“Jrinxed!”

I cannot speak… damn.

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I do love me some Jon Stewart.  And, apparently, in his mutual regard for me he sent hundreds of people to this here oh so very obscure mommyblog!

With the mere mention of penis.  OK, so it was Colin Firth’s Penis, but their conversation and my subsequent post brought in the masses. Who knew?

Just a little bloggy messin’ around.

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How does one, if one is partner in a mostly happy, largely functional marriage, characterize it?  Really. The institution. The reality. The commitment to remain.

Thanks to the May issue of O Magazine, one woman’s dissection of these very questions has Filipes, a very regular reader of O Magazine, a tad paranoid.

“Are you ’settling’ for this relationship?” Well… hmmmmm…. I don’t think so… but then again I haven’t read the article.

After boning up on the required reading I found the author made some pretty bold statements. Statements I’m betting run through most married women’s minds pretty frequently. Far more frequently than any of us would like to admit.

No question, it’s a whole lot different than we thought it would be when we accepted the offer. And yes, many days, the work of marriage is reminiscent of a job- a job with endless demands and where you feel perpetually behind… and guilty for being behind. A job where you just have to take a deep breath and when you’d rather grab the first blunt object you can find, you suck it up, turn and walk away… a job where even on a good day, a pile of used Kleenexes by the corner of the couch could send you into homicidal conniptions… a job where, while you know he is, in fact working, he is also sitting on your couch- all day.
Throw kids into the mix and yeah… all bets are off. So, as with the author in question, divorce has certainly crossed my mind- more than once… less than daily. I also realize I live in a time where it is a viable choice, an available option where the world doesn’t end. Unlike a couple of generations ago, where women often felt resigned, if not imprisoned, by their wedded fate and circumstances dictated that they remain in an unsatisfying marriage- assuming the concept of satisfaction was even permitted to rear it’s selfish head.

As a partner in a pretty well functioning relationship, the option of divorce is certainly available. I always have choices. And for now, I choose to remain in my relationship. I love him. And even when he’s standing naked before me, bits dangling, flexing his biceps and through gritted teeth asks, “Do you have tickets to the show?”, I know I’m in for the long haul.

God knows he can drive me up the wall, tearing my hair out in ragged clumps, shrieking… in tongues… but as the mature, evolved wife and mother that I’ve become, I am able to talk myself down from my stippled ceiling and we work shit out. Because we choose to. And so as to raise healthy, decent human beings and future partners in hopefully mostly happy, largely functioning relationships, themselves.

I choose this man to make a life with. To raise children with. We are partners. It’s not perfect- nowhere even remotely close. But my choice to be here, with him, despite some idealized picture of life without him occasionally frequenting my parentally baked and addled mind, doesn’t- ever- mean, I’ve settled.

So, in closing, allow me to defer to a true wordsmith, an intellectual ever knowledgeable in affairs of the heart… Kevin Costner, speaking before he left his own first wife and family, “Marriage is a tough gig…”

Pure genius….

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Ahhh… would that it were. Every girl’s dream, Jon Stewart and Colin Firth… and a penis! Does it really get any better than that?!
CLICK HERE: dreams of Colin Firth’s penis and divorce….

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We wake up to snow again this morning. None of us get up before eight.

This weather is truly getting into my head. Which is interesting… because even in the depths of winter, knowing in the pre-dawn black, that outdoors the mercury remained in the thermomemetrical nether regions, I still enjoyed my very early mornings and really didn`t give a flying *%/&. It`s winter after all, what the hell else could I possibly expect…

The power of expectations… therefore, this mid-April, reminiscent of early March, bullshit weather is effecting my state of mind. The cold drear of the outdoors has numbed those soft folds of my brain resposible for productivity, initiative and motivation. I will say nothing of patience- without a doubt the first segment of my brain obliterated.
Additionally, I`ve always said I need buffer time on one end of my day. A block of time where I can enjoy my coffee, surfing the internet, getting a little work done… and Be. Alone.
Currently, we are all waking at the same time, with the early mornings so unseasonably cold, dreary and inevitably laden with some form of fucking frozen precipitation. We are all going to bed at the same time as the days get longer and the grey daylight persists well after supper.

