Tag Archives: house

A Silver Lining

Posted on December 3, 2012 | 34 Comments

Do you have an extra hour?

If so, I invite you to watch me attempt to put a key on a keychain, an activity that can take a better part of my day, my fingers and my sanity.

I go into it with a positive attitude, convinced that this time I will be successful and adept at sliding the key smoothly into it’s new home. But alas, I end up vainly using random household objects—a butter knife, a pen cap, anything but my teeth (jewels, not tools, people)—to pry open the ring of death and successfully complete this seemingly simple task.

It’s exhausting, which is why I can never move from my house or buy another car, as adding this key on would be entirely more work than it’s worth.

However, every few months I am reminded that there is yet another task so similar in nature that I can’t help but feel they are somehow collaborating to highlight my domestic disabilities—changing the shower curtain liner.

This is a task that must be done on a regular basis, lest one plans on growing an assortment of invasive species in their shower. But like the keychain conundrum, it’s often complicated by a) the ridiculous metal rings that have to be opened and closed and b) the fact that I’m me.

showercurtain2

It starts with the purchase of the $5 vinyl liner from Target, simply because I’m fancy, and then the placement of the packaged liner on the counter for at least two weeks while I muster up the motivation to enter into this bathroom battle.

Once I feel sufficiently motivated and occasionally medicated, I pull out the scissors and cut down the old liner. This saves me the work of opening the ridiculously stubborn hooks for at least a few minutes more.

After the old liner is properly discarded though, the real work begins.

With an air of demented determination, I set out to pinch open the bastard hook things as fast as I can, trying to ward of the agonizingly painful feeling of having to hold up my arms for what feels like at least two or three hours.*

*about 10 minutes

Once the rings are all open and I regain the feeling in my separated shoulders and numb arms, I pat myself on the back—it’s good to recognize small victories—and begin hanging up the new liner.

This is a relatively easy part of the process, what with the rings already open, but it never fails that I step into the shower to hang the thing up and step in one random small droplet of water.

If there’s not a helpline for people who step in small droplets of water with clean socks on while changing the shower curtain liner, there needs to be.

Or I could just remember to take off my socks.

At any rate, once the new liner is hung and a second congratulatory break is taken, I set out to pinch shut the bastard hook things as fast as I can, trying to ward of the agonizingly painful feeling of having to hold up my arms for what feels like at least two or three hours.*

*about two or three minutes

When the last hook is snapped, I can exhale, change my socks and take comfort in the fact that I won’t have to do this again for at least a few months. Unless I did it wrong and missed a hook somewhere along the way, in which case I will cry and have an extra hook hanging around for a bit.

Then again, it’s one less hook left to close.

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The Negotiator

Posted on November 19, 2012 | 27 Comments

The other day I came home to a chipmunk domestic in my yard. It was like COPS: Small Woodland Creature edition, minus the mini wife beater tanks and camera crew.

vegucated

Considering there was plenty of food under the feeder for all to enjoy, it made me wonder what could tick off these little buggers so much that they would scream and chase each other around the yard. Does he always leaves the seat up? Does she only cook up corn? 

Yes, I spent a few moments pondering this.

Perhaps I’ve just been watching CSI: NY for too long. It’s pretty much the only “serious” show that I’ll watch on TV, due in part to the fact I feel a special connection with Gary Sinise after he and his Lt. Dan Band—yes, it’s a thing—were the entertainment at a Halloween party about five years ago.

But I do like the characters and the show, despite the fact each episode would only last about 20 minutes if you took away the music and shots of the medical examiner looking fascinated every time he picked up a scalpel (accompanied by aforementioned music.)

While I don’t live in New York and am fairly confident that I’m not part of an underground Mafia ring, I am a little hyperaware of certain things.

I think people sitting in their cars in empty parking lots look creepy—even if they’re just taking a lunch break, going into a bank makes me feel like I’m part of “Oceans 11” minus the hot guys and I assume anyone who pulls up behind me at an ATM is the Unibomber out for a jaunt.

But if (god forbid) something did every happen to me, I’m pretty sure I would be the world’s worst hostage.

The perps would most likely “remove me from the situation” quickly or surrender to authorities ASAP, preferring jail to my incessant requests to get home in time to watch the new “Chopped.”

