[Photo: photobucket khunPaulsak]

I know a girl who has a cleaning lady.

A CLEANING LADY.

Think about that.

Now, here’s the part where I say I don’t actually want a cleaning lady.  I mean, they only clean.  They don’t organize or straighten or sort or any of those other things.  I don’t sit on the couch, staring at some shelf that needs dusting.  I sit on the couch and stare at the enormous pile of laundry that needs to be put away or the mountain of dishes that need to be done.

I do not keep my baby in the sink. [Photo: craigboyce.com]

If cleaning ladies did that, I’d think about it.  But come on, once I’ve tackled the big stuff, I’m pretty sure I could wipe down the newly-cleared surfaces.  I say I’m “pretty sure” because I’ve never, like, DONE it.  I just think I probably could.

But it turns out… I kind of have a Cleaning Lady.  Cleaning Husband.  Husband Lady?

Man Among Men!  [Photo: trianglerebath.com]

I was away for a few weeks, and was only minimally threatening about what should be the state of affairs when I returned.  You see, last time I went away, he left the countertops for ME to clean.  “Because you like wiping down countertops!”  There was a brief discussion after that one.

This time?  It was all done.  And. it. was. sparkling.  Be jealous.

So, I’ve been busy.  I mean, not THAT busy, but busy enough that I forget how to do dishes and not burn dinner and sit down and write things.

But now I’m back.  To sum up:

We went on a family vacation.  A cruise, in fact!  That was a big first for me, on all fronts.  “Family vacation” when I was growing up either involved grandparents in the next state or me going to visit relatives on my own.  So… people!  A week!  No cooking!  ALL EATING!  I rather smugly promised myself I wasn’t going to be one of those people who bellied up to the buffet all week, and I didn’t.  Mostly because we didn’t eat at the buffet very often.  Instead, I ordered 3 appetizers, 2 entrees, and at least 1 dessert.  Every night.  No buffet.  Mission smugly accomplished.

Yep.

BUT… I ran every day except for the day we took a pretty long walk.  So I was happy about that.

Another thing about cruising with an infant?  Our bar tab.  Less than $100.  I’ll take that!

I burned everything I tried to cook for the 2 weeks following our return to Normal Life.  And I’ve forgotten how to clean.  It really doesn’t take much time away from these basics to really undo you.

In other news, there was a short-circuiting of husbands in our area.  MORE THAN ONE husband failed to make the coffee recently.  I didn’t really understand this before I was married, but that’s their job.  It just is.  And when you get up to do your first-one-up duties and there’s no coffee, it’s just plain disorienting.

Don’t worry, the situation has been resolved.  We’ll keep you informed of any further reports of husband-coffee-related failings.

Some of you guys have kids, some of you don’t.  I have something in my house that is not a “kid,” per se, but is definitely not NOT a kid.  Still with me?  It’s a wild ride.  So far, I’ve learned a few things…

1.  When baby naps (as if that happens), you should NOT NAP.  Everyone says this is when you should get some sleep, but they are wrong.  You should also not clean things during this time.  Naptime is when you catch up on Facebook.
2.  The weight does not just come off.  It doesn’t.  You have to take it off, pound-by-freaking-pound.  It stinks.  But it also makes you feel a little less out of control of your own destiny, and that’s kind of nice.
3.  Don’t believe what you read… Leggings ARE pants.  They just are.  They have to be.  Come to think of it, I’m not even sure how the whole “let’s put a zipper in these things” started.  Terrible idea.

Not like that, people.  Try to stick with dark colors.

I’m not Catholic, but I observe Lent.  Most years, I just observe it from, you know, over here.  But some years I feel like there’s something I ought to step away from for a few weeks.  This is one of those years, even though I didn’t know what I wanted to give up.

I had a few ideas for what my husband should give up, though… starting with that stupid Scrabble-y thing he’s always doing on his phone.  ODDLY, he did not ask me if I had any suggestions for him!  I thought about giving up The Internet, but you people are all I have some days, so congratulations, Jerry – you’re still my agent.

