Sunday, March 05, 2006

la douce humanité




Somehow, miraculously, our life has been mishap-free lately. We found another small hair trimmer in the house. I don't like it as much, but maybe I will get used to it, and James' head looks pretty normal. Aside from that, there was a 4-day stretch where I kept accidently kneeing, kicking, and otherwise abusing James' crotch, but that was all completely accidental, and he's none the worse for wear. So, we had a good 3 weeks of bliss with some minor bickering.

Then, vacation planning happened. I'm at UNC Charlotte studying French and Anthropology, and 3/3-3/12 is my Spring Break. James has somehow finagled Tuesday the 7th through Sunday off. This is a major feat in the airline world, and I'm not too sure money and/or goods didn't exchange hands before it worked out. As long as it wasn't sexual favors, I really don't care. So, we found ourselves with 6 days to go wherever USAir goes. We went to Germany in December, and we're going Greece in August, both of which are places James picked (not that he has to drag me either place). It was my turn to pick the vacation.

Being a Francophile (duh), I decided we'd go to Paris. We fly for free, but we fly standby, so if flights are full, we won't be getting on them. Unfortunately we figured out that we'd get there Wednesday morning and have to leave Friday noonish b/c of the flight loads. Two and a half days in Paris is nothing too terrible, but it was also going to be raining and about 30 degrees. Forget that mess.

Next up on my list was the Carribean, sepcifically St. Martin. St. Martin is Francophone, so at least I'd get to speak the language. The flights looked pretty good, and everything seemed to be marching forward, until we saw the hotel prices. Zut alors! I decided we'd just go ANYWHERE in the Carribean instead. So did everyone else who flies USAir. Except for St.Martin, all the weekend flights were oversold, leaving us with Tuesday-Friday. I decided I cared more about maximizing my vacation than saving money on hotels, so we looked into St.Martin again, and found a place that was just a little over $100 a night. Fine. We booked it at that heavily discounted rate through Perx, a resource for airline employees. Two days later we got a call saying the hotel refused our booking. Destination 2, down.

FINE! We're staying in America. I submit. If I'm going to travel somewhere, I want to be able to speak the language, and luckily the US meets that requirement as well. November was our 4-year dating anniversary, which marked 4 years of me failing to convince James to go skiing. I don't think I've been skiing for 5 or 6 years, though this November will be the 20-year anniversary of me and skiing. Since this is MY choice vacation, and my first 2 James-friendly choices got shot down by the powers that be, I pulled the brat move and told him that we were going skiing, period. We're staying at The Roxbury, which I found in a rival airline's magazine (shhh!). Since we made this decision Friday, there hasn't been a lot of time to run around getting the stuff we need for the trip. Yesterday we were supposed to go to Sun & Ski Sports and get James ski pants, long johns, and most importantly, snow boots. The day was cut short, however, when James felt a Primordial Man Urge to grill something. Let's not dwell on how badly THAT went; this isn't The Hopeless Husband, is it? We figured we'd go today when he was on reserve, since he rarely gets called. I think we jinxed it by having sex after we woke up instead of going right to the mall, because work called him immediately after we finally got out of bed. They gave him an overnight trip--he gets in tomorrow night at 8h45pm. Our flight to Albany leaves at 9h50. Obviously that left us no time for shopping. Our hotel's cancellation policy that doesn't allow for changing our reservation so close to the date, so we'd be paying to stay there Monday night, even if we elected not to come until Tuesday.


The gist of this is that I went to Sun & Ski Sports today and tried on boots. The thing is, I already have snow boots. I was trying on boots for my husband. Do you know how hard it is to try on shoes and try to guess if they will fit someone else??? I pray you never have to find out. I bought the boots and a million pair of ski socks and long john bottoms and fleece shirts and ski goggles and hats and other skiing acoutrements and let me just tell you that I am thankful everyday for my no-limit amex.


I don't have a witty conclusion for this. I am full of fear that things won't work out. I'm extremely nervous about how the hell I'm going to pack all this stuff. There's a good chance my mother-in-law is going to be stuck in town tonight and I'm going to have to get her at the airport at 10 pm and take her back there at 6 tomrorrow morning. My house is a mess, everything is covered in animal hair, she's allergic. To quote Peanuts... AUGH!

Monday, February 13, 2006

Tumble Dry, No.

