work and school and other professional obligations. The Trophy Wife, on the other hand, has nothing but time! So now I’m in charge of Christmas. The irony will never end.

So my agenda:

• mass-produced cookies for both parents’ coworkers
• at least 12 and probably 20 shortbreads
• carefully crafted cookies for home consumption
• a second run at the pecans, for distant loved ones
• truffles, for the gift boxes
• toffee, because mom wants it
• overseeing the packing and mailing of gift boxes (thankfully the shopping is done) by the 15th
• getting the dangernog train rolling

And this is in addition to at least three gift projects of my own, and hopefully one more weekend spent with Sexy Husband before we run away from home for the whole week of Christmas. At this rate, I’m not going to have time to hate Christmas, even if I wanted to.