In which Bread gets pissed. In both the American and the English sense of the word.

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk at 4:59, and happened to see the clock in my taskbar roll to 5:00. My cell phone rang immediately. I ignored it and finished up what I was doing, and got ready to leave for the day. My cell rang again, I picked it up. It was Bread, wanting to know what I was doing.

I said I thought I might have rehearsal, that I was going to the bar, that I’d call him back later when I knew.

By a quarter past five I was comfortable, belly-up to the bar with a book and a smoke and a Cosmopolitan. I read for awhile as I finished my drink. Then I packed up and was getting ready to leave when the two gentlemen to my right started talking with me. Turns out they’re telephony dudes, currently installing VoIP phones for Henry County. They know some people where I work. One of them bought me a drink. I took my coat back off as I checked my phone: no calls. Probably no rehearsal, then. I decided to call Bread on the way home. One of the guys sells muscle cars, the other one builds custom tube amps. We talked about telephony, the Internet, cars, and music gear and were having a great old time. The guy buying me drinks was married.

So then Bread walks into the bar, pinches my shoulder and hisses, “Thanks for thinking of me!” and stalks off to the end of the bar.

Continue reading Green-eyed Monster →

In which I go all the way off.

The night he got back from Colorado, Mr. Brett and I talked about our goals as a couple. I said I can’t stand our lives any more and that I’m literally going nuts with things the way they are.

I said I need to move somewhere where there are people (because performers require audiences) and get a real job that uses my brain and start gigging which is my dharma, rather than wasting away out here in the middle of nowhere.

I said I was sorry if I’d led him to believe I was cut out for farmwifedom, but now that I’ve tried it I see that it’s just not right for me. I should be pursuing my talents, and to do that I need to live somewhere else. I’ve got I Hate Iowa Syndrome, big time.

We talked about the logistics of moving for awhile and discovered some – okay, a lot – of divergence in our desires for our lives.

~+~+~
He wants to keep the farm, period, but I’d sell it right now at a loss just to get the hell out of here. He claims to be happy with the way things are in general but unhappy with me in particular because I’m a depressed, standoffish wife.

I am not happy with things in general. I hate our – my – life the way it is.

I pointed out that Brett himself does nothing but work a day job and watch TV, and that a happy person would never behave like that. He doesn’t design and build bikes like he says he wants to and he doesn’t have any other hobbies; he barely has any close friends. “It occurs to me that you’re depressed, too.” I said. “You don’t do anything, you don’t care about anything. You spend a huge amount of time just lying in front of the television. You buy toys and then you never even play with them. You’ve got a dozen cool projects stored in various buildings around the farm that you haven’t touched since the day you brought them home. I think you hate it here as much as I do.

“We’re Libras. We’re social people. We need to be around people. We bought this place as a refuge but we’re not using it as a refuge, we’re using it as a prison. So: we made a mistake in thinking that we would be happy on a hobby farm. We were wrong. Big deal! Let’s move on before this albatross kills us.”

“I don’t build bikes because there isn’t any room here to build bikes,” he said.

I laughed out loud at him. “Dude, we have twenty-seven acres. If that’s not enough room, you’re on crack.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean–”

“You mean that you don’t have a nice, concrete-floored, climate-controlled shop with eighty thousand dollars worth of machine shop tools in it,” I interrupted. “Dude, get the fuck over it! If you wanted to build custom bikes, you’d be doing it.

“The truth is that you’re just as depressed and lazy as I am. We need to face the fact that we’re social, creative people, and that our life as it is doesn’t nourish that in us, and it’s killing us. This place is too much to maintain. We’re not the right kind of people for this, and that’s okay. We don’t like gardening, we don’t like hunting or going on long walks in the woods, we don’t like country life. And that’s fine.

“Look at the remodel designs you have in your head for this place! They’re all about socializing, about entertaining! The huge porch, the spa, the outdoor cooktop, the granite picnic table. It’s not like you think you’re going to be out there cooking on that cooktop by yourself. Your whole design is about entertaining – about sharing our space with friends.”