Cheers, my friend.  I’ll see you in a few weeks.

Since Facebook and coffee and chocolate (my saving graces) are not up for discussion, our household is going with good ol’ alcohol.  We decided to give up “regular drinking,” which is not to be confused with “special occasion drinking.”  In other words, we won’t drink at home, only when we go out.  So, really, we won’t be drinking.  This would normally be no big deal for me.  I’m not a huge drinker.  But remember how I’m constantly learning these days?  During the last 2 days, my sweet little child has really been teaching me the value of a glass of wine.

Sweet Lord.  

Oh, see?  There we are, back at the point of Lent!  To remember God.  And I will.  Through the screaming.

This is not my child.  This child is from teneightymedia.com.

Who would be offended??

I didn’t realize that I had hit the age where there were men for whom I am too old.  There was a new bartender at my regular bar (which I’m hardly ever inside of anymore, which could possibly have been my first clue) and I asked one of the guys how old he was, not because of his impossibly muscular arms but because he was one of the brothers of one of the other bartenders (that doesn’t really seem like a reason anymore, but I really was just curious, I swear), and instead of getting an ANSWER, I heard things like “HE’S TOO YOUNG” and “YOU’RE MARRIED” from the guys there.  Thanks, fellas… But he’s 23.  So they’re RIGHT.

You’re both kind of gross…

So I survived my first plane trip with my little sidekick.  It didn’t go EXACTLY according to plan, but my hair didn’t get tangled in anything, so that’s gotta count for something, right?  This little bit goes out to my friend whose husband is approximately 9 years old… There was a tall, fairly attractive young man behind me in line as I went through security (which is a mess, because you have to take everything out of everything!  I don’t have to take my clothes out of my suitcase, why must I take the car seat out of its bag?  You have to X-ray it over there?  I thought that thingy on the conveyor belt WAS an X-ray!), but I didn’t notice him until TSA started ordering him to help me fold the stroller and get the car seat out of the bag.  They even snapped at him when he tried to go around me through the detector!  I went with it, but when I was going through the scanner myself and they were still bossing him about my stuff, I told them that he wasn’t with me.  Ha ha!  Isn’t that funny!  Everyone thought so except my unhusband, who just looked sort of shaken up.  I took it as a compliment, that I could have such a YOUNG baby daddy.  It felt like when I get carded.  He clearly took the whole episode as an insult, even when I tried to console him by saying that it would make a great story/blog post!  Some people just don’t want to see the bright side, you know?

Random strangers offered to help (never when I actually needed help… but I like your enthusiasm, strangers!  Keep on!), pilots are surprisingly distracted by babies, and my kid stayed true to form – not a peep.  When we landed, the lady right behind me said, “Oh, I didn’t even know there was a baby on the plane!”  High five, kid.

SINCE I AM NOW AN EXPERT, here are my $0.02 about traveling with an infant on the slowest Saturday any airport has ever seen…
-If the base is a tight fit in the car seat bag (or if you don’t have a bag, but I recommend one – they have wheels and keep things nice), skip it.  You don’t need it.  Get over your emotional attachment to it.
-Ask if the flight is full.  If it’s not, see if you can get put next to an empty seat so that you can bring your car seat on board.  It’s free this way, and then you get two hands!  TWO hands!  To celebrate, I ordered two drinks.
-Get there early enough to have time to do what you need to do.  I don’t mean get your shoes back on or to your gate or whatever, I mean get a glass of wine.  Or a latte, if it’s 8am (but I am NOT judging).  Sit down, call your husband, drink your latte.  Breathe.  People are about to look upon you with great skepticism (they think your baby is adorbs until you are getting on THEIR PLANE), you need to find your zen.

That’s about all I have to say about that.  I landed, my very small mom tried to carry all my stuff (which I think was embarrassing for both of us), we ate food, and then we sat.  And then we ate some more food, and then we watched Downton Abbey.  Home!

I like to start new hobbies.

That’s all.