Along with the wrath of me missing my TV show, they would have to contend with the fact I drink water all the time. Drinking water all the time combined with a bladder the size of a Cheerio means I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

And hell hath no fury if this “situation” falls within any of the five windows during the day in which I engage in my feedings.

If for some reason things did get carried away and a ransom note was required, the criminal would have to let me put my artistic OCD skills to use in cutting out all the letters from magazines myself. In addition, I would need to edit and possibly revise said ransom note before it could be sent out to authorities.

If it has my name on it, I want it to look good.

At any rate, the news description of what I was wearing when I went missing would probably cause my family to pretend they don’t know who I am. “Yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a streak of hummus in her hair? Nope, I don’t know her.”

That would be unfortunate, because I’m pretty sure the criminal would ante up funds simply to send me away if my above requirements weren’t met. After all, I have chipmunks to feed, and apparently you don’t want to piss those guys off.

You never know what they can do.

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Door of Doom

Posted on October 25, 2012 | 34 Comments

What do you see when you look at this picture?

fridge2b

Most people would probably say they see an average refrigerator, maybe some cat treats on top or the Ove Glove lovingly hung on the side. But I am not most people, and when I look at this picture I see two things:

1) An arctic abode to house my beloved eats and drinks

2) An evil ninja-like appliance of pain that’s plotting against me 

Let me explain.

The other day I was preparing for some couchgating and enthusiastically threw open the door to the refrigerator to grab some hippie fare. However, in my enthusiasm, I neglected to realize I was enthusiastically throwing open the freezer door and slammed the damn thing into my head.

fridge1b

It was a direct hit.

A drive-by dooring, so to speak.

I was knocked to the floor—not because I lost consciousness as my head enthusiastically stopped the door’s momentum, but because I stumbled backward and tripped on the cat.

As I sat on the floor I noticed three things:

1) Several grains of uncooked rice remained under the cupboard ledge on the floor from when I spilled it—never sneeze while measuring it out–which leads me to believe I need to sit down with the dust buster and re-evaluate it’s job description.

2) The cat was not helpful in this situation a la Lassie in fetching me ice, but was instead alternating exasperated glances between the treat bags on top of the fridge and my stunned skinny ass on the floor.

Noted, my feline friend. Noted.

3) I suddenly saw two fridges in front of me, which initially excited me — two fridges full of goodies!— until I realized it was because of the pain.

I gingerly stood up, made my way to the mirror and found a dark bruise and two-inch lump on my forehead. If it had happened a week later right before Halloween, I would have been thrilled. Easy costume! But seeing as I still had a week to wait, I knew that I needed a story that wasn’t so lame.

I thought perhaps I could say I was saving a kitten stranded in a tree and bumped my head while bending over to perform CPR, but given my abusive relationship with gravity, I knew that nobody would buy it.

Considering everyone knows how the small woodland creatures in my yard show a blatant disrespect for my authority, I figured a wrestling match with a squirrel just might fly.

But I think I could take a squirrel, so I moved on to using a bear or a cougar. However, bears aren’t that common and I didn’t want people to think I meant “cougar” like a horny old woman, as that would completely change the context of this injury, among other things.

So I settled on a badger. If anyone asks, I was wresting a badger…to save a kitten from a horny old woman.

And when you think about it, my actions — or at least my delusions about my actions —were really quite heroic, no?

Anyway, once I settled on a story I decided I should put some ice on my throbbing head, only to realize the irony of the fact that the ice was in the freezer—the scene of the crime! But I thought of the kitten I could have saved and threw open the freezer door—slightly less enthusiastically this time—and numbed out the pain for a bit.

At least I think that’s what I did.

The details are fuzzy.

Damn badger.

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Stop, Drop and Roll

Posted on October 4, 2012 | 30 Comments

I’m hoping this fall wreath I put on my door says “Festive/I will dive behind the couch if you knock on the door and I’m not expecting you.”

wreath

The truth is that I might be a Publisher’s Clearing House million dollar winner if not for the fact that I perform a death roll behind the furniture the second I hear the doorbell.

Why?

Because I’m most likely not wearing any makeup and smell like garlic hummus, which means even if the UPS man is hot, it won’t do me any good. But also because there’s a chance someone is selling something—be it cookie dough or religion—and I don’t have an interest in either.

