I’ve just spent five minutes yelling at my husband.
It didn’t really start out that way. Of course, it never is supposed to end up that way. On my drive home from school, through rain that is supposed to turn into sleet which will then turn into forty two inches of snow, I thought about how I’m struggling with this life concept of being a writer and how some close friends have mentioned that I might be afraid of success (or whatever fruity new age psychobabble is on Dr. Phil this week) or how I think I just might be lazy. And I came up with a plan which involved getting Computer Room #2 finished, complete with a floor, and then setting up a desk, and demanding that Esteban either fix my printer or I will just buy myself a new one. And then I will go to the warehouse store and buy five hundred manila envelopes (preferably self-stick because I loathe licking envelope glue ever since I found out that it wasn’t vegan. Not that I’m vegan or even vegetarian, for that matter, but for some reason, knowing that the envelope stickum is, you know, meaty really bothers me.) and then print out a million labels containing my address and the address of no fewer than fifty carefully researched short story markets. And then I’d start sending out submissions, like a mail order business. And I’d have a bunch of postage all there and waiting. And maybe I’d get a postage scale. Yeah! I’d get a postage scale and presumably also learn how to use said postage scale. And it would be a lovely office and then there would be nothing stopping me from being the next Douglas Coupland or Jincy Willett or WHOMEVER.
But then, I decided that the real problem is that sometimes I just don’t have time to write. And when I do have time to write, I’m having guilt or distracted because there are other things I should be doing instead. The real problem is that I’m the wife. I’m the wife. That means that I have to remember which prescriptions need to be filled and I have to know which bills have been paid and which bills need to be paid and I have to call the lawn service to make sure that they aerate the lawn and I have to decide who is getting what for Christmas and send back the RSVPs for wedding invitations and keep the Netflix queue up to date and pick up the dry cleaning and bring in more dry cleaning and take the cat to the groomer (note to self: make appointment with groomer for the cat) and carry around a grocery store savings card and send in the renewal for our auto registrations so that we don’t get pulled by the police and then arrested and have to go to prison. Because that would be my luck, as I am apparently catnip to lesbians but also stinkweed for cops.
So I decided that all of this mental baggage was bogging down my creativity. And isn’t it the way in every artistic relationship in the history of EVER that there is always the Artiste and The Other One? And the Other One pays the cable bill and makes sure that there is clean underwear and that the children don’t run off to become Cirque de Soleil acrobats so that the Artiste can go and do whatever it is that they do? And maybe that’s my problem. I’m the Artiste and also the grease that keeps both my and Esteban’s lives rolling along smoothly. No wonder I do not have a Pulitzer by now! I was too busy fishing one of Esteban’s discarded seltzer bottles from beneath the couch.
Excuse me for a second while I finish climbing up on this cross. Could you hand me that railroad spike and hammer? Thanks.
So I walked into the house, my brain busy with a million and twelve stories and novels that I could write if I didn’t have to be the perfect everything on top of being a writer. And then Esteban, bright and smiley and very supportive, greeted me with a huge smile and questions about how my day went. Then, sensing trouble in my furrowed brow, he asked me what was the matter. And then I said some words. They weren’t supposed to be bad words, but in essence, there was something about passports and how many rolls of toilet paper we had (‘But why would I care how many rolls of toilet paper we have? I’m not the one who uses it all the time.’ ‘That’s my point! I don’t wear your underwear’ ‘I should hope not!’ ‘Arrrgh!’) and there was pointing out the window at the garbage sitting neatly at the curb (courtesy of moi, as Esteban is blissfully unaware of the circle of garbage, much like the circle of life, only without being an annoying Elton John song). And while I wasn’t specifically trying to be an offensive tool, I now realize that in essence I said, ‘I need you to stop sucking, ok?’
Understandably, things escalated. Esteban took offense, I took further offense. Offense was passed back and forth like a hacky sack at a Phish concert. The more I tried to explain my points, the worse it got. At one point, I was actually bent over at the waist as though trying to blow my side of the argument through a large Alpine horn (Ricola!) but it was blocked, perhaps by cheese or some other very dense matter. And honestly, I just want to stop being the only one who cares if we’re going to have a hotel room when we go to England or not. I want to stop being the planner. I want to be the person who just shows up. Then there was an aria of Doest Thou Not Know For What The Need Of Clean Laundry, followed by Esteban’s accusation that the Weetabix Method of House Cleaning does not work (the method being that I do not enjoy spending an entire Saturday cleaning the house for ten hours straight and would rather clean in several shorter spurts throughout the week) and wanted to go back to having the ten hour PineSol Death March each and every weekend. To which we then culminated with a rousing chorus of ‘Fine.’ ‘Fine!’ ‘FINE!’ (which is really the best way to end any argument ever. I like the ying and yang. Is it a passive aggressive acquiescence? Is it the Italian word for ‘finished’? It’s two, two, two dysfunctions in one. Very succinct. I highly recommend it). Then I stomped into the computer room to work on my manuscript and he stomped off into the bedroom to go to bed.