He nodded thoughtfully, but he didn’t really respond. I don’t think he’d thought about any of that. He, like me, had convinced himself that he really wanted tons of solitude and quiet.

I explained to him that there’s nothing here for me any more. I’ve discovered that I don’t actually want to live in an old house in the country. I already have the coolest job in town, and I’ve already performed too many times in every venue here. Since I’ll never have kids, there’s no reason for me to focus on keeping house; it’s boring as hell and I’m simply too smart to find deep satisfaction in washing his socks.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not happy dusting and cleaning. I tried to be, I really did, but it’s boring and endless. It should be the smallest part of my life, not the focus of it. You’ve seen me perform, you know that’s what I’m good at! I recorded two albums this year and those two projects were the highlight of the past four years of my life. I need to be doing creative things and interacting with human beings on a regular basis, and so do you. We’re dying out here. There has to be more than this to life.”

I told him I thought we should set a remodel schedule and stick to it. “Last year when we got back from Colorado, we were all gung ho to get the house to the point where we could rent it out and get out of here and have real lives. You haven’t worked on the place at all in the past year. Nothing’s been done.”

He said that the lack of forward progress on the house was because I don’t support him. He said if I wasn’t depressed and crazy, maybe more would get done.

I told him again that while I respect his opinion in general, on this topic he’s just plain wrong. I do do my part. I do pull my weight. I’m not the one who spends six hours a night and all hours every weekend lying on the couch watching television.

“Brett,” I said. “Listen. You always have clean clothes, you always have food on the table. I serve you dinner and iced tea every night after work. I’m home two days a week, right? That’s twelve to sixteen hours of housework I’m responsible for. I DO THAT MANY HOURS OF HOUSEWORK every week! I clean, cook, shop, run errands, balance the books, pay bills. Yes, I take every evening and weekend off and lie around doing nothing, but so do you – and why should I put more into this than you? Why am I the ‘lazy’ one when you don’t do anything either? How is it my fault that you’ve only worked ten hours on the house in the last year?

“When you’re busy, I’m busy. When you’re busting your ass on the house, I’m running errands, picking up materials, cooking pot roasts, and making pitchers of lemonade. I’m doing everything I can to support you; it’s not like I’m off at the movies while you spend a hard-earned Saturday remodelling. I’ll match you, dude, but I’m not going to carry you. I’ve told you this before: I look to you to set the standard. I’ve tried to do it myself, but you’ll just lie back let me do everything. Well, fuck that! Maybe I’m a selfish cunt, but I’m just not down for that. You’re my husband, not my kid.”

~+~+~
But I am mean to him. I know he’s angry and hurt because I’m so standoffish. I sleep in my office a lot and not in our bed. I tell him no when he asks for back scratches because, shit, he doesn’t give so why should he get?

I can’t seem to get through to him that cash and oral sex do not a complete contribution to a marriage make.

I feel like I’ve been the one compromising and busting my butt in this relationship. I now have such low expectations of him that it’s scary that he still fails to meet them – my expectations of a decent partnership have been dropping for years, and now all I want is for him to notice his environment and care about it. If I miss some little thing, he should pick up the slack like a decent partner! If I ask for some little favor, he should make it his fucking priority to do it for me.

But he doesn’t. He lies on the couch and feels sorry for himself because I’m a bummer to be around and I won’t scratch his back or suck his dick when he asks me to. Sometimes I just get tired of giving and not getting. I do my part, but the ‘division of labor’ in this marriage is such that my work gets done, and his doesn’t. The barn’s a mess, the shed is a mess, the whole property’s a mess. The remodel hasn’t progressed at all and we still live in the basement.

I’m tired of going to demo derbies and gun shows and swap meets with him because he doesn’t have any interest in going to libraries, sci-fi cons, or jazz clubs with me. We don’t seem to have enough in common to make this work, and that was fine when I was still willing to do all the bending. But now, maybe, I’m not.