It’s bad enough that a couple weeks from now a gang of cute little ghosts and skanky tween witches will come begging me for chocolate covered cavities, but the appetizer to their desperate pleas is to show up on my doorstep with an 80-page catalog full of overpriced things that make the Neiman Marcus Christmas Catalog look like a Walmart flier.

This just in: I don’t need a $14 roll of wrapping paper that covers about one small shoebox.

I don’t blame them for being forced to raise money. When I was little we went door-to-door selling sub sandwiches for a class trip that probably included name tags, room mothers trying not to lose kids/their sanity and someone puking on the bus coming home.

But back then the business of fundraising was different. We were motivated to sell for little trinket rewards and bragging rights and neighbors could get five sandwiches for a 10-spot.

Now the parents take this catalog to work with them and leave an order form passive aggressively on the break room table, the result of a) an understandable fear of sending their kids out to strangers b) laziness on the part of the kids or c) the fact that a 1st grader can’t carry the weight of an 80-page catalog.

And while I think the exposure to rejection would be good for the kids to get used to—welcome to the real world, my friends—I think a better way to teach them responsibility would be to send them around selling things we actually need like mini bottles of alcohol or coupons to clean my gutters or the cat’s shit box.

That I might pay for.

The point is that while I have no problem telling them I’m not interested, I don’t want to have to hear about how someone from their church needs a kidney that she’ll only receive if I buy six tubs of cookie dough and donate the kidney myself.

Plus, if you actually know me, you’ll come to the back door first. This means whoever is at my front door is a semi-stranger I’ll be forced to yell through the glass at because I secretly fear they’re casing the joint—even if they are 5 years old.

Spoiler alert: Unless you want drawers of rubber bands and incense, you should probably loot down the street. You’ll be much more satisfied there.

So I feel like sprinting across the living room and diving into the kitchen to hide out of view is actually a quite reasonable response, despite the eye rolls the cat throws my way. While I realize I could be missing out on a hot UPS guy or millions of dollars each time, it’s a price I’m willing to pay for not having to pay $14 for fudge.

And I still think the wreath’s a nice touch.

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Crap Happens

Posted on April 29, 2012 | 41 Comments

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that birds see my Blazer as an expensive outhouse, but they’ve recently reached a new level of crappiness—projectile pooping.

poopdoor

It’s hard to make out in this picture, but on a rainy Sunday afternoon a feathered freak somehow managed to poop on my glass door. How does this happen? In order for that to occur, the stealthy shitter would have to literally hover in the air and aim, exerting a certain amount of force in order for the load to lodge on the glass. I am baffled, but also slightly impressed.

Because let’s cut the crap—pooping is wonderful.

I’ll go on record (with TMI) and say that a good “constitution” makes me happier than just about anything else. Due to years of abuse, I totally screwed up my digestive system and used to go a full week without “elimination.” It took about five years for my body to forgive me and recover and I still suffer from IBS, but with careful diet choices, research, a predictable routine and the fact that I’m not screwing it up, my bowels and I get along swimmingly.

I’m not alone in the neurotic nature of bowel sensitivity. 

David Sedaris has a chapter in “Naked” in which as an OCD child, he’s sent to Greece for a month and never had a bowel movement because he was out of his routine.

“Sitting down three times a day for a heavy Greek meal became an exercise akin to packing a musket.”

I can totally relate, which is another reason that I’m not a fan of traveling. When my schedule gets thrown off, my bowel isn’t the only thing that gets irritable.  If I don’t go, I have no appetite, and anything that messes with my food is on my shit list.

However, it’s not exactly “proper” to discuss these things, which I find kind of weird.

We all know it happens, yet it’s often (crop) dusted over with an embarrassed but knowing glance when someone accidentally lets one rip or needs a few minutes in the bathroom. Why is it such a “taboo” topic for most people?

Heck, people talk about sex all the time, and from what I can remember that’s just as messy and much less satisfying.

Now I’m not saying we need to go around talking crap with everyone. There is obviously a certain sense of decorum and flatulence isn’t exactly something to bring up in a job interview—although that might liven things up. But when the situation presents itself, I don’t see what’s so embarrassing.

As the old saying goes, “I’d rather fart and bear the shame than hold it in and bear the pain.”

Crap happens, but let’s keep it off my dining room door.

I’m looking at you, you little feathered freak…

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Hints (not from) Heloise

Posted on January 8, 2012 | 44 Comments

Are you familiar with “Hints from Heloise?”