After that rambling introductory post, my pain-in-the-ass medicine kicked in (literally medicine for a pain in my left butt cheek and thigh) and I was too tired to actually write about the incident that sparked this blog. Now, a few days and a 3 page paper on The Carolingian Dynasty from Pepin the Elder to Charles the Bald later, I'm ready.

It all started with a post by my friend Chrystal, whose boob I am grabbing in the full version of my profile picture. The post is friends-only, so I will summarize. Chrystal, a teacher, sent a pen drive with all her lesson plans, etc. through the washing machine, along with some keys, a chapstick (which thankfully didn't make it to the dryer), a soda tab, and some coins. The pen drive dried out, and no data was lost, thankfully.

Once, when I was simply a Faulty Fiancee, I washed and bleached poor James' (my husband's name, since I haven't mentioned it yet) passport. This might not be such a big deal, if James wasn't a pilot flying to and from the Bahamas several times daily. He was at his other job (delivering chinese food-a favorite second job of pilots) when I commited the terribledeed and oh did I fret! Wonder of wonders, he was not angry (I sure would have been!), and even more amazingly, the passport still works! It looks ridiculous, however. It looks like it's been through the wash.

I commented all this to her post, and then went on my merry chore-doing way. James has a head of very thick hair that needs frequent cutting, and so in the interest of saving money, we bought hair clippers and a trimmer for his neck and above his ears. My first haircut attempt was absolutely horrible, with the hairline on his neck starting about an inch too high, and with a huge margin of cut hair over his ears. The next haircut went perfectly however, and I've been cutting his hair for maybe 2 years now. The usual order of events is to bring a chair onto the porch, cut the hair, get covered in bits of hair, drop our now-hirstute clothes off in the washer, and hop in the shower. Later I run the washer, and so we generally avoid tracking hair all over the house.

Now the clipper is a normal size men's hair clipper, like what they have at supercuts, or wherever. The trimmer is like a baby version of this. For those familiar with vibrators, it's bigger than a pocket rocket, but smaller than a rabbit. Basically it's the size of one of those pens you had in middle school where you could chose from 12 colors, all on the same pen, and every color smelled different. It's not very heavy, but it's certainly something you'd notice if you had it in your pocket.

Or so one would think.

However, the Worst Wife or her Horrible Husband (how I wish I knew which!) did NOT notice the trimmer in the pocket of his or her pajama pants or sweatshirt. And so died the first casualty in the war of sending important items through the wash. That trimmer was perfect, and James' 'do will never be the same.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Today's the worst day of the rest of your life.

I have a livejournal, which I use for strategic livejournaling purposes, more or less. Two good, nay, best friends of mine, both also livejournal users, have started blogs- they are (alphabetically) Amusing Bouche and Grocery Chopin. Being a bandwagon-jumper, I thought to do the same, but decided to stick with good ol' lj, who has served me fine for close to five years now. Today, however, I was composing a livejournal entry in my head (as an event was unfolding, of course), and thought it sounded more like a blog post than an lj entry. Thus, The Worst Wife was born.

I am not really the worst wife. I don't cheat on, beat, or refuse to have sex with my husband. I don't spy on him, I don't steal his money, I don't badmouth him to his friends (much). The problem is simply that I'm ill-equipped to be a wife. First off, I have no context of what a wife is. I lived with my grandmother for my childhood. I lived with a divorced aunt for my teenagerhood. I have never seen a real-life wife in action. In my family it's all-women, supremely in charge, all the time. Men were just vague nuisances on the sidelines, which is not something that my husband takes too well. On top of this is my inablity disinterest in following recipes, patterns, instructions. I can cook, and I do cook, but only the limited dishes that I've made up myself. I am very good at crochet, but I cannot make anything I don't dream up in my own head. If I can't clean it with a vacuum, I have no idea what to do about your mess. If you put a mop or broom in my hand, I will laugh at you. I can't make either of those implements do anything productive.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not really interested in being a good housewife. The very thought makes my extremely liberal, decidedly feminist heart squeal with horror. My main issue is becoming a good adult-someone who pays the bills on time and has his/her living space in order and does all that other happy crappy. Every blog needs a hook though, so I thought why not document my domestic disasters (and successes, but that didn't alliterate well) through the filter of being a terrible wife to my poor put-upon husband who just wants a footrub and a little nookie after a hard day of work? Thus is born The Worst Wife.