Oh yes, and a couple of nights ago, when I thought I’d seen my fill of barfpukevomitchunksrunnypoo… last night daughter child kept me awake after having spewed her supper down my front as we ran for the loo.  Somehow the stuff managed to not only seep through my pj top, but drain down my pants- I was picking bits out of my pubes if you get my drift- it was freaking EVERYWHERE!!

And in the meanwhile, husband, upstairs so as to monopolize his own loo, had bodily fluid, in all of its various forms, projectiley erupting from every possible orifice.

Lovely.

We did have a modified American Thanksgiving planned in honour of dear Filipes today:  two beer can chickens on the barbey, mashed potatoes, corn niblets, and my virgin foray into the world of StoveTop….

Ummmmmmmmm. Not so much.  Four down, just me and the dog to go….

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I have a cold.  I didn’t sleep worth rice and beans last night and my head feels like it’s three times its normal size… not a bad thing, I suppose, as I am known for having a freakishly small head…

Anyhoo.  We got school done despite my best efforts, nodding off at the table… body completely devoid of caffiene- I hate coffee when I’m sick… urging young ones to ‘go play on Mummy’s computer…. We’d have bagged it altogether, but, ummmmmm… we, like, did that yesterday.

Because… we took off early for breakfast in nearby Progreso, where we could enjoy highspeed wireless with our huevos.  And stroll The Malecon- essentially a boardwalk, minus the rides and Thrasher’s Fries- with the endless stream of visiting Gringo’s from the two cruiselines docked at the local port.  OhmiGod.  By 10:30 in the morning our sleepy little Puerto had turned into Decreptitude, Inc.  Honestly, an incredible transformation.  Town was suddenly abuzz with activity:  markets, beer, endless tables lined up on the beach selling $20 massages, beer, Margaritas, music, more shit to sell, beer…  10:30 in the morning?!?!  It was crazy.

Granted, I’ve never been on a cruise, so I’m unfamiliar with what goes on at the various ports of call, but galldurnit, I was fearing a “me so hawwwwny…” moment there in the middle of this nearby normally tranquilo beach, as I dragged kids away from the rows of Margarita laden massage victims and their eager and so very friendly ‘masseuses’….

However, Hubby is heading back next week.  Cruise Ship Monday… his last chance for a $20, one hour rub-down…. Erk. Men.

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I just posted Wordless Wednesday…. But, of course, everyone knows, it is, in fact, decidedly NOT Wednesday.

I’ve been up since 4am when I bade mi Filipes goodbye and good luck on his, ‘A Mystery Weekend’. Certainly, his whereabouts are of relatively no mystery to me, but no one else- not mother, not brothers, not sister, not friends and neighbors- has been allowed any information regarding what he might be undertaking these next few days.

The mystery will undoubtedly confirm to those in our immediate neighborhood- none of whom really understand what this dude does all day, from his home, on the phone, in his underpants- that he is, indeed, employed by the either the CIA, MI6, or Al-Qaeda. Maybe even a fascinating combination thereof.

Anyhow, after dutifully linking to various Wordless Wednesday participants, it suddenly occurred to me….

It’s Thursday.

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Strange, I find myself sort of yearning for July 4th’s past. My early wedded years spent living just outside The Beltway. Heading down, on The Mall, either by Metro… or fighting for parking somewhere just beyond downtown. Snacks packed, junk food bought there amongst the sprawling masses. The spectacle. The celebration. Fireworks like nowhere else, man! There’s nothing like spending a nation’s defining holiday in it’s very own capital. Particularly that of the American variety. Holey Moley, those Yanks do it up right- big, bigger, biggest- for I.D.

Y’know… I think we did that twice. Have you ever tried to make it out of a nation’s capital at the end of the Fourth of July celebration? As the last of the sparks of the Grand Finale dwindle, people are sprinting for a first spot in the Metro station or their vehicles, like extras in a TomCruiseWillSmithBenAffleck action flick, running desperately for their lives, from aliensterroristslavanuclearbombmeteors. And then… the line to cross one of the bridges to get out of Dodge. Hope you saved a corndog….

But then we discovered a cozy little spot across the river, along GW Parkway. Peace, quiet, a picnic and a wonderful view of the fireworks reflected in the Potomac.

And then… we got pregnant… and then had a baby… and we stopped bothering with DC altogether… and for the last couple of years there, remained safely ensconced in our own little corner of suburbia and attended the local community celebration. Just as much fun, honestly. You can trust that no matter the neighborhood, big or small, Americans know how to do up their day.

On this so very American of holidays… which, if not for the presence of dear Husband, would go largely unnoticed in our home here, north of the border. So, in honour of this, the most hallowed of American holidays, we are having our own little celebration. The first official 4th of July celebration in our little lakside neighborhood. There will be friends. Food. Booze…. And of course, fireworks.

There won’t be any flags- little, or no, red, white and blue; no apple pie; and no anthem on loop; but without doubt we’ll still have a good time.

Until the fireworks. We are surrounded by many trees… there will be many kids… and I did mention the booze…. Please just let everyone go home with all of their limbs… and kids.

So… to all Americans… not the least of whom, Husband, mi American Filipes, I wish you a heartfelt, Happy and SAFE, Independence Day. All the best of this July 4th!

Edited to add:  Husband just reminded me of another very special July 4th and despite the fact it did not occur in the United States, our second child was conceived on The Fourth of July…. it’s one of the most worthy of note!

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Husband… dear Filipes is on the east coast of United States this week.  He is at the office.  For a change working in a place that 90% of professionals work- in an office- not on my couch.  In my living room.  With Golf Channel on mute.