Heloise gained popularity a bit before my time, but a quick summary is that she’s a writer/columnist who took over a syndicated column from her mom in 1977—"Hints from Heloise”—in which she dispenses  lifestyle tips and hints on everything from travel and pets to home improvement.

She also has an editorial  gig in Good Housekeeping, so basically she’s like Martha Stewart without a mug shot or an empire.

Anyway, if I were ever given a column, it would be a more  bastardized “Dear Abby meets Carrie Bradshaw” type thing than Heloise, as I am no domestic diva.

But I do have my own house, and even if it often plots against me, I’ve learned a thing or two.

Hints from a Domestically Disabled Diva

If you read nothing else, the most important thing I can tell you is this: It’s easier to throw away and replace a mini-blind than to actually clean the one you have. 

mini-blind-cleaner

They have created cleaning items specifically for this job—I have one myself—and although they help, you still end up inventing new combinations of profanity that neighbors with young children will not appreciate.

Bonus hint: The same goes for shower curtain liners.

Buy a $5 liner from Target—and ONLY the shower curtain liner, not $80 worth of other things you didn’t go there intending to buy—and simply cut it off the hooks when it’s time to change it. Trying to open and close the hooks to take off the old liner when you already have to open and close the hooks to put one on will take years off your life.

Just cut it off and cut your losses.

This Sucks

True story: I had a roommate when I lived in Detroit that simply bought a new vacuum cleaner when it was time to change the bag on the one he had, only because he didn’t want to have to change the bag.

I don’t recommend this, but I kind of understand.

But bagless vacuums help, but aren’t necessarily the answer. I have one with a cool light on the front of it and everything, but emptying the container causes a bigger mess than what I just sucked up. As a result, I pull out the dust buster to suck the dust up, only to face the same situation in emptying the dust buster.

I don’t have a solution for this one other than to NOT empty either container the same day you vacuum. At least you can feel like the house is clean for a few hours.

Small victories. 

This Stinks

Due to the fact that I eat a lot of vegetables—namely steamed broccoli at least once a day—my house has the potential to smell like I eat a lot of vegetables.

Delicious? Yes. Delightfully fragrant? Not so much.

I light incense right before I eat to combat this aroma. True, I usually forget that I lit incense and freak out five minutes later thinking something is burning in my kitchen, but at least is smells nice once I recover from my panic attack.

But my absolute favorite thing?

Relax%20Moments%20Water%20Blossoms%20Aerosol

Glade Water Blossoms spray.

I have never smelled water blossoms so I don’t know if I’m being ripped off or not, but I don’t care. It’s delightful.

It’s A Wash

When it comes to laundry, well, I don’t really have any great hints. The time spent folding clean laundry only to unfold it and hang it up is time that could be spent shopping for a new mini blind or doing anything else. My only hint is to buy clothes that never need to be ironed.

We’ve covered this before, but I currently have a pair of cute pants I haven’t worn in months simply because they need to be ironed and my ironing board is better suited for a Keebler Elf.

iron3

The only upside to laundry—aside from clean clothes and the pleasure my OCD takes in cleaning the lint tray on the dryer—is that if you slip on a fabric sheet dropped on your kitchen floor, you instantly turn into something that resembles a manic  figure skater having a seizure.

It’s quite impressive.

So there you go.

I have many more hints and tips I could dispense, but I don’t want to overload your brain with too much valuable information in one post. Perhaps I will present a sequel in the future. You know, if the whole bastardized “Dear Abby meets Carrie Bradshaw” –type column thing doesn’t pan out.

Because sorry guys. If offered syndication, you can bet I’ll take it and run with it. Unless of course it requires writing about coordinating throw pillows.

In which case, I’m screwed.

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My House is Mocking Me

Posted on November 16, 2011 | 36 Comments

Alternate title: Appliance Defiance

I’m don’t mean to sound paranoid, but I’m pretty sure my house is plotting against me.

Without a lot of fanfare, certain things have been staging a slow but steady protest, and I can’t help but feel like there’s some clandestine plot that is sure to be exposed in the near future.

toaster

I miss baseball so very, very much.

It began one average day when my non-stick pans up and refused to stop not sticking. As I stood over the stove trying to scrape scrambled eggs off with my spatula while the damn pan considered its job description, I realized that it wasn’t just the pans.