I started knitting/crocheting once.  Now I have a bag full of yarn.  I started making jewelry once.  I actually made a bunch of it as gifts for people who helped out with our wedding, but now I have a bag of beads and tools.  I started sewing once, and now I have a bin full of fabric.  (I think I’ll probably go back to that one periodically, but it’s a little tricky these days as I rarely have more than one available hand.)

So I started running.  By my own pattern, I should now have a pair of shoes and a drawer full of clothes.  I had some stops and starts along the way, knee trouble, etc etc, but then I kind of hit my rhythm with it, and I’ve done 3 5K races so far (I’ll get to that in a minute).  So… it’s about time to take a break!  Wait, what’s that?  I think I hear my husband muttering.  Oh?  There will “be no break-taking”?  Because you “bought me the clothes”?  Well I don’t remember that argument after you “bought me all the fabric,” mister.  I suspect an ulterior motive.

The last 5K… was possibly a mistake.  One of my running ladies had, I kid you not, an ICE MUSTACHE when we were done.  Clearly she is the fittest, as she can breathe through the small holes on her face.

I breathe like this.

When I checked the temperature after we were done, it was -5.

But I don’t get to take a break.  Because he bought the stuff.

I was told twice yesterday that I was someone’s “inspiration” for their run.  Seriously, they used the “I” word.  I feel like a 3-legged dog.  Who’s not gonna root for a 3-legged dog?  It reminds me of the time I volunteered at the Special Olympics and was inspired – truly – by what those kids could do.  But that’s from where I’m sitting… If anyone is inspired by me, I’m honored to make them sweaty.

It has been an interesting path – my poor husband could not suppress his involuntary coughs of laughter when I announced my plan to run 5Ks.  That turned to awkward silence/not-mentioning-it, and now he’s moved to encouraging/reminding-me-what-we’ve-purchased.

I had one of those moments the other day where I was out for a run and A) couldn’t believe I was doing it and secondly) couldn’t believe I wasn’t angry/hungry/swearing.  Good one, Life, I never expected this!

How’s about a little warmer next time…?

In other news, I’ve decided I would like to make a sandwich using one of those toasty frying pan cheese crisps instead of just a boring old slice.  Stay tuned for THAT action.

Love comes in many forms.  Sacrifices, declarations, sonnets… beer…  Maybe it’s just because of the holidays, but there has been a lot of love around here lately.

Beer is love.  I gave my husband beer for Christmas.  Turns out that’s a pretty good thing to give when you don’t have any other ideas.  Even better, it’s reciprocal.  Requited, even.  After a particularly cold run the other day, I yelled from the shower (before breakfast, mind you) that I’d really love a beer shower.  In 5 seconds, I heard the fridge open and the bottles clinking.  Don’t worry, I didn’t DRINK the beer first thing in the morning.  But I could have, and that’s what matters.

Christmas presents.  Let’s not pretend that Christmas presents aren’t love, okay?  Yes, Jesus is the reason for the season.  But the modern interpretation of that is happy red cups from Starbucks and great presents.  Like cozy amazing slippers and a snazzy jacket to keep me warm on the aforementioned ridiculous winter runs.

Interestingly, all these things come from a post about not wanting so many things…

Bacon is definitely love.  I think we all know that, don’t we?  May I recommend that you all go to your fridge right now, and get out the bacon.  Also, the chicken and the pepper jack.  Stuff the chicken with the pepper jack, wrap it in bacon, and cook it in a cast iron skillet.  Also, make sure you’ve already got some rice with peppers and onions and tomatoes and chiles going, and put some avocado cream sauce on top.  That, my friends, is love.  Oh, and serve it to your husband.  They like to be part of the love.

Mmm…

And what will he do in return?  He will steal the covers.  That’s what mine does, ever since we had a kid.  It’s dripping with therapy material.  But I let him, because that… that is love.

