That's My Bix!

Mood: slightly chirpy

Song stuck in my head right now: Do Right Woman/Do Right Man… Sarah Vaughn

Wearing: white pants (only 1 1/2 week short of Memorial Day), light pink shirt, white t-back undies, athletic shoes with white socks

Two days ago, Esteban and I had Dirty Dishes Fight #2601. We have this agreement… see, he does the dishes and I do the laundry and we split everything else. Then we realized that housework wasn’t so cut and dried, so it turned into: he does the dishes and the cat box, I do the laundry and the toilet, and we split everything else. Ok, so what ended up happening was that I would constantly be doing laundry on my own time. He would let the dishes pile up. When it came to Cleaning Day, he would start on the dishes and I would clean everything else. He feels this is fair, somehow. In actual hours, it is not. But I’m beyond this point now. I’ve simply come to accept the fact that the unspoken agreement is now: he does dishes (rarely), cleans the catbox, and takes care of the lawn/snowy driveway, and I do everything else. Everything else. Shopping, groceries, bill paying, toilet scrubbing, vaccumming, dusting, picking up, taking out the garbage, laundry, dry cleaning, sweeping, scrubbing, bending, kissing ass, you name it, I do it.

This is not the issue, however.

Apparently, Esteban feels this system is too taxing on him. He is, after all, mowing the lawn one hour a week and thus does not have time to do the dishes but once every two months. Yes, people, he hasn’t done the dishes in two months. No, I’m lying. Before he left for Vegas, he washed fifteen minutes worth of dishes and then we had to leave and he actually pitifully said “But… what about the dishes?” and that absolved him of dish duty. Because he had a plane to catch but at least he was sorry about it, right?

Tuesday night I came home from work. His butt was parked in the LazyBoy, cat on his lap. He had spent the day helping a friend with his computer. He was too busy to do the dishes, which hadn’t been done fully since Easter (when I did them). I know this because my mother’s pan is still there, dirty, along with the pitcher I made the mimosas in.

Correct me if I’m wrong but I think I’ve been very tolerant thus far. Months, people. It’s been months. I have said nothing.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked about the dishes. He said he didn’t care, don’t ask him about it. Fight ensued. He gave me an ultimatum. I said “It’s my house too.” He didn’t care. Bad words were said. He said that this same fight has been played over and over, which is true, and he didn’t want to have it any more. I said, “Fine, don’t talk to me about it then, because ‘Buffy’ is about to come on and I don’t want you to talk to me during it.” And he went out to cut the grass and I made and ate dinner (did I mention that I do all the cooking too?).

He was very good about not talking to me during Buffy. He sucked up afterwards. I went to work on my computer.

He asked if I wanted to go for a drive (no).

He asked if I would like to go with him to get an ice cream cone (no).

He asked if I wanted a blanket or a glass of water (no).

He then said “I’m going to the gas station to pick up some cigarettes… do you want anything.” And I said, “Ok, I’d like a rootbeer float from A&W” which is in a gas station near us.

He faltered,”I wasn’t going to THAT gas station.”

I looked at him, “Oh, then nevermind.”

He leaves and comes back with my rootbeer float. I thank him. I drink most of it and then go to bed.

He must have relaxed because then he comes in and wakes me up. “Do you have money in your check book I can borrow?”

Me, half awake, “Um… yeah.”

“I need $300 for my Visa bill.”

He makes twice the money that I do. He just got the tax return back and it was deposited in his check book. He, to my knowledge, doesn’t actually spend any of his money on anything (especially since the groceries, gas, etc, comes from my check book).

So I yelled at him for waking me up to talk about money and bills.

Now, maybe I’m a harpie bitch here. It could be, I’m not denying that I’m pretty harsh and cold when I’m upset with people.

So the next morning, I called him from work and asked him to get a new toilet seat to replace the one he broke. He pouts, “You didn’t wake me up this morning before you left! You’re my alarm clock.”

Oh well.

I know. Harsh.

So he brings me some roses at work, which was nice, but I knew that when I got home the dishes STILL WOULDN’T BE DONE! All the flowers were were a “GET OUT OF PISSED OFF WENDY FREE CARD” for the dishes. Like, how could I be made about the rotting smelly heap of dirty crud in the sink and on the counter if he gives me some pretty coral-colored roses?

I really resent the gender-role stereotypes that have developed. Him balking only at doing the “female role” of dish washer. Oooh, the little woman is pissed, so send her flowers. Eeeesh.

Tonight. If they are not done tonight, the loud sound you hear coming from my house will be the SMACK being laid down.

Like I said. Harsh.

On a lighter note (a more than you really wanted to know type thing): I’m test-driving the new thongy panties today. I realized as I was walking into work that as I walk, I must be able to feel “normal” underwear on my butt cheeks. This makes sense as you think about it, because what really is your butt other than the tops of each of your legs, which must move as you walk. So now, the cheeks are unencumbered and instead I have this little strap of material down the center, pulled tight by elastic. It is very strange. My other thongs have been elastic little straps… this is more of a “sport thong” built for comfort, I guess. Ah, technology.

Still haven’t golfed yet. Maybe I will go to the range after work. Cari and I went to lunch today and made tentative plans to golf on Sunday, so I need to swing some practice strokes before then. Woohoo! I can stop whining about not golfing.

I have the urge to rip out every shred of carpet in our house. Maybe not.

Mood: slightly uncomfortable and chilled

Wearing: black pants, black flats, no socks, lavender 3/4 sleeve tee-shirt.

Listening to: The Commitments soundtrack #2

I think my cat Chelsea is going downhill.