They were my first clue, but then there was the light above my bathroom vanity that has taken to flashing back to the ‘70s with strobe lights whenever I don’t  turn the dial to the precise location. All the way? Let there be light. A little bit off? Let there be a disco dance party.

Shortly thereafter, the dust buster went passive aggressive on me, pushing dust around the room instead of actually sucking (busting?) it up.

“Oh, you wanted ME to pick that up? Well, I never….”

Even though at times it would be easier to bend over and physically pick up a string or piece of dirt myself, I refuse. It will bust the dust if it’s the last thing I make it do, which given the potential plot against me, it may very well be.

Then there’s the toaster, a simple standby that has served me well. We have an understanding. Bread goes in, handle goes down, bread pops up. Clean transaction. But lately it has taken to refusing to keep the handle down, therefore negating the actual toasting it is pressed into service to do.

The first time I stood there pushing the damn handle down with a passion reserved for the dysfunctional dust buster, possibly muttering something along the lines of, “Well, aren’t WE the defiant little bastard today” until my bread came out unevenly browned and bitter at the forced interaction.

The next time I decided to try a different approach with, “Yes, take your time. I’ll just hold the handle down while you decide what you’d like to do with this bread.” That worked a bit better—sometimes I don’t even have to ask it nicely—but now the crumb tray refuses to stay securely fastened to the bottom.

This goes to prove my point that the toaster and the dust buster are completely in cahoots.

The weather stripping on my door fell off, the thing you push down to plug the sink in my main bathroom broke and every time I accidentally hit the switch for the garbage disposal instead of the light above my sink, it’s like my own private Nam—and I do this at least once a week.

On top of everything else, I’m thinking the surprise arrival of the avocado cutter earlier this month is simply the next step in their plan.

And each time one of my bastard appliances acts out for attention, it’s simply another reminder that I never got to register at Williams Sonoma for a $400 toaster or a newlywed non-stick pan collection. First the old people mock me, now it’s my house.

Well you know what, spastic ice maker that will randomly turn on and spit out squares without me telling you to? I’m on to you guys, and I’m a confident and capable single woman. Try as you might, I won’t be mocked or intimidated in my own home.

Unless you’re the garbage disposal.

Then all bets are off.

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Everything Must Go!

Posted on August 19, 2011 | 33 Comments

Summer is winding down, which means garage sale season is winding down as well. I don’t know how it is where you live, but it seems I can’t drive 100 feet without seeing a cardboard sign with an arrow pointing me towards the sale of the century each weekend. 

garage-sale2

Before I get into the rest of this post, let’s pause and talk about these garage sale signs.

Two tips:

  1. People are driving by, meaning they won’t read the paragraph you write in 12 pt. font with a pencil on a piece of cardboard. Use bright colors and the word “Sale.” You’re not pitching a screenplay. You’re selling crap.
  2. Make sure you spell things correctly. If I see a sign that says “Hudge  Sale” as I did a couple weeks ago, I will assume that a dictionary is not among your offerings and will only stop to edit your sign and judge you.

Let’s move on. 

If you’ve never actually put on a garage sale yourself and tried to convince people they need to buy the crap you just don’t want, allow me to clue you in as to just how much fun they can be. I conducted a yard sale myself  a couple years ago around this time and feel I’ve recovered enough to talk about my experience.

The Night Before: You stay up late making tiny price tag stickers for all the junk you’re hoping people will buy. It’s early in the game, so you’re psychotically optimistic, calculating the total value of your "inventory" at slightly over $5,000, give or take what you can get for those old curtains that came with the house you found stored in the attic. 

6: 30 AM The garage sale is scheduled to begin at 8 am, but a woman pounds on your door and tell you she “likes to get an early start."  When you walk outside to let her “window shop,” you notice that not only is the summer weather unpredictably cold and rainy, but that there are five other cars in your driveway.

6: 35 AM One of those cars is your crazy uncle—a black belt in flea markets, weekend auctions and roaming the beach with a metal detector—who is there to help manage the situation. He immediately lays claim to a yard tool he forgot he gave you last week.

9:30 AM You’ve sold a few things, but are already annoyed with the fact that everything isn’t sold and you’re not counting your riches. A shopper offers you a dollar for your lawnmower that is brand new and not for sale.

You ask him to leave.

10 AM You look for your uncle and find him drinking Busch Light in a can and offering extras to shoppers for $1 a piece. He tells you he has sold three beers. At 10 AM.