I moved to Minnesota in 1998 to go to college.  When I came back from Christmas break that first year, I ran into a guy I knew at the airport shuttle dropoff site.  We checked our mailboxes and headed back to the dorm.  The whole time we were walking, I kept rubbing at my nose.  I mean, he was just a friend, but no lady wants a guy to see her with, like, STUFF coming out of her nose.  It wasn’t getting better, and after a few minutes of letting me try, he said, “Snotsickles.”

…what?

“Give it up.  It’s snotsickles.  It’ll go away when we get inside.”

Many of the 3 of you don’t live in MN, and have probably never experienced, much less heard of, this phenomenon.  Well, it’s gross.  And you know it’s too cold to be outside when your snot freezes, so WHAT was I doing running in these conditions?  I don’t know.  But I was running.  And according to my domestic associate, I will KEEP running with frozen snot, because we bought the stuff for it, so there will be no breaks taken.

I GOT THE JACKET! 
But this is the flip side of turning any new venture into a shopping trip: snotsickles.

My spell check reeeeally doesn’t like the word “snotsickles.”  Or the word “reeeeally.”

Christmas was most merry up here in the cold.  We got the gift of future travel, and the Smartest Baby in the Universe (she found her hands, you know) got Everything.  I really didn’t know that so much stuff existed until she showed up, but it does, and we have it.

Here’s hoping your Christmases/Hanukkahs/Kwanzaas/Familydays were also merry, and that your snot stays in the state God intended.

Maladroit is one of the best words ever invented.  It means unskillful, awkward, bungling, tactless.  I think the bungling is my favorite part.  It’s also the name of a Weezer album, but I’m not really into them.

My mom and I are in the habit of video chatting via my love, the gmail.  We are both suddenly alone all the time and it’s more fun to pretend to eat dinner together than not to, so we do.

We often have an agenda for our chat, like “recpies” or “budgeting” or “whining” and about 3% of the time, we get around to covering the agenda.  Yesterday’s mission: “Christmas.”  As in, let’s make this easy, what do you all want so everyone likes what they get.

WELL… Grace wants those evil slippers in size 7.  She told me.

*******
Public Service Announcement
Enough people have asked us what Grace wants for Christmas that I feel it’s time for a little PSA.
Infants do not have Christmas Lists.  They don’t care.
Therefore, she wants the slippers.  Size 7.
Now back to your programme (Isn’t that a much better way of spelling it?  Those Brits and their ways…).

*******

My husband, like most, is impossible to buy for.  Except that mine isn’t into toys, really.  We recently switched to smartphones and he cannot walk and operate his at the same time.  So, Best Buy isn’t really a source of gifting inspiration when it comes to this guy.  But I had a couple ideas, and I handed them over to my mother, because she will be more bothered by not having ideas than I will.

THEN SHE ASKED FOR BIRTHDAY GIFT IDEAS.  Yep, his birthday is in the height of holiday season.  And I forget.  Every year.

And that is how this blog got its name.

I’m cleaning, and it’s the kind of cleaning where I’m finding bookstore receipts from 2007 (I did not live in this house in 2007), jewelry I wore in college, and random wedding cards.  In one of these wedding cards, I found some helpful hints from the 50s.  Assuming that some of you are drawn to this because you, too, are maritally challenged, I thought I’d pass these on.  Snarky comments are mine.

HOW TO BE A GOOD WIFE [Get a notebook.  For taking notes.  Ready?]
High School Home Economics Text, 1954