I am lost in a seasonal limbo.

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With yet another post fixated on our absolutely miserable, cold, snowy, horrible spring- but more like late winter- weather.
Please. No. More. Snow.

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OK. Who do I have to screw pay off to get this bitch off our backs?!

Mother Nature is pushing her luck this morning, boy. Temps below freezing and a friggin’ inch of fresh, white, albeit beautiful, snow….

It’s the middle of April!!! Now, as with my last post railiing against her antics, my patience is at an end. It’s not like we’re dealing with some petulant child to whom we can threaten a good and proper beating time out, or can bribe with Ritalin infused candies. No, this old bird has been around the block. She’s got an axe to grind and our pitiful, late in the game negotiations: recycling, hybrids, ethanol, organic, sustainability, bamboo, Kyoto, The Barenaked Ladies… you name it; are just not gonna cut it anymore.

Somebody find this bitter, manic, old bag some Prozac so we can move on to the next season…

Triathlon… less than two months and counting.

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We just returned from a night out a neighbors. The first official ‘Friday Nite Happy Hour’ of the season.

I knew they would be there. In the half hour before we were to arrive, as I prepared some overdone, intricately arranged friggin’ cheese tray I was having conversations with the voices in my head. And becoming ever more aggravated with every schizophrenic syllable.

I yelled at the kids for nothing. I knew I was freaking out. My otherwise friendly and utterly lovely neighbor’s would not be a safe place. Because I knew they would be there. As I madly sliced the Gouda. The Asiago. The Jalapeno Havarti. The extra creamy Blue. The Oka.

So engrossed was I in the dialogue in my mind that a meticulously prepared, delicious plate of a delicious variety of cheeses made their way onto a plate as though by Siegfried and Roy, themselves. Perhaps Penn and Teller. And maybe even Doug Henning. In keeping with the crazy voices in my mind.

I didn’t want to see them.

So I am emotionally immature. So, as my 40th bears down rapidly approaches, I’m still not quite able to overcome challenging interpersonal conflicts and take the high road. So, I’m a grown, relatively accomplished wife, mother… woman, and would rather just hide in my house and surf the ‘net, than go and face them. In the company of my real friends.

And so…

It went fine. I held their new baby. For a long time. They have great babies. I have screaming babies. How does that happen?

But, for now, I’m still happier not seeing them.

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A wonderfully productive day, where I achieved even more than I thought possible this morning, sipping my beloved brew, contemplating how things would shake out today.

Only catch: it was a day that involved very little interaction or time with my kids. Oh God. Oh no. I feel it. Ugh. Here it comes… here it comes, oozing from the sloppy, odiferous depths of my soul….

Mommy guilt.

Productivity. Children. Why must these two concepts be so completely and utterly mutually exclusive?

Why can’t I have a wonderfully productive day, where I feel like I am swinging the world around by it’s long, fuzzy tail, AND have been attentive to my kids?
But, I am woman… and my mother! Hear me roar! I will not succumb! Back… back! Back from whence you came… you… you… you, maternal soul devouring monster, you!

I wash my hands… I steel myself…
All I know is that today’s been one helluva day. Where’s me durn kids?

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Talk about a post-walk buzz kill!

Understand, he writes the cheques, incrementally, every couple of weeks. He. Writes. The. Cheques.

Yet, somehow… he thinks this will fly:

“From what I see here,” points to laptop, “For the last couple of months, I’ve written you a total of $4 grand a month.”

“Yes…”

“I thought I was only writing a total of $3 grand…” looking at me for explanation.

“But, you write the cheques…”

He looks at me incredulously, as if to say, ‘yes, but you are the one asking for money and so, therefore despite the fact that I, indeed, must right out amounts- twice, once in number form and again in cursive- you are the one truly accountable and therefore the one held in complete contempt of our household financial responsibility, without doubt engaging in flagrant over-spending. Driving me into complete and utter despair at your total fiscal incompetence, and our family into financial ruin.’

Apparently I’ve been pulling a fast one. Perhaps skimming the household finances.  We are able to live on $4 grand a month, for Chrissakes!
Oh, to spend just a few hours in his head.

Aaaaaaaaargh!

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