Jon says he loves my rants. Let's see about fixing that.

I'm sitting in front of the glowing screen thinking--The chocolate levels on Candy Crush Soda Saga make me nervous.
This made me acutely aware of the fact that for someone who is 'always so busy' I really should get a life. I mean, I do have a life. And kids. And stuff. Even if much of that involves very little exertion other than the occasional forced cuddling of a cat that sort of tolerates my existence.
All four of the kids are now in school. Even though I'm on some heavy duty immunosuppressive meds that make being in public a bad idea, I still feel like my life is missing something.
I could go to the gym. In yoga pants and then go drink coffee like other moms.
I could take up day drinking later in the day, but that's not my brand of self destruction. I prefer mine deep fried or chocolate covered. That could work. I could define myself as a slightly disgruntled housewife minus the bonbons and soap operas. I'm pretty sure that's what most people envision my days involve.
What the hell is a bonbon anyway? Is it like a truffle? I like truffles. I could power walk the mall with the elderly and then stop at the Godiva store for my free club treat. But those two things seem to work against each other. Plus, I'm sure it's hard to break into that type of fast moving social circle.
I really don't think I want to go back to school. Too many choices. Everyone would be half my age. I'd have to admit that I still put 2 spaces after a period like I learned in typing class. Like on a typewriter. Before the internet. Ugh. So maybe I am too old for all that. I'm not old old. I have some grays. I really don't think stressing myself out would contribute to a more youthful appearance. It would just mean crows feet and that 'I hate life' aura. No, it's probably best I lie expressionless with as little motion as possible to preserve my skin from the forces of evil (i.e. gravity).
I'll just break up the chocolate eating with an effort to blog more than once every 18 months. Then I can say: I blog. About what? Parenting, cooking, and how to make more 'me' time. It's gonna be a kick ass lifestyle blog. You know, where I discuss savings (how to get free chocolate) and (potential) exercise.  And aging gracefully. 

Why Jon is No Longer a Tool

So today I changed the name of my blog from "Why Jon is a Tool" to something else. While tools are, in fact, quite useful. Indispensable even. The truth remains that the world should revolve more around me and less around pointing out Jon's foolhardy behavior.
You're welcome.
I have a lot of opinions and plenty of thoughts to share. But no one who wants to actually hear them unless I'm paying for lunch. In this format, I can literally talk to myself. My awesome self. Heeeey there, Sweetness!

A Very Private Conversation

You may not be aware of it, but romance is not where Jon excels. Usually. I know this may come as a shock to both of the strangers who may unfortunately view this blog post some day.

But, alas, today is a day of extraordinary circumstances and I'd like to put the words out there to forever exist in cyber space.

Today, after 12 looooong years together, I got my very first love letter.
Well, love message.
Via instant messenger.
Whatever, it's still as good as it's gonna get. So this romantic outpouring must be celebrated to encourage further sweet, tender, sexy exchanges in the future. As I have learned, men are but ginormous toddlers when it comes to behavior (or matters of the heart).

So prepare to be blown away by the heart wrenching words typed unto thee. Oozing with such passion that he couldn't even take the time to press the shift key and capitalize the letter i. No, when your heart leads the way, there is no time for punctuation.

And I quote:

i miss you

i want to lay down next to you and snore in your ear

Now that I've recovered from the swoon that engulfed me. Be jealous. Be very jealous. Because this is a man in love. A man who knows what he wants. And he means those words. Oh yes, he does.

Sure, chances are he's just trying to encourage me to stay home so I can answer the door when FedEx delivers his phone that's been broken for 4 months. But, whatever, I got what I've always craved from my marriage--the whisper of sweet nothings emanating at unbelievably high decibels from within the cockles of his misshapen sinuses.

My kid is really smart

All parents think their kids do highly intelligent things as babies. Let's be honest, we don't really care what someone else's baby is doing. I don't really trust the judgement of a child who still soils them self regularly.

But, in this case, my kid is actually smart. 

I noticed a few days ago that Noel (3.5 years old now) would be singing to himself. The song at the time caught my attention since it involved zombies. Thanks to Jon, all the children have had a wonderful introduction to violent, annoying or otherwise age inappropriate video games. But, whatever gets me an occasional nap is something that I turn a blind eye to.

I listen to his lyrics that go something along the lines of "Dear Mr. Zombie, I am not meat so don't eat me". 

Which is sort of cute, in a disturbing way, of course. 

Tonight at bed time, I heard him sing a similar song, but attached a new verse to Mr. Zombie, I am not meat, don't eat me. He adds, "I'm not a bad guy, but Justin Bieber is".

So in his imaginary world where zombies do exist and have the power to listen and rationalize--he gave them a polite plea for amnesty  and a hearty alternative meal. Well, maybe not a ginormous meal, but certainly more filling than a cuter than cute 3 year old of above average intelligence. 