I’m tired of our life now. When we got together we had friends, a social life, jobs, hobbies, and I was doing musicals and playing in bands.

Now, neither of us do anything. We’re so well-rested we’re half dead.

~+~+~
Then he said, “If we do this, if we move somewhere else, will we end up back where we are now when the new wears off?”

That stopped me cold. Good goddamned question. When the new wears off, will we end up back where we started?

I’m afraid of the answer, because I think the answer is yes. I’ve lived with this man for seven years, and while he’s a great human being and I love him to death he’s been a consistently lazy, selfish, lousy roommate. The only ‘fights’ we have ever had have been about how he acts like I’m his personal servant and how that hurts me and pisses me off. He apparently thinks I’m lazy because the house isn’t spotless and beautiful, even though he never does anything about it himself. I have to break down and cry to get him to do the simplest, most basic things IN HIS OWN HOUSE.

He seems to believe somewhere in his heart that this is how it should be. I should do all the household work and help him do his chores on the weekends. I can’t expect help from him, but I’m a bitch when I don’t want to give up my free time to remodel or maintain the property. The man’s not stupid and he’s not cruel, but he can’t seem to see the ways in which his expectations are wrong.

And he’s right: moving to a city probably won’t fix what’s broken. He’d still want to live way the hell far away from anything convenient, and I’d still be driving some gas-guzzling 4WD vehicle 15 miles each way just to buy eggs, which I hate. My morning commute would be long and boring, and it would be hard to have people over because no one would want to have to drive that far and we’d be isolated again, him on the couch in front of the TV and me in my office reading a book because I hate television and people can’t talk with the TV on anyway.

And if I worked full-time we’d be back to square one with him never lifting a finger toward domestic chores. If I started gigging on top of that, I’d be out late all the time and no one would be fixing his dinner or scratching his back and he’d feel abandoned and unloved and the house would be a fucking mess. (Not to mention that he’d drop dead of a heart attack from eating at pubs every night rather than cook for himself.)

If we lived somewhere where I could get a job and a gig, I’d basically never be home but to sleep – we don’t have kids so why shouldn’t I have a career? He’d have to do laundry, shop, clean, and pay bills himself, and I know from seven years of experience that he simply won’t do it.

He thinks he wants a traditional wife. And that’s totally valid, but it turns out that I’m not one and I don’t want to be one.

~+~+~
We talked for quite awhile, and then we went to bed and held each other and went to sleep. I felt really sad. I think he did, too.

When I got home from work the next day, he’d fixed the shower head and taken two months worth of trash up to the dump truck. He’d even unpacked his own clothes, which is something he’s always left for me in the past.

But it’s verging on too little, too late. I asked him to fix that shower head two months ago; he fucking uses that shower, he KNOWS it’s broken. Why should I even have to say anything?

Is there any possible reality in which I’m out of line expecting the person I live with to quit treating our home like a hotel and my time like it’s his?

I freely admit to and take responsibility for the fact that I’ve become a bitchy, depressed woman who is no fun to be around. But I also know that I’ve tried and tried and tried to make us work, and he only meets me halfway about a tenth of the time. He honestly believes that he shouldn’t have to do anything but work a day job, and that I should do literally everything else except chop wood, fix cars, and snake the septic tank when it clogs.

I don’t want to be a maid, I never did. I don’t even want to be a housewife; I became one because we’d have gotten a divorce two years ago if I hadn’t. I want a partner, someone who takes care of me and our environment the way I take care of him.

I also want someone I can talk to, and with whom I share basic beliefs – but that’s never going to happen with us no matter how hard we try.

Housework is never-ending, when you live on gravel in the country. Everything is always dirty, you always need something from town. It’s endless, it’s boring, and I shouldn’t even have to think about it. There are two adults living in my household; the shit should just get done. We should be teamed up against the work that needs to be done, doing it and supporting each other while getting our social and creative needs met like normal human beings. Instead, we’re holed up in the basement of our crappy old farmhouse like troglodytes.