For that it’s been a nice change.  The rigours of work life bring all kinds of interesting energy into our already quite energetic home.  What with three kids, a big dog, my own work and homeschool… hells bells, I can’t imagine, really, how he gets shit-all done in a day.  Obviously, they can’t either… hence their requiring his presence onsite this week.

Strangely, in his absense, I find myself expecting something momentous to happen, i.e: a suitcase filled with a million bucks to drop from the persistent grey clouds overhead with a loud THUMP upon my deck; the opportunity of a lifetime presents itself in my ‘Inbox’- other than Murray O’Toole of Birmingham, England requesting “to pay anything for only the most photography finest for his day of blessed matrimony to the very most honourable Miss Smith.  But if it is please possible can I send him my account number so as to deposit  most gratefully the appropriate funds for my most wonderful of services…”- is that an english accent with a distinctly Nigerian twang I’m reading?!?; or Filipes being presented just the bestest of opportunities with company encouraging him to stay and earn beaucoup buck-olas… the only hitch being we have to move to the east coast.  Like, as in to the beach, where he commutes in only a couple of days a week.

And we actually get to experience some REAL SUMMER FUCKING WEATHER!!!

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I am not an understanding wife.  I know this. I probably wouldn’t want to be married to me.

My capacity for compassion and empathy for a sick Filipes is pretty limited.  In fact, as I see him laying all day on my new, expensive, comfy couch… I get really frustrated.  I must leave the room.  Fold laundry.  Clean kitchen.  Whatever.  Just don’t look over at the couch.

If he’s not on the couch he’s slouching around the house.  Grumbly.  Largely useless to us. But, trying to remember the man isn’t feeling well, I tell myself “Ease up on the guy.  He’s sick for cryin’ out loud.  Be a good, understanding wife for a change.”

And then. He.  Goes.  Golfing.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

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Thank the freakin’ almighty… or all of my recent hard, bloody work, because… mi Filipes just gave his official notice this past week.

Yes. He will be leaving his job. That’s right… his job. That pays him money. Money that supports his family.
Uh-huh. Yup. With no job to go to.

We are officially putting our faith in the almighty universe to the test.

Not to mention our greenthumbs… Sally’s and mine. OK. Mostly mine. The child is nine. He loves the idea of planting… of growing… his own food. But he doesn’t love the idea of digging, building and creating new beds, raking, yanking weeds that have runners extending clear through to China, or any of the other remaining facking dirty work that has to be done, in fact, to make things grow.

However, just as with the universe, we have faith that our shiny new gardens shall provide.

Or… I suppose I could pole dance while slinging beer and 99 cent chicken wings get some kind of real job.

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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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Yeah… well. Only his ass… of my comfy, cozy sofa, maybe.

Yes. It’s the weekend of The Masters.

It’s also the weekend of some real spring-time weather. Fucking finally! I’ll try to keep my resentment in check as apparently yesterday, our neighbors over the mountains were hit hard with a late season snow storm! Ha! I guess that’s what you get when your streets run free with money and your freaking SUV is encrusted with gold!

Anywho. I digress. Where was I?

Oh, yes. The Masters. And our very first, fair weathered opportunity to get things done in the yard.

Hmmmmm…… please say it’s only me that views these two things as completely, totally, fully and without any shred of doubt, mutually exclusive?!?!

I thought not. Shit!

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And so… early morning… my favourite time of the day… I’m alone, it’s quiet, dark and I crank the heat to 73degrees to make it all cozy-schmozy (before husband gets up and, before he’s even had his morning pee, is turning it back down to 65- arrrrgh…) and I pour, out of my oh-so-wondrous coffee percolatin’ lovliness, my first perfect cup o’ joe. Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh.

To make my mornings the easiest possible, and to not risk waking anyone prematurely, I prepare the coffee the night before. All that’s required of me next day, before I go for my morning pee, is plug it in. Magically, when I emerge from the loo… coffee. Hotter than stink. Ready. For me.

This morning: routine painfully interrupted.

Last night, downright pooped. Just enough left in me to settle in all snuggly beside sleeping girl child (yes, still in our bed) for American Idol, I asked my darling Filipes if he could make the coffee. Hmmm……… This seemingly small request launches a tedious not to mention, inconvenient, discussion about the household responsibilities that fall to him, alone. One and only example he continued to belabour: bucking and splitting firewood…

OK, fine. So the man chops wood. I have no problem admitting that he takes this on fully, solely.

I will not go into my list here, but suffice it to say, after remindiing him of my own list of responsibilities that exist in my lap alone, he then felt compelled, this one time, to prepare the coffee for morning.
Off to bed. I smile as hear him labour. Under the covers for the first night of real Idol competition. Yes….. Sing it, baby.

This morning. Plug. Pee. Bestest cup. Sugar. Pour. Bubbles and fizz as sugar instantaneously dissolves with the scalding heat of freshly brewed liquid. The comforting fruits of his labour. A chill of appreciation for my lovely man with a quick splash of the Cream-o….. uhhhhhhh……………wha?

Dishwater. Pale. Grey. Pour out half. Add more coffee (in my enhanced sensory state now noticing the pale liquid pour into my cup). Still grey. Still pale. Still so disappointingly reminiscent of dishwater, thoroughly dished. Ugh.

Make the coffee. Hear manly man up and stirring as a result of noisy grinder. Bleary, yet so very indignant, “You aren’t making a new pot of coffee?!?!”

Typical. In Man-dom. Do it shitty, so you never have to do it again. And do make sure you’re duly put out…

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