• News from the front

    Having lived in a housework deficit for three, germ infested, weeks; Cheryl was as eager as an alcoholic in a liquor store. (I am convinced her need for clean is a symptom of an addictive personality, but don’t tell her I said that.)

    “John, would you like to do some mopping this morning?”

    Good thing I wasn’t eating at the time, I might have needed medical attention. Although I was itching to once again prove the age old axiom, “there may be no such thing as a stupid question, but there’s a shit load of stupid answers,” I picked up the mop and did my husbandly duty without further comment.

    Little does she know I’m thinking three moves ahead. I’m banking on this token effort getting me out of one more week of yard work. Keep you fingers crossed,

  • Being sick and all that entails

    The Kauffman Household, version 2.2.1, has all the appeal of an isolation ward. It’s enough to put a smile on all those kids that made fun of me in grammar school. Yes, there’s been a real run on items such as Kleenex and cough drops. It all started with Beth, yes, Beth. Beth spends six or so hours, five days a week at the germ bank, known in some circles as “the public education system.” This month, the most important thing Beth has learned in school is the difference between a good antihistamine and a decongestant. Although Adam gets out about as much as Howard Hughes, he got sick next. Naturally, since they were the first to get sick they had it the easiest, there were a couple of healthy people to take care of them. Now it has spread to the rest of us, and they’re just peachy. Pity my poor wife, the last of our kind to fall ill.

    I was discussing her prospects for tomorrow (five days ago, when I had little inclination to write), and she was rather coy about her work prospects. She said she was sick and didn’t want to work, but she wouldn’t commit. Who would have thought my wife would have a fear of commitment? Perhaps her prior experiences didn’t work out so well? Making matters worse for the ole “D.C.”: our primary baby sitter was in isolation as well. So I asked, “Cheryl, why don’t we just call your mother now and see if she is too sick to watch Adam?” She replies, “Nah, if she calls me tomorrow morning I’ll just stay home.” “Yeah, but you’ll have gotten up early for nothing.” “Like Adam is going to sleep in?” “Well, maybe not; but, you’ll have gotten out of bed, showered and dressed for nothing.”

    For that split second, it was as if I hadn’t lived with this woman for the last ten years. I’m happy as a clam in a two-day-old pair of PJs, and with skin preserved in it’s own natural oils, like an ocean living mammal. Cheryl? Not so much.

  • AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

    Have you ever wanted to let out a cathartic scream, but didn’t? Futility over comes you instead, and you do nothing – hopelessly wallowing in the absurdity of the moment.

    A phrase comes to mind, “if it’s not one thing it’s,”

    One minute Cheryl is guilting me into riding my bike to work. She’s browbeating her parents into accepting my exercising needs. The next moment she’s asking me to drive to work so Beth will have enough time to finish her homework. Between my chronically sore ankle (IT’S BACK!), my wife being sent all over creation to cover for other supervisors in her department, and all of these crap homework assignments,

    In theory, I could do something about my ankle. I could take a turn on the wheel of medical fortune and see where it stops. I could do something about Beth’s homework situation. I could raise a stink with the school. I could find someone with a single syllable name that specializes in “talking to people.” I could help Cheryl with her work issues. I could run for public office, cash in on my charm, work my way up the rungs of political power, and parlay that power into a cushy job for my wife. Or, I could ice down my ankle, drive to work tomorrow, and try to help Beth get that assignment done tomorrow.

    And what about that assignment? It’s the “winter journal.” Second graders in Florida are asked to write about their favorite aspects of snow, their favorite winter activities, Am I the only one that finds this funny? Your average Florida second grader knows about as much about snow as I know about biochemistry. Winter activities in Florida? How are they different from summer activities in Florida? This isn’t a journal so much as a creative writing exercise. Or better yet, it’s an exercise in embellishing the truth, making things up, LYING.

    O.k., so it’s not that bad. I’m allowed to vent, aren’t’ I?

    Twice this week I’ve packed up my bike, expecting to ride to work, only to dress for work from my packed bags at home and hop in the car. It’s not the 2004 elections, but it’s still disappointing. Woe is me.

    “Mom, why is Ms (censored) giving me so much to do? I work in the morning, I work at night, I never get to watch TV. I feel like a homework slave.” Imagine it was your daughter, and she said this to you. Imagine you felt it wasn’t too far from the truth. How would you respond?