In spite of my extroversion I am an introspective person, so I’m fairly certain that I’m aware of and working on the majority of my flaws and foibles. But I really don’t think I’m the problem here. I think he is, and I don’t think he’s going to change. In fact, he’s said that he doesn’t particularly want to. He wants to lie on the couch way out in the country.

He says he’s ready to be a decent roommate when I go back to work full-time, but I’ll have to see it to believe it.

So here’s the real question: is it possible that in a marriage, love isn’t enough?

We love each other and we make each other laugh, but we’re both highly independent, selfish, and, I’ll say it, spiteful people. We’re at the point where we’re both suffering just to spite one another. I’m suffering because I’m bored and undersocialized and miserable and unfulfilled and crazy, because I’m too smart and creative to think that dusting and grocery shopping is my dharma, and – let’s be honest – because I’ve discovered that I really don’t like living his life. He’s suffering because I hold him at arm’s length when he won’t do the smallest fucking things to make me happy.

I’m suffering because he doesn’t want to have a social life and he tells me I’m lazy. He’s suffering because he doesn’t understand why I don’t think a rousing round of sex is enough to fix the problems we’re having.

I can’t live with someone who won’t do anything. I’m an extrovert and I need to be out and about, but I feel like I owe him the housewife routine because I ‘only’ work three days a week and he ‘supports’ me. I feel like I have to be home at six with food ready, because he supports me financially and I owe him. I feel like it’s tacky for me to go out without him because I’m a married woman, and besides I’d rather be with him than without him! But he rarely wants to go out with me and has on several occasions promised to take me out on (for example) New Years Eve and then has fallen asleep on the couch at ten and refused to wake up.

He lets me down in little ways all the time and I’m tired of it. He’s a lousy roommate, he’s stubborn and lazy, he has no hobbies or passions, he’s not engaged or creative or active, and he isn’t even trying to make our home beautiful and comfortable to live in. AND he has the nerve to tell me I’m the lazy one.

I love him. I even like him. I respect his honesty, work ethic, discipline, and integrity. I respect his social radar – he’s always right about people! I admire his physical strength and the knowledge in his head. I think he’s funny and engaging in conversation. He’s basically my hero.

But living with him is killing me, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t see the point in having more conversations with him about the fact that all he does is judge me and lie on the couch, because none of the other conversations on the topic in the past seven years have made any difference. I don’t see the point in going back to work full-time just to have something to do, because he won’t pick up the slack at home and I’ll end up divorcing him over a dirty glass or a pair of socks on the floor.

I don’t want to live in isolation out in the country, I don’t like driving, I’m a night person, and I’m an extrovert.

He likes to live in isolation, loves driving, is a morning person, and would rather watch TV than do almost anything else.

I don’t see the point in this any more. Where can we possibly go from here?

~+~+~
Over the next week, he became Perfect Roommate Guy. The sex was sweet, he did crazy random shit like put away the leftovers and wash dishes after dinner one night, he kissed me hello and goodbye and called me after work.

But. He’s done that shit before. While I was at the nuns one weekend, he did nothing. I think he laid on the couch in front of the TV for two days. He told me he’d intended to start on firewood for the winter but, you know, it rained so he couldn’t.

I think he’s already back to his normal routine, and I’m already back in mine, and holy shit if this isn’t going to kill me.

~+~+~
Now that I’ve been thinking about this for a few weeks, I’m starting to think this isn’t an issue of where we live. I really don’t hate our house that much, and things like commutes and dust are just things.

I think the issue is that I don’t like who I am any more. I don’t do any of the things that I used to think defined me as a person. It’s not that he won’t let me do stuff, it’s just that if I go off and do those things he and I would never see each other. I’d have totally different friends, a different schedule, different priorities.

He and I have huge areas that don’t overlap; I’ve spent much more time in his life than he’s ever spent in mine, and he really doesn’t like the people and activities that I enjoy most. (Like when I did that Seventh Ray album this spring, he had nothing but grumpy things to say about most of the people on that project, and he bitched about me being gone all the time, and he only saw about five minutes of one of the two performances. Things that are important to me are so far off his radar he can’t even pretend to care about them.)