This parenting gig was already exhausting

Let's start with today's events before traveling back in time to where my memories are fading and overly embellished (we'll call that January).
After spending 5 hours dropping off kids at school and entertaining the other 2 with several stops at playgrounds, I ran into the house dashing to the bathroom. More importantly, I noticed the rampant clutter that plagues every corner, wall, crevice of my home. I'm in recovery from my shophoardaholic days, so don't dwell on that. Anyway, before the toddlers had time to scream for milk, toys, or TV I ran into the kitchen to clear the cereal bowls from breakfast.
I'll stop here and mention that I do actually cook breakfast from time to time, but a new box of Honey Nut Cheerios had entered the house and it's convenient to just pour milk. Quit judging. The Coco Puffs are gone.
I grab two bowls and dump the leftover milk and cereal into the garbage. Wait! Stop. Seriously. Just...well sh*t.
That's a laundry basket, not the garbage can.
There went my cute new flats. Roll of paper towels. Time I could have spent surfing Facebook. Mopped floor. Buh bye efficient and sane mother.
Now fade back to the beginning of the year. The picture is a little fuzzy, but still you can see the picture. Genius (that's Jon) decided he needed a different position. What does this entail? Well, longer hours. No pay raise because it's a lateral move. More physical work. More responsibility. Go back to the no pay raise part. Yeah, there it is ^^^.
So that's my life. Smile and be supportive as the husband takes on 2 or 3 hours longer away from home to work harder. By choice. I know he's happier, so I'm happy in that aspect. But, I'm friggin exhausted.
Exhausted enough to pour milk and cereal into my laundry basket.

Now he wants a tool

Who can blame him? I think men are just drawn to tools. It speaks to their inner cave dude. Now my husband, with the uncalloused hands, wants a multi tool. You know what they are. It's a fancier version of the swiss army knife that we used to carry on a keychain prior to 9/11.
This wouldn't be an issue for the average husband and father that performs simple household repairs or tinkers with things in his spare time.
I love him, but Jon just doesn't exert that type of effort. It took 5 months of sliding off the toilet bowl to realize pushing the pin back into place would fix it. He avoids showering because the plunger on the faucet sticks. I have to make the big effort to find a canister of Pam to fix that problem.
Yesterday there was the case of the missing lid to the gallon of milk. The poor man couldn't be bothered to bend over and look at the floor. Right there, in front of his toes. It sat, pink and plasticy. He just declared it missing and the milk was left open in the refrigerator.
Now we've discussed this multi tool issue for well over a week. By 'discussed' I mean debated. Loudly. Repeatedly. He got that gleam in his eye while browsing electronics in the local Target store. He found it, the perfect tool with interchangeable screw driver bits. It would secure his spot of manliness within the group of IT nerds at work. I'm guessing there's some equipment one upmanship that's related to issues of penis envy...but that's a psychological discussion for another day and time.
I saw that acceptable multi tools start at $75. A good one is double that. Not a small fortune in the grand scheme of things, but we've recently drained our savings on far too much convenience food and video games. There's also that issue of clothing and diapering 4 small children.
But now back to the multi tool. What is a man who can rarely manage to operate the lock on a door knob going to do with several sharp tools used for severing woodland animals and electrical wires? I cannot ask that question without hearing a lot of whining, defensive explanations, and ranting. But I assure you, no inferior $20 post-Christmas clearance tool is going to perform the burly tasks he has in mind. No no no, this tool must have 238 functions and accessories. Lots of accessories.
At some point I will cave in and get him the 'tool of his dreams'. I'm sure he'll make a fine effort for a day or 2 at justifying his need for the multipurpose purchase.
He may even make the effort to use the hunting blade to butter his own toast or shave some curls off a bar of chocolate. It certain won't be used for hunting since my sweetie is sort of allergic to the outdoors.

Laundry

I decided long ago that I was no longer going to do the laundry. I have arthritis. It's severe and I'm heavily medicated for it. I also try my best to keep up with 4 kids. Then there's also the irrational fear of our garage. Yes, those are my best excuses. Quit judging.
I bought Jon a new front loader with fancy buttons that makes all sorts of musical sounds and a neato glowing display. Two weeks later, the novelty wore off and some of the clothing items haven't moved from the garage floor in ohhh, a year now.
So now he's decided to go on laundry strike.
So we've fallen into a new era of laziness. At first, our 7 year old was enthused to help out. That didn't last long. I know that comes as a surprise. He's willing to do it, but why should I pressure a kid to make dirty drawers his chore.
Here we are. We've resorted to throwing it all into a bag or 2 each week and we're now paying some creepy woman to do our wash for us. Sure, now I'm itchy all the time, but the alternative would be no clean clothes. And so, a sarcastically half hearted "thanks honey" for giving up on most of the essential household tasks.