Monthly Archives: April 2009

grunt translation #1: laundry

I’m not so sure what’s hard about doing the laundry. I’m not talking about the folding part, that’s a royal pain. But the actual cleaning of the clothes – inserting into the washer, transferring to the dryer, and retrieving from said dryer – is not difficult. Especially if there’s a laundry chute involved. Then there’s no worrying about transferring the smell of baseball on a Saturday morning or sweaty just-from-the-gym feet to the relatively clean clothes you’re wearing.

So, if laundry is not difficult, why do some men have a mental block about doing it (and by some men I mean the one with whom I live)? These days Big D is hanging out at home with miss poopypants and little d full time while I bring home the hopefully non-swine flu-infested bacon. The offers to do laundry abound, but the follow-through is less than stellar. My repertoire has ranged from nagging to cajoling to bribing to offering sexual favors, and at most I’ll get a load or two if I’m lucky. Piles, nay, mountains, of clean laundry have lived in my living room for 2-3 weeks until I got fed up with digging for little d’s socks for fifteen minutes.

This morning, while I was explaining that I had to put on crusty, damp, kinda funky pants that had been laying on the bathroom floor (waiting patiently to get thrown down the chute) to take little d to the bus stop because all of my other pants were dirty (waiting patiently downstairs to get thrown into the wash), I realized that Big D doesn’t really care. He has probably a month’s worth of boxers and undershirts before he gets worried. I, on the other hand, have been a bit more frugal with my clothing choices and only have at most two weeks’ worth of reliable clothes that fit me before I need to do the wash. Of course I’m going to get frustrated before he will, he has a bigger supply and, frankly, lower demand. The houseladies on the playground don’t know that he’s worn the same shorts three days in a row.

So, because laundry really *isn’t* that difficult, I continue to chip away at the laundry mountain when I take a break on the days I work from home. And secretly plot to hide the clean boxers and feign ignorance when he’s running low. Baby, I love you, but if you can tell me what you think I want to hear and never follow through because you know I’ll just get annoyed and do it myself, I can be the queen of passive-aggressiveness. Sorry, but I need clean underwear to go to work tomorrow.


I had absolutely nothing to do with it…

…but I’m so glad the previous owners of our house loved spring flowers.


these are the people in my neighborhood

I think I’ve entered a time warp. Think Ozzie and Harriet meets Norman Rockwell. That’s the street on which I live.

Granted, I lived two blocks away for over two years and never realized what was literally right around the bend. Cross the last street before it heads up into the park, curve around the the left, and you’ve entered a different dimension where neighbors actually care about each other, get to know one another, and have weekly block parties in the summer. Is this really 2009 in the city?

We attended our first neighborhood-wide surprise birthday party last night and got to know more of the people in the neighborhood. It was little d’s first exposure to the kids in the neighborhood (since we moved in November and everybody hibernates until spring) and 30 minutes in he was good-naturedly wrestling and dogpiling on the other boys. Miss poopypants charmed the socks off of everyone, and Big D and I were amazed that generosity and kindness among neighbors still exists.

I’m never moving.

good lord, it’s been a while.

I committed (at least in my own head) to posting on this site a few days a week. And it’s been almost a month since I last posted. Slacker!

We really need to get the internet up and running on more than one computer. Sharing Firefox with someone who does online gaming means I’m lucky I get five minutes without Big D breathing down my neck. And it’s not the sexy, hey baby kind of breathing either. I do need to give him credit, though – last night he asked me if he could get on for a second and actually waited until I said I was done to assume his default position back in front of the screen. I was very impressed. It’s not easy to wean yourself off an addiction.

Which is what I’m starting to see the four-buck drinks as (notice I changed the title of this blog? Hot chocolate has not entered my mind in weeks… but other warm, expensive drinks have), an addiction. To the idea of treating myself, of deserving a break from the craziness and stress that is my life. It’s not a bad life, but I’m still recovering from the mind-fuck that was 2008. I find myself, on a daily basis, figuring out when I can walk down the block or drive down the street to grab some warm liquid goodness. It really is starting to feel like I have an addiction to coffee porn.

But isn’t that what we all see? It’s ubiquitous. Every celebrity has a cup in hand and maybe subconsiously I want to be like Britney Spears. It’s not that expensive, I can enjoy the little treat, and it’s certainly less expensive than the designer handbag or Mercedes without car seats. Now that I’m trying to be good about our family budget – thanks to a layoff, plans for grad school that are on hold, and my unexpected status as the sole breadwinner, at least temporarily – I’m arguing with myself over whether or not I really need that extra jolt of caffeine. Sure, Britney Spears is famous and drinks a lot of coffee in front of cameras, but she also shaved her head, bared her lady parts to the world, and lost custody of her kids. None of those are remotely appealing to me. So I’ll keep fighting the urge to take five minutes away from work and blow four bucks. I’ve already saved over $400.