The issue is not the town we live in, or the farm we live on. I could be happy in this exact situation if my marriage were different. If he and I had interests and hobbies in common, if we wanted to hang out with the same kinds of people and do the same kinds of things most of these issues wouldn’t exist.

The bottom line is that we have nothing in common, and I don’t think we can do anything to fix that. He’s never going to like jazz, I’m never going to like motorcycles. He’s never going to be a spiritual seeker, I’m never going to eat steak. He’s never going to be a thoughtful roommate, and I’m never going to want to go shoot guns with him. We’re just too different, in spite of how much we love each other.

This fucking sucks.

In which I see a Taco Bell commercial on TV at the bar and succumb.

Last night Brett and I stopped after work at the Dead Cock for a bit. I chatted with Hattie, who was bartending, and Rachel, who dropped in briefly and told me about a new game she and her boyfriend had invented on account of his new fly-fishing motifed boxers. They call it Cock Fishing. (You figure it out. Wink.) She’s so funny.

After people left, Brett and I chatted for awhile about our day. I bitched about having to do a mail merge document for the first time in like elevently hundred years and how I was too damned stuck up to RTFM and it took me much longer than it should have; he bitched about having to re-do several window casings because some moron on his crew didn’t understand that a hexagon needed to have six equal sides.

Then we went home and I ate Taco Bell drive-thru and he had a couple of meatloaf sandwiches and we fell asleep on the couch.

~+~+~
It occurs to me that Mr. Brett and I have been together now for about seven years. Perhaps that’s why the road has recently become so rocky. I never expected marriage to be easy, exactly; I’m willing to do the work. But damn it’s rough when you want different things. We-ness ain’t always easy when you’re both stubborn, independent first-borns with wicked selfish streaks.

And yes, we’ve been talking. We’ve talked more in the past few weeks than we have in the past few years. I’m really digging the new communication level, actually. And I love the man to death. It’s just that sometimes I want to hold his head under water until he quits being so irritating.

No doubt he never feels the same about me, because I’m a fucking dream to live with.

Being an exhaustive report spanning four entire days, plus this morning.

Friday
Friday I did domestic shit: laundry, dishes, shopping, cooking, dusting and sweeping. Housewifery is boring and it sucks.

We were going to go out Friday night, but Redbone fell asleep for a nap and didn’t bother to wake back up. Since he works an absurd schedule (you couldn’t pay me enough to get up at 4:30 in the morning on a regular basis) and we were planning on going out Saturday night for the Halloween party anyway, I just watched some shows I’d TiVoed and cuddled with my dogs on the couch and didn’t take it personally. (Yeah, right.)

Saturday
We went to Keosauqua to get wood for our woodstove on Saturday. The weather was gorgeous. Jimbo and Redbone ran around cutting things up with chainsaws. Chuckie helped Ella collect rocks and things. The dogs ran around doing canine stuff, and I took a couple of walks and read the rest of Eragon, which was really cute but not the most compelling book I’ve ever read. I also took a nap in the back of the cab of Redbone’s truck. Continue reading Four Days and a Bit →

In which I’m a wee bit confused.

Yesterday I did boring domestic stuff. In the evening, I made dinner. Then I ate. Brett wasn’t home, so I went upstairs and got on the computer and spent nearly 45 minutes trying to pay for his contractor’s insurance online via a slow, buggy site.

When I went back downstairs, Brett had come home and eaten his dinner, and then he’d put away the leftovers and done the dishes. Both of the cast iron pans I’d used were clean and dry on top of the stove and everything.

He’s never done that before.

The man in my house looks like my husband, but he doesn’t act like my husband. He’s been helpful and thoughtful and sweet and cuddly since our Big Talk after our vacations. He’s gone shopping with me, taken me out on Saturday night, and kissed me every time he’s left or arrived.

Honestly, it’s kinda freakin’ me out.

