Tuesday, December 6, 2011


I'm a list maker.  I love to have a list of shit I need to get done, and feel the absurd satisfaction of crossing tasks off it.  I get a lot of heat for being a list maker. The Sperm Donor doesn't make lists - thinks it's silly, maybe, I dunno.  Of course, he doesn't remember shit, so it doesn't necessarily prove his case, now, does it?

I was thinking about lists on my way to work this morning. I'm up to my neck in projects at work, really starting to feel overwhelmed, and wondering why I wasn't making To Do lists. Probably because I can't keep up with one in that environment - it's too dynamic.  Walk into one meeting to report something done, walk out with three things to add.

I think that lists in my personal life have become validation. I can so easily be sucked into the morass of resentment that develops when I work around the house while the SD sits on his ass and plays on his computer, or watches TV. Somehow, his inactivity, his lack of participation, makes me feel like I'm not making headway.  So I itemize. I update my Facebook status with my list of accomplishments.  I'm not looking for a pat on the head from my friends; no, it's more a case of being able to see, right there in that list, that YES, I DID get an assload of stuff done today and I have every right to be proud of it.

Now.  Where the hell is that list?

Friday, November 18, 2011

Sleep over

The Sperm Donor went out last night, apparently for a little "adult entertainment". Rolled in about 11:30 this morning and spent the afternoon napping on the couch. He's lucky I was feeling merciful, or I'd have been vacuuming around the couch just to be mean.

Hope to hell he at least got laid...

He did look a little silly getting out of his car with his pillow and sleeping bag. Who knew they did sleep-overs at his age?

Are you done ... talking ... yet?

Dear SD,

I'm so happy that you're going to an all-inclusive resort with your buddy for a week. I don't even mind that your airfare to Mexico is on my credit card or that you need another $650 for "fun".

In appreciation for my tolerance and largesse, could you please just Shut The Fuck Up about golf and scuba diving between now and the time you leave this winter?



Where's my cape?

Dear Sperm Donor,

If I'm supposed to be sympathetic to your lack of motivation to go to the gym, think again.

I was up and showered, with laundry sorted and started before you picked your head out of the pillows. I was out of the house to get winter clothes for the spawn and to restock the fridge before you finished your first cuppa Joe.

I shopped for, transported, unloaded and put away $260 worth of groceries while you managed to go get your haircut.

Before you got home, I had started more laundry, cleaned the spoiled food out of the basement freezer and made a shopping list for the wholesale club.

Do I *look* stupid to you?

Dear Captain AssClown,

When you ask me why I do something for my job a certain way - in this case, work from printed drawings rather than electronic files - and then roll your eyes at my answer, it doesn't matter that your mouth SAYS you don't think I'm stupid, because your facial expressions and body language overrule it.

For the record, I'd LOVE to see you try to compare two disparate sets of floor plans - one C sized and the other D sized - on a 17" laptop screen without wanting to stab kittens. Knock yourself out, Sparky, I've got a cocktail and a comfy chair for the show.

In the mean time, kiss my shiny, fat, white ass. This is why you never get laid...at least, not by me.



Well, look at that...

...the weekend is gone and the sperm donor managed to contribute nothing at all to the smooth running of our household. Not an emptied dishwasher, not a vacuumed floor, not a good god-damned thing.

What he DID manage to do was fritter away Saturday morning doing gods-know-what (probably sudoku) on his laptop, then spend the next seven hours helping someone ELSE with stuff around THEIR house. And I can't even be well and truly pissed at him for Sunday, because he spent the entire day doing things for my elderly parents. Well, I can be pissed that he felt compelled to re-mow the lawn that my brother mowed after work on Tuesday, because there's no fucking way the lawn needed it already.

There have also been what I refer to as "boating noises".  I haven't mentioned this before, but SD is completely obsessed with boating all summer long. It's not like his boat is anything to inspire envy in the neighbors...or anyone, for that matter. But it's his, and it's paid for, and it's cheap to run and it's something of his dad's that he loves.  The downside to the whole boat issue is that he would happily spend every nice summer weekend day on it, at the expense of those chores that keep a family/household running smoothly.

Stay out of my liquor

Dear AssHat SpermDonor,

Do not come home, sit down to the meal I cooked, and proceed to complain about my flavored vodka that you got into last night. YOU finished off your vodka, NO ONE invited you to partake of mine. And if I'm supposed to feel sorry for you that you had to resort to Uncle Jose? Yeah, that ain't gonna happen. Now STFU so I can Facebook with my MWDAS bitches.


Saturday, June 4, 2011

The Happiest Place on Earth?