Noon: You leave the operation in the hands of your uncle/concession seller and go inside to get some lunch. A stranger knocks on your back door and asks to try on some T-shirts for sale, and another wants to know if you have “weenies to go with the beer.”

You ask them to leave.

12:30 PM When you return to the sale, you find your uncle slightly manic because he has sold a shovel, a set of garden tools and a hose for 50 cents each. You tell him that they weren’t for sale in the first place. He replies that he wondered why there were no price tags.

You ask him to leave. Of course, he won’t.

2 PM A group of college boys will stop by and start trying on some of your clothes in the driveway, conducting their own drag queen fashion show. Your mom will attempt to stuff dollar bills into their bejeweled belts (priced at 50 cents) and your uncle will offer them beer.

They are cute. You will not ask them to leave. In fact, you will give them the clothes, a few other items and several pathetic come-hither stares.

2:30 PM You decide things are taking entirely too long and start drastically slashing prices like an overzealous mattress salesman who does his own commercials. In fact, you just start giving stuff away and find that’s entirely more fun, especially because it pisses off your crazy neighbor lady who is trying to sell a holographic palm tree for $50.

4 PM You’re done. You’ve given almost everything away. It’s hard to know what your take is for the day, because at some point your uncle  apparently sold the cash box. However, you find a dollar your mom dropped during the impromptu frat boy fashion show and seek out your uncle, who is digging through your “crap I’m throwing away” pile.

4:05 PM You buy a beer. 

4:06 PM You vow never to do this again.

Do you have any great “garage sale finds” stories? Horror stories? Have you put one on yourself?

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Swiffer Sink Saga 2011

Posted on June 23, 2011 | 24 Comments

It seems my sink is jealous of the attention paid to my pond/fountain and has decided to do something about it—namely drip down below onto the floor of my cupboard.

sink2

As you can imagine, this did not thrill me. 

Any disruption to  basic necessities— water, food, Internet, Baseball Tonight, power —are basically classified as mini-catastrophes in my world. I lose power, I go ape shit—another post entirely. 

Anyway, if I don’t have a sink, how can I make my tea? Use my steamer? Make my lunch for work at that exact second instead of later in the evening? How am I supposed to survive?!?

These were my thoughts about two seconds after this drippy discovery.

I was really trying to go with the flow—I know life is full of malfunctioning appliances and people—but when that flow is slowly dripping out under my sink every time I run the water, I tend to spout out my frustration in various forms.

Part of my frustration comes from not being able to fix it myself, but 99.9  percent of my frustration comes from the series of events that follow after my stepdad (or anyone) comes over to “fix” it.

*Yes,  I am most appreciative, but I am also OCD with no patience for putzing or lack of respect for the Lysol.

So without further putzing, let’s take a look at how my Sunday afternoon went (all times are approximate.)

1 pm—It’s Swiffer Sunday, so I throw everything into my dining room and proceed to do the Wet Jet waltz across my kitchen. While the floors dry, I go for a walk.

1:30—Get back, wash my hands and reached below the sink for the dish soap, only to discover a small puddle.

1:31—Express puzzlement over said puddle to inanimate objects within earshot and wipe it up with paper towel.

1: 32—Ignore real problem and move on.

2:30—Forget I was going to do the dishes, reach down for dish soap again and rediscover another puddle. Swear under (and over) my breath and call my stepdad to express my puzzlement over said puddle.

3:00—Stepdad arrives, does not take his shoes off before entering my Swiffered kitchen floor and going below the sink.

3:00:10—Remind myself he’s helping me out and try to ignore that he did not take his shoes off before entering my Swiffered kitchen floor. Deep breaths are taken and possibly exhaled as a loud sigh—this part is sketchy.

3:30—After tearing apart the sink and putting tools on the rug, it is decided he needs to go to Home Depot and I “need to chill out.”

Whatever.

3:31—He leaves. A towel is placed under his tools. While placing said towel, I realize the dishes are stacked on the counter—a situation that (obviously) needs to be remedied immediately.

3:35—Dishes and dish drainer are transported to the bathtub where they are thoroughly washed. Being crouched at that level, I notice the floor could stand to be vacuumed and heck, while I’m down there, the toilet should be cleaned.