• Have dinner read.  Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal, on time.  This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs.  Most men are hungry when they come home [Mine is hungry when he comes home.  And when he wakes up.  And when he’s doing laundry (yes, he does laundry).  And after dinner.  This is futile.] and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
• Prepare yourself.  Take 15 minutes to rest so that you’ll be refreshed when he arrives.  Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair [all I have around here is a bunch of rubber bands from produce bunches.  I could link those together, this could work!and be fresh-looking.  He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.  Be a little gay [cannot adjust to this meaning an emotional state, all I see is Agador from The Birdcage] and a little more interesting [I do not need to TRY to be interesting.  I am fascinating.].  His boring day may need a lift [so does mine.].
• Clear away the clutter [ha].  Make one last trip through themain part of the home just before your husband arrives, gather up schoolbooks, toys paper, etc.  Then run a dust cloth [ha!] over the tables.  Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order [HA!], and it will give you a lift too.
• Prepare the children.  Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary change their clothes.  They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part [I don’t have children.  When I do, I will come back and make fun of this part.].
• Minimize all noise.  At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher or vacuum.  Try to encourage the children to be quiet.  Be happy to see him.  Greet him with a warm smile and be glad he is home [okay, this part might be alright…].
• Some don’ts [oh, good]:  Don’t greet him with problems or complaints [but he leaves the cupboards open!].  Don’t complain if he is late for dinner.  Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.  Make him comfortable.  Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom.  Have a cool or warm drink ready for him [Fine.  One for him, two for me!].  Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes [!!! Have you smelled man foot?  He can handle his own shoes.]  Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice [um, I believe that IS my voice…].  Allow him to relax and unwind.
• Listen to him.  You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time.  Let him talk first.
• Make the evening his.  Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment.  Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax [I’m getting the sense these “wives” didn’t also spend the day at the “office”]
• The goal: try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit [we need a maid].

Okay, so some of these are just considerate of someone who may have had a stressful day.  I don’t know how I’d act if he went to work every day and I didn’t.  As it is, I occasionally beat him home by 10 minutes or so… maybe next time that happens I’ll try freshening up my makeup and having a cool or warm drink ready for him, just for kicks.  If I offer to take off his shoes, he’ll just think I maxed out the credit card.

Thanksgiving was complete with the trip over the river and through the woods, but without any grandmothers.  Just one grandfather in a hat.

The sprouts were fine.  Not brilliant, but fine.  That’s probably good, since I hate how much I intimidate others with all my brilliance.  Anyway, I didn’t actually burn them until I reheated them, which seemed a little… me.  But it turns out that when you add a pound’s worth of bacon grease to anything, it will get eaten.  Even by a 14-year-old protester.

I also whipped up my two favorite cranberry sauces.  Unlike Miss Riot, I do NOT prefer the weird gooby stuff that holds a can shape on the plate.  I like my sauce spicy.  Or alcoholic.  Or…. both?  [Note: try this next year.]  One is an awesome preppy pink sauce with sour cream and horseradish.  It’s probably the part of the meal that most reminds me of being a kid.  Whenever we did Thanksgivings at a relative’s house, my mom would bring this cranberry relish.  I like it best on wheat bread with butter and cold leftover turkey.

The other one I saw randomly on Food Network when I was all grown up – in my twenties, officially on my own, and making full Thanksgiving feasts for two.  It’s simple and classic with plenty of orange zest and orange liqueur.  And no, you don’t cook out the alcohol.  Bonus.

All this family and tradition prompted me to try the recipe my dad has mentioned at least twice in the past month.  For those of you who don’t know my dad, that’s a LOT of talking for him.  One acorn squash.  Two strips of bacon (recurring theme?).  Enough butter.  Brown sugar.  Cut the squash in half and scoop out the seeds, smush some butter up in it, sprinkle with brown sugar, and lay the bacon strips over it.

Bake at 350 or so for 30-45 minutes.  Maybe you pour out a little of the Barbie swimming pool of butter/bacon grease, maybe you don’t.  Eat it with a spoon.  People, I just gave you 3 recipes in a single post.  I’m exhausted.

Back to Thanksgiving… First, we ate guacamole chips with guacamole.  Sound redundant?  It was.  Whatever, pass the baked cheezy poofs.  Then we had some traditional Norwegian herring in cream sauce.  Sound like a bad idea with guacamole and cheezy poofs?  Right again!  But it’s Thanksgiving!  Pass the crackers!

Stuffing.  Turkey.  Stuffing.  Salad?  Stuffing.  And both kinds of pie, please.

This all ended in a glorified Go Fish deathmatch between a father and his 14-year-old daughter.  There was $8 on the line.  It was intense… for her.  The rest of us drank another bottle of wine.