No wait - that's Dizzy Land, right?  We did not do The Mouse - I flatly refuse. It seems like too much the marketing machine to me, trading on impressionable little kids and their unable-to-say-no parents. But I digress...

We took the crotchfruit on vacation for his birthday last month. It was a Production, orchestrated by the Sperm Donor with me dragging along less than willingly. I was sucking it up for the sake of the child, since I don't like crowds, amusement parks, rides...shit like that.  But the spawn was excited, so I put on my happy face and hit the tiki bar by the pool whenever I could.


Dear Sperm Donor,

In case dragging you upstairs to see the fruits of my purging-cleaning-reorganizing labor over the holiday weekend wasn't a hint, I figured telling you dead on that I was DONE with living in a shithole full of clutter would do the trick. To be abso-fucking-lutely sure, I told you that it would be a great idea if you and the crotchfruit cleaned up the room you sleep in that used to be his, and for you to clean up the top of your dresser that you insist live in public space. Because when I'm DONE, I'm DONE - and I might just take it into my head to extend my purging-cleaning-reorganizing energy all over your shit.

Since you spent the holiday weekend partying with your brother-in-law while I busted my hump on the upstairs, I figure my request for one day per weekend dedicated to getting this shithole in order wasn't, well...out of order.  How convenient of you to find a weekend's worth of shit to do at other people's  houses instead. 

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Beware The Unwell

Screw the undead. It's the unwell you need to fear.  Seriously, when I'm sick, I'm either helpless or mean. Sometimes I'm helplessly mean.

I've been sick for over a week. I don't mean a little sniffle or a little congestion; I mean out-of-work-for-a-week, shivering-on-the-sofa-waiting-for-death sick. And that first part? That out-of-work-for-a-week part? That means I was trapped in the house with the increasingly fretful DH (still recovering from his surgery) and the stupendously annoying demon spawn (home for winter break).

My best efforts at recovery were destined for failure from the start.  When I get sick, I cocoon.  I want to hole up in my nest with all the supplies I'll need to ride out the storm of my illness. This was not to be.

Sunday, February 13, 2011


Deety is not a patient person. This could come as a surprise to people who know me IRL, because in some circumstances, I've been known to show extreme patience. But at home, in my personal life...not so much.

DH is recovering from major surgery. This means that he is occupying our main living space nearly 24x7 (barring trips to the shower and short walks outside). The corollary to this is that the television is on nearly 24x7.  Deety hates the television. The television is the bane of my existence. It is my version of nails on a chalkboard; anchovies on a pizza; it is the thing my world could do without.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

One Saturday in July...

<This is not my story - it was shared with me by a member of MWDAS, and I have permission to publish it>
I ran away from home today. Truly, I did, and I am proud of it.  It apparently did the trick, got the message across, worked wonders.

My house was clean for the entire time DH was gone on his business trip. Now, I'm not gonna go so far as to say it was so clean my mother-in-law could've shown up unannounced and I'd've been okay with it. But the first floor clutter was under control, the kitchen didn't look like something from a crack whore's apartment and the floors were clean. Second floor was...tolerable. With DH gone for a week, I had put away the cursed-and-blasted ironing board that he leaves up because he irons every morning, so the loft felt a bit less cluttered and claustrophobic. 

Men and Children

<Caveat: You'll find that the behaviour of men both frustrates and confuses me.>

DH is home today. There were a couple around-the-house things to get done, but I considered it highly likely he wouldn't remember (read: think) to do them, as they'd been discussed over the prior weekend. So today, I sent a little reminder. What I got in return was, I think, typical of most men (and for any males reading this who disagree, note that I use the term "most"...not "all").  It was a complete and detailed listing of all the things he did around the house.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

I am you

I've often been told I should write, or I should blog. I've often thought I should, as well.  What held me back was that most of what I had to say was guaranteed to offend someone: spouse, relative, friend.  I wanted to be able to write honestly without hurting feelings.

A few women I admire (you can find some of their blogs over there -->) and a Very Good Friend inspired me to go ahead and do it. And so here I am.  I don't promise to write every day.  I will probably write when I'm angry, when I'm frustrated or when something strikes me as odd or funny.  I will probably piss you off some of the time. I will write anonymously, because who I am matters much less than the experiences I have, experiences that are probably very similar to yours.

I am not a stay-at-home-mom.  I work full-time and I love what I do.  I often think I was not cut out for parenthood, but I'm told that's not uncommon. I have very strong opinions, and struggle to regulate when and with whom I share them. This will be the place where I don't have to regulate quite so much.

If you choose to come along, welcome. Buckle up. It could be a wild ride.