4:00—Stepdad returns with the parts—he thinks—and I continue to stay out of the kitchen, not because I will be in the way, but because I will be tempted to Swiffer stalk him and poo-poo his putzing.

4:01—Plop down on the couch to watch the ballgame, something I had planned on doing before the Swiffer Sink Saga of 2011.

4:20—Try to ignore the clanking tools in the next room, decide I’m pretty much a revolutionary and applaud my survival skills in times of such stress.

4:21—Re-enter the kitchen, see what I declare to be a critical cleaning crisis and immediately change my mind on revolutionary status. However, I am informed it’s “fixed” and that he’s heading home.

4:25—Air kisses are exchanged, appreciation is heaped upon his ego before the dish drainer is put back in it’s rightful home, the shower is scrubbed and the Swiffer is put to good use. Again.

5:00—Make food—carefully avoiding the side of the sink that has drying caulk—and plop down on the couch to watch the end of the ballgame. Feel better, as this is your happy place.

Next afternoon—Fill sink, empty sink, discover it’s still dripping down below.

Throw something—a tantrum or a fork—and take a deep breath.

Make a phone call and a drink.

Blame the gnome.

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My Marriage Proposal

Posted on June 4, 2011 | 48 Comments

I’m generally low maintenance, but the same cannot be said for my house.

As any homeowner can attest, the things that need to be done around a house are not only numerous, but often never-ending. And unless you enjoy changing air filters, scrubbing out the shower or replacing the rain gutters, these tasks are not something one often looks forward to doing.

Side note: While I do love cleaning and have an unnatural affinity for my Swiffer Wet Jet and ‘Ove’Glove—best thing ever—this love does not extend to various other jobs that require my attention, or more accurately, require me to ignore because I have no clue how to do them.

Because I’m single, I either have to figure out how to put the screen doors in and replace (insert random odd thing you didn’t even know existed until it broke) myself, or bribe someone to do it with beer or brownies.

I’m lucky that my family lives close by because they help with odds and ends, but I have to admit there are times when I think it would be nice to have a man around to fix a thing or two, change the oil in my Blazer and possibly help with the bills. Don’t get me wrong in that I work hard, have no problem working hard and am proud of everything I have, but not thinking about these annoying tasks would be great.

So I think I have found the perfect solution–I have decided I want to be a Trophy Wife. Well, I should rephrase that to be a bit more accurate:

I have decided I want to be a Consolation Prize Wife.

A Consolation Prize Wife is like a Trophy Wife, but actually way cooler because she requires less maintenance.

The typical Trophy Wife is young and married to an older powerful man—the Sugar Daddy— and serves as a visual status symbol of his success.  She’s basically arm candy.

I’m not quite as young or as hot and probably come with more issues, but I’m not quite yet 30 and despite being skinny with no boobs, I can clean up nice. So even though I missed my chance to land a Sugar Daddy with one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel, I’m thinking I might be able to swing the alternative here.

The Consolation Prize Wife

As a Consolation Prize Wife, I would still marry a powerful man and serve as a visual (or vocal, more likely) status symbol of his humble success (like I said, I  make a great party date.) He wouldn’t be old, but would still have money so that I could be a stay-at-home-mom minus the kids, do yoga to stay in physical and emotional shape, write an engaging and witty blog and oversee the management of our animal rescue center.

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I would be required to get dressed up and attend various social events with him, tell him he’s cool and frequent the Farmers Market on a weekly basis for the things I would learn how to cook.  In return, he would be required to be handy around the house, request no emotional attachment or sexual interest unless provoked (by me) and have a Canadian accent.

And we would have separate beds, as I love to sleep much more than I love to spoon.

This way my grass would get cut, I could write and be my own boss, consider it a professional obligation to clean everything all the time and keep myself in shape. He would get to always have a witty plus-one for events, someone to keep things running smooth at home while he does the work thing and the freedom to never have to answer the questions “Why do you love me” or “What are you thinking about right now?”

meancardsaffection

Why?

Because I’m smart and fairly secure, so there’s no question about why he would love me. And second, I don’t really care what he’s thinking about right now unless it involves a) cleaning the gutters, b) urging me in his Canadian accent to go write or c) my next feeding.

After all, just because a house is high maintenance doesn’t mean I have to be. And as a Consolation Prize Wife, I will make it my duty to remain that way until death do us part, at which time I will be back to where I started from.

Which will be, most likely, Home Depot.

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