She is 18 years old. She’s on two different medications. I caught her peeing on the living room rug last week, so I hauled her to the vet. They couldn’t take a urine sample (because she’d just pee’d on my rug, duh) but they gave me a bunch of antibiotics. But that wasn’t the disturbing part. She’s down to 6 1/2 pounds now. That means that she has lost half of her weight… she used to be 12 pounds. That gives me a queasy feeling, knowing that, thinking about that. It’s like she’s concentration camp kitty and there’s no reason for it.

So all week, I’ve been shoving antibiotics down her throat and feeding her her favorite canned food instead of her normal dry, trying to coax her to eat a bit more. Esteban’s back from Vegas, so I made him take her to the vet yesterday. I didn’t ask what she weighed, but they were unable to take a urine sample again. They got home and Esteban caught her trying to pee in his office. He changed the box again.

This morning, I gave her her food and shut the door so she could eat it without Tilly chowing it up. She was trapped away from the litter box about 15 minutes… it normally takes her about 10 minutes or so to eat.

When I opened the door that separates the kitchen from the dining room again, she was away from the food dish. I went into the living room and she was standing in the same spot I had caught her in last Saturday, about to pee again. Now, I know that I had kept her away from the box, but there is no reason that she should have not been able to “hold it” for 15 minutes. I have a feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered if the door had been open or not, because she’s pee’d there other times when the box was accessible.

I scooped her up and tried to put her in her box, but she stepped right back out. Then I picked her up again and gave her the medicine and her pills. I put her down and then she went into the box and used it.

This brings up tons of weird feelings. When Pookie died, it was hard and painful. I felt numb and I just didn’t want to think about him. But now, with Chelsea, we’ve been having the feeling that she’s been getting senile. She walks very stifly and she really doesn’t like to go down the stairs to the basement (which is why the litter box is in the dining room for her). She will not jump more than three feet. She’s meowing all the time.

I think it’s time.

This really brings up horrible reminders of when my great-grandmother had alzheimer’s disease and then had her stroke. I wasn’t involved in the decision to pull the life support system. The decision had been made by the time that I found out. She was already declining when I got to the hospital, wheels turning toward the inevitable conclusion. All in all, it was for the best, everyone kept telling themselves this. However, it seemed not right to me. If we would have fed her, she would have lived. She basically dehydrated and starved to death, her skin loosening and falling away from her face toward the earth. It was almost possible to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do, but then disturbing things would happen… she would grip my hand with her hot velvet paw and cling to this world. Together, we’d sit in that room, absent of beeping life support machines, and I’d turn the television to shows I’d think she’d enjoy… John Wayne, the Waltons. She died during Lawrence Welk. It was on in an empty room.

Even when Pookie had to be put to sleep, it was bad. We weren’t expecting it. His kidney’s had failed and Esteban made me make the decision because he “couldn’t do it”. I was racked by guilt over this for three years afterward. Should I have tried harder? Should we have done dialysis for him? Would he have recovered? Was I being driven by monetary concerns or my compassion for him?

So anyway, this “it’s for the best” attitude is falling flat. In my logical brain, I know that my great-grandmother had specified that she did NOT want to be a vegetable on a bed, being supported by machines. She was terrified by the thought of not being able to feed herself. But I wonder if she wanted to go? I can’t help but think that when you are actually IN the bed, actually feeling yourself slip away, that you’d want anything ANYONE to fight for you, to fight to bring you back. I think that I failed them both.

And now Chelsea. If I have her put down because she’s peeing on my rugs, won’t it just be because I don’t want a smelly rug? Or is this peeing a behavior caused by dysfunctioning and failing senses?

And the worst part of this is that I know already that I can’t rely on Esteban making the decision. It will go on and on and on because he will never bring himself to suggest that we put her down.

I hate being the adult.

Wearing: taupe striped 3/4 sleeve length shirt, black pants, black flats.

Mood: ansty

My new favorite water in the world is Dasani. It bothers me that I have become such a product of overcommericalization that I actually believe that there is a difference between brands of bottled WATER, but there is. Dasani is bottled by Coca-Cola. Besides providing a hefty percentage of my annual salary, Coca-Cola is probably responsible for much evil in the world. I have a feeling that somewhere in the Bible Code is a phrase that states “And the beast shall reveal itself and it will deliver addictive diet sodas in curvy earth-destroying plastic containers. And it will be good.” I don’t care. I’m Coca-Cola’s bitch and they know it.

The weather is beautiful today and I’m on super-human speed. I’m walking fast, I’m driving fast, I’m typing fast.

Esteban comes home from Las Vegas today and I’m going to be an uber-callous wench and NOT pick him up from the airport. Sorry. Don’t feel like it. Heartless, I know, but he’s fine with it. I must go to Appleton and pick up a book for my mother for Mother’s Day and also shop for HIS mother, also for Mother’s Day. I purchased the cards last night, and it occurs to me that I did not buy one for HIS grandma, although I bought one for my own grandma. Feh. Don’t yet know what I will purchase for Esteban’s mom, maybe a gift certificate for Christopher Banks. Anyhoo, that’s my plans for tonight, unless I get sidetracked by my pc once I stop at home.

If I were a superhero, I would be Jeopardy Girl. Purveyor of all inane knowledge, facts and trivia. Able to track down supercriminals with the use of the internet. My big superhero weakness would be resisting conversations that start with “what was England like?”. I think my superhero garb would be a school girl blue/green plaid skirt, white button down shirt, and tortoise-shell glasses. And pigtails and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes. And a cape. Maybe a bunch of schoolbooks held together with a leather strap, for pummeling my enemies with.

This morning, as I lay in bed trying to avoid waking up, I watched one of the spindly spiders from the basement idle its way across the ceiling. Ick.