How many PhD's does it take to put together a bed frame?
Apparently, a PhD is not a requirement.
For over an hour, last evening, Mer and I tried to put together her bed frame.
Tried being the operative word.
When I was in junior high, we had to engage in a number of provincial tests. . .you know, the tests that measure how well you read, do math, etc.
One test was designed to test spatial ability. 100 questions of this-is-what-the-box-looks-like-when-it-is-flat-and-your-looking-at-it-from-above. What does the box look like when it is put together?
My grade on that provincial standards test: 3/100
And I was trying to put together a bed frame.
Thankfully, my testosterone filled son and his best friend, aka Mer's "friend" showed up to "show the ladies" how to put together the bed frame.
Apparently, being a spatially challenged feminist is of no benefit when you're struggling to put together a bed frame.
As far as I can tell, Mer is all moved in. Granted, she needs two lamp shades, a curtain rod, a microwave, cable and internet, but everything major has been taken care of: her bed is on the frame, with sheets and a comforter, her brother and her "friend" are putting her desk together. . .
Can you imagine spatially challenged me trying to put an entire desk together????? It would end up looking like a bad peice of abstract art.
. . .her dishes and all other kitchen asundries are put away neatly in the kitchen cupboards, the shower curtain is up, she has clean towels, facecloths, money for laundry on her laundry card, the tv and blue ray player are hooked up. . . .
We can't find the blue ray player remote and she can't watch blue rays without it. You can't imagine the bitching I've had to listen to about that damn remote.
. . .her dresser is full of her clothes, each drawer color coded: drawer two: white shirts, drawer three: black shirts, drawer four: multicolored shirts, drawer five: her TNA pants. . .
I can't understand how one girl needs 15 sweaters and 10 pairs of the same pants.
And I won't mention what's in drawer number one.
. . .and her fridge and cupboards have been duly filled with groceries.
Ergo, move complete.
Hallelujah!!!!!!!!
I'm not a typical wife and mother.
There are many things that women were lead to believe they had to do because they were women: cleaning, cooking, child care, grocery shopping. . .
Cleaning: I'd rather not, thank you. When Stephen and I got together, it was clear that of the two of us, he was the more enthusiastic cleaner. In fact, one day, I was cleaning and he came over to me as said, word for word:
"I don't know why you're doing that. I can do it better."
I handed him the cleaning cloth I was using, said, "Congratulations, you are now the chief cleaner" and walked away.
I have done as little cleaning as humanly possible ever since. I do hang laundry, because it's a Zen thing for me, and I love thinking of how much money I save not using my 18 year old dryer.
And if people in my house don't like their underwear on the clothes line, oh well. If my table cloth size granny panties can dry in the summer sun, every one else's underwear can, too.
Cooking: I love to cook. Really love to cook. Cooking for me is therapy. I pop in my ear phones, turn on my ipod and sing (usually very loudly) while I chop and stir and flip and mash. I also love to bake, but I don't do it often because it has really started to show.
Okay, honestly, its been showing for a very. long. time.
I also cook because other than Emily, who is also a very good cook (her Greek fried chicken, sweet and sour chicken, and chicken parmegan are to. die. for. Brownies, don't even get me started. And she cooks more than chicken, but that is all I can think of right now.) no one in our house can really cook.
Okay, Keith can cook a little, but only with a cookbook and all the ingredients listed in the cookbook. Remind me to tell you the story about what happened when he was cooking, didn't have the ingredients, and Em intervened.
There were actually "words" spoken and apologies given.Stephen can cook wonderful Ukrainian food, but that is it. The man once put chocolate chips in my baked beans because he didn't think they were sweet enough.
And he once made me an egg salad sandwich, which, instead of mayo, contained the leftover linguine and clams for the night before.
So I cook most of the time. Our physical and mental health depend on it.
Childcare: The kids are mine. I don't know if they are all right, but they're mine. I did the best I could and none of them seem to traumatized by growing up with Dawne. Could I have done better?
Absolutely.
But who couldn't.
Grocery shopping: I hate grocery shopping. No matter how well you do it, or how much money you spend, you leave the grocery store knowing that you'll be there again soon.
And in our house soon is usually the next day.
Keith and Stephen drink milk like we run a dairy farm.
When Mer moved back it was even worse. Somehow, she has become the. pickiest. eater. I. have. ever. encountered.
All she wants to eat is chicken, potatoes, and salad.
However, because she was moved in to her apartment and would not be eating all three meals at Dawne's House of Never Ending Food, we had to take her grocery shopping.
We were on a time restraint.
Quel suprise.
Em had to work at 5.45. We got to the grocery store at 4.30.
I told Mer about the time restraint. She indicated she understood.
She didn't.
Mer loves grocery shopping. So does Stephen.
I grocery shop with a list, carefully constructed from looking at what we need, what is on sale, and where the items are in the grocery store. I do love internet grocery flyers.
I grocery shop with a purpose: to get out of the grocery store as soon as possible.
Mer and Stephen grocery shop as if they have nothing else more exciting to do. They graze slowly and carefully through each aisle, picking up random things, questioning whether or not we need it, or could try it. They exclaim of minute variations in products, like Kraft Whipped Peanut Butter over regular old chunky peanut butter.
It is painful to watch this, let alone be forced to participate in it.
So there I am, cart in hand, with no list in spite of the fact that I made a list the night before when Mer and Stephen were supposed to go grocery shopping.
I could feel my blood pressure rising, knowing that the clock was ticking faster and faster. No one wanted to move. Mer is flitting from aisle to aisle. Em is pissed because she is in the grocery store in her Empire Theater uniform. Stephen is harping at me to read labels because he doesn't have his glasses and he can't read a damn thing.
I did what any time-stressed, anxiety-filled woman who hates grocery shopping would do: I started directing people to various aisles.
"Stephen, get the cheese. Mer, bread. Em, hamburger buns." When they started to flag, I was there, ready to hand out the next set of assignments.
By some miracle, we managed to get everything Mer needed, some things she wanted, and I even had a few measly dollars left in my bank account when we were finished.
I even remembered my mother's club pack of PC Sweet and Salty Granola Bars.
But that is a story for another time.
Title Lyric: Queen of the Supermarket by Bruce Springsteen
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