Five minutes later, he wandered into the computer room, wearing only his boxer shorts, and said ‘Make a list of what you don’t want to do anymore and I’ll do it.’
Rule Number One for The Other One: Expect the Artiste to be an unmitigated asshole.
Later, I got over myself and decided to go to bed and apologize for being an ass. I wandered into the bedroom, expecting him to be either asleep or watching CSI on the Tivo, and when I got in there, the television was indeed on.
Martha Stewart was showing Esteban how to make holly leaves and berries out of felt.
I took one look and started laughing.
‘What?’ He said defensively.
‘Martha STEWART? You’re watching Martha STEWART?’ I said through hiccups of laughter.
‘Well’ if I’m going to be all artist-supporting, I’ve got to learn this stuff, right?’
That’s why Esteban’s got his own fan club. Right there.
I’m so very tired. I’ve been seriously screwed in the sleep department for the last two weeks. I actually slept until noon on Sunday, until Esteban woke me up. I rarely sleep past 8 on weekends. He was starting to think something was wrong with me. But I’ve been staying up late, revising my manuscript for grad school applications. I still haven’t heard back from my undergrad advisor about writing recommendations and most of the applications are due on Monday. I’m just going to have to send them in and hope that she’ll get them done and faxed this weekend. I can’t think of anything else to do. But hopefully by this weekend, I’ll be able to get some sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And put up the Christmas tree and lights and write cards and wrap presents and drink Tom & Jerry’s until I start doing my Marilyn Monroe impression for Esteban. Something about hot brandy nog drinks always make me want to live in the 50’s and wear red lipstick and bullet bras and shag with wild Cold War abandon. But maybe that’s just me.
I told the notify list about going to the Bad Bar this weekend, and I owe some pictures and stuff, but honestly, I think my ass has been officially kicked by the month of December. So I only have the attention span to go bloggy for the rest of this entry. Yeah. There it is then.
If there is one thing I have learned from doing this online diary, it is that collectively, you guys are the smartest people in all the world. Honestly, I suspect that between all of you, you possess the majority of human knowledge. I mean, I totally expect that if I talk about the guy who played Beakman on Beakman’s World (excellent Saturday morning viewing material when you’re twenty one and have been out drinking too much the night before), then someone will either leave a comment or send me an email explaining that they went to college with Beakman or that they themselves are, indeed, Beakman.
And I was thinking of that and just in awe of the mighty power that you all possess. And all of the incredible things we could accomplish as a team. We could be superheros of intellect. I mean, I’ve got the Xanadu trivia aspect totally covered’ maybe someone else can have that whole astrophysics thing. And we could fight crime! Or take over the world!
And for our first mission’
Ok, I couldn’t think of anything really important or cool, but maybe you can help me look pretty. (Typical!) You see, there’s this special color of Lanc’me eye shadow that I love. It’s the shade that the makeup lady used on me for my wedding day. It’s the shade I was wearing at Journalcon that made Trance Jen say that my eyes were freakishly blue. It looks like vomit in the little square but it literally cranks my peepers up to 11. And the Lanc’me fuckers, who think they are so smart with their little divot over the O in Lanc’me’ they discontinued it.
So, does anyone know where I can find it? I believe it’s called Bamboo or Bambou, and it is the kind where you have to buy two little squares to fit into one little compact.
I have hope. I really do. The Body Shop brought back my favorite lipstick shade ‘Clover’, so anything is possible. And really, what’s the spirit of Christmas if you don’t believe in magic? Ok, I’m reaching.
(Edited to add: Ok, John in Texas found me one on Ebay about three minutes after I posted this entry. I’d been watching Ebay for months and nothing… nothing. But then, bam! I was right! With you guys, anything is possible! Now to think of ways to take over the world….)
Speaking of how addicted to beauty products I am, wanna know the funniest thing ever? Everyone’s calling The Soap ‘The Soap’. Also, there’s lots of Soap porn over on Math Plus One’s Looking Good thread. Apparently, the proof that The Soap is the work of The Satan is that it brings out your least desirable traits. In fact, I might point out now that you shouldn’t buy The Soap. Being pretty isn’t worth $37, y’all. Spend that money on caramel macchiatos instead. Yes. Yes! Don’t buy the precious Soap. Leave it for those of us who are obviously foolish spendthrifts and yet have an inexplicable glow about us.
Mimi’s latest entry made me laugh and laugh and laugh. Towels with bodily fluid’ rife with comedy.
Voicemail from late Saturday night: ‘You know, I try and I try but I can never find a drunk sausage.’
Heee!