In other news, I need a gig. I’m thinking of making one up. Anybody want to be in a band with me? I’m thinking of doing a one- or two-show revue this Winter. Just for somethin’ to do. Songs I like with players I like. Nothin’ too intense.

In which I’m rescued.

Last night, Brett actually wanted to do something. We went to town and spent a few hours at The Red Rock tavern (we call it the Dead Cock because it’s such a nasty bar). Ed was having a going away party and there was nothing else to do.

I had a blast talking with Hattie and Rachel. I had a few cocktails. Brett was drinking Red Bull & Jagermeister, of all things. (I had a sip of one and it tastes much better than it sounds, but still.)

Rachel & Hattie doing a boisterous “Ha-ha-haaah!” for me

Hattie eventually left, and Rachel and I moved to the dance floor.

You have to understand that my husband has never had a jealous moment since I met him. All the times I’ve needed rescuing from various drunken and over-friendly male humanoids, he’s done nothing. Once, years ago, when I asked him about it, he said, “Ah, I figure you can take care of yourself.”

Well, last night while Rachel and I were dancing, a couple of older Mexican dudes moved in on us and tried to dance with us. One of them was touching me. I gave Rachel the look, and she moved in and got the guy off me per the strictures of proper girls-in-a-bar-fending-off-unwanted-advances etiquette: we had it handled. Still, within less than two seconds Brett was suddenly there, and he was clearly smokin’ pissed off. He made a space around me in the middle of the very packed and very loud dance floor and yelled in my ear, “Let’s go before I get in a fight with this fucking guy.” I leaned over to Rachel and said, “Sorry, guess I’m leaving now. Bye,” and Brett immediately dragged me out of the bar.

He was so angry he was literally pale as we walked to his truck. I have never seen this kind of behaviour out of him in the seven years we’ve been together. I think that years ago this kind of jealous/protective posturing would have made feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but last night it just pissed me off because it was so out of left field. (And because I’m so tired of having him drag me home as soon as the music gets good enough to dance to.)

I asked him about it today, and he shrugged and said, “A man just shouldn’t put his hands on another man’s wife like that.” I told him that’s just how Latin dudes are and that the guy didn’t mean anything by it, and I teased him about all the other times he didn’t do shit for me. He said he didn’t really have a good reason for last night’s behavior, it just made him really fucking angry to see that guy touching me like that. (All he did was put his hands on my waist for second, and try to capture my hands to dance with me.)

“Could it have been from all the caffeine in all that Red Bull you were drinking?” I teased.

“Coulda been,” he admitted. “Because I doubt it was from the Jagermeister.”

In which I buy some clothes.

It’s 2:25 PM, and I’m sitting in front of the computer in my office. Brett’s asleep naked in the day bed.

“Wake up! Wake up!” I call. “Let’s go to Ottumwa and eat, and go to Target and buy me some clothes.”

Downtown Ottumwa, Iowa

He said, “Mm hmm,” and rolled over.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve already taken a nap today myself. But this is ridiculous. “Wake up!” I repeat.

“Mm-hmm,” he answers again. He’s still lying on his stomach, one pale leg sticking out from under the sheet. You would not believe the whiteness of his ankles, which never see the sun. Milk-white, fish-flesh pale. He’s such a redhead.

“GET UP!” I yell.

He rolls over again. “Time is it?” he asks.

“It’s two-thirty.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, apparently pleased with the amount of nothing he’s accomplished so far today.

Then he sits up, groggy and unfocused. “Did you shower?” he asks. I nod. “Do I get that opportunity?”

“I think so, if you go now. No lines, no waiting, if you hurry!”

He’s threatening to buy me an iPod nano for my birthday, which I want because it’s cute as fuck but don’t really need because it’s got no more storage space than the 4Gb mini I already have. I also want a cheap acoustic guitar because all I have is a fat-necked classical that I never play. Either way, I’m buying some cheap Target boho clothes because all my clothes suck.

In which Brett returns a whole day early and I reveal to him that I have a boyfriend named Manhattan.

Brett rolled in around midnight last night, woke me up and ravished me. Then we stayed up ’til three in the morning having A Big Talk about our trips and our life together. It’s so nice when we do something and actually have something to talk about; we can go months sometimes without having a real conversation because we’re together all the time and already know what’s going on with each other.

He said the Telluride Blues ‘n’ Brews fest was awesome, and he told me about all the acts and caught me up on all the gossip about the Colorado contingent: car accidents, divorces, jobs, personality quirks, etc. I told him all about the fabulousness of my New York trip in great and vivid detail.

The Big Talk part of all that gossiping was about our marriage and our life together. Neither of us are very happy, to be honest.

I woke up at 8:30 this morning and didn’t have time to shower before work. So I’m not having the best hair day, and I’m really tired.

That redheaded man is an awesome snuggler, though.

Forty-five minutes ago, at eleven-thirty in the morning, I went downstairs to suggest to Mr. Brett that we go to Paul’s Discount in Iowa City and buy him some clothes, and then maybe go eat something or see a movie.

I had to wake him up from his position on the couch in front of the boob tube to suggest this.

He promptly asked me to scratch his back. Which I did, because I am fond of him in spite of himself, but he went back to sleep.

This is a true story.

Now it’s twenty after twelve and I’m wondering if I should try to wake him up again to do something today, or if I should just blow it off and start with the daquiris.

It’s rainy and overcast. I’ve been washing throw rugs, sweeping and dusting, tidying. I also de-cobwebbed, which is something of a gross job but important when you live in an old house in the country. Spiders fled my cleaning wrath. I found a toad under the coffee table and carried her outside.

There is no end to the sweeping and laundry that needs to be done around here.

I’ve eaten bread and brie, potato chips, and hot cocoa today. Lousy diet. Now that it’s noon, I might start on the daquiris again. *smirk*

Sometimes I feel like all I do is take care of Brett. Since he started with Schauss-Voorhies, he leaves early and gets home late, and I spend a lot of time alone in the house doing things for him. Making beds, cleaning, cooking dead animals. When he gets home, he wants me to bring him his dinner and scratch his back and ravish him. In that order. He seems to think I’m household staff and not his life partner.

Last night I was a total bitch to him. He got home around seven, which means he’d been gone thirteen and a half hours but had only worked for seven, and immediately he stripped to his boxers (leaving his filthy clothes on the floor in a room I’d just cleaned) and asked me to sit on the couch with him and cuddle him and scratch his back.

I said, “I don’t want to scratch your back.” I thought, Doesn’t it occur to you, ever, to offer me some TLC? You know, catch more flies with honey and all that?

He started whining about how I never this for him and I never that for him, and what a poor victim he is that I don’t live to scratch his fucking back after he’s spent a hard three hours drinking beer at the bar.

I said, “Fuck you, dude. Seriously. All I ever do is wait on you.” And then I went into the kitchen and finished preparing his dinner of steak and mushrooms with wild rice pilaf. Elsewhere about the house there were clean clothes for him to wear, a gallon of iced tea in the fridge, and a living room that was clean and tidy. Where in the holy hell did he get off thinking I wanted to give him a massage, too? Yes, I know he’s been working hard lately, but no one gets away with the shit he gets away with.

God, it’s like I married into motherhood. (The fact that he was willing to marry me at all should have tipped me off.)

Marriage is so much better for men than it is for women. All Brett has to do is breathe and bring home a paycheck. If it weren’t for the fact that he lets me work part-time and ends up effectively paying me to wait on him, I’d hold his head under water until he quit being so annoying.

If only running a household was satisfying on any level. It’s boring, repetative, and endless. I’m thinking about going back to work full-time and just letting the place go to hell. It’s not like we throw dinner parties or anything anyway. I could tell him he has to do his own laundry, his own shopping, and his own cooking. I could simply live in my office on microwaved TV dinners and salad, and ignore the whole rest of the house.

The man would literally die of shock! Snort!