I am pathetic

...in which our pathetic blogger reflects on how pathetic she is....

Pandora Music selection: Disco Radio!

Oh yes, I am pathetic. Not only because of my choice of music selection for today's post, but because I have not yet figured out how to use the spell check on this thing. This means that I am wholly and completely dependent on That Guy to help me. (I guess it could be worse: sixty years ago I would have been wholly and completely dependent on him for my entire livelihood, and I would have starved/frozen to death. But I digress.) The problem with enlisting him for computer help is that he is currently going to school full time as well as working forty million hours per week. He is also currently sick, as is everyone else in this household, except me. (Gotta love garlic, baby!) This means that when he staggers in late at night, he really has more important things to do than deal with my ridiculous little blog. So I haven't in good conscience been able to ask him to help me lately, and my latest blog, which I started writing over two weeks ago, has not yet been posted. Because of this, I haven't been blogging, because I've been waiting for my last blog to get out there. I know you're thinking I've written the word "blog" too many times for this paragraph to flow, but in celebration of the fact that I didn't even know what the word meant three months ago, I'm gonna keep everything the way it is and bask in the warm glow of my e'er expanding vocabulary.

Incidentally: Disco may not have sucked, but Pandora Disco Radio sure does.

In other pathetic news, I have, as is befitting for a gal on maternity leave and being paid to create and maintain domestic bliss and tranquility, become absolutely obsessed with my house. This is about as surprising to me, and everyone who knows me, as it would be to hear that George W. had gotten obsessed about bringing free, universal health care to the masses. In addition to my confusion over my Martha bug, I am also very bitter about it, for very good reasons.

Last year, while pregnant, I was working full time. Now, pregnancy does not come easily for me, in the sense that once that egg has been fertilized my body decides to throw me into a nauseous horrorshow that does not let up for at least four months and once the nausea ends, I get tired, oh God, so terribly, terribly tired. So getting through last year was an effort, and needless to say, housekeeping duties were absolutely the least of my worries. As a result, we lived in absolute squalor last year, which really compounded my misery, because there is nothing more depressing than coming home from a hard day in the salt mines to find a house that is cold, dirty and unwelcoming.

I am bitter about it because last year, for reasons I won't go into but can assure you were legit, That Guy was home most of the week. That's right, he was technically the housefrau, but hello, he failed miserably in the frauing department. He cooked, he entertained little Miss H.I., he shopped for groceries, but he never, never, never cleaned. No, when he had a spare moment, what did he do? He HAD FUN. He READ. He WATCHED GOOD MOVIES. He HAD A FUCKING GOOD TIME. Not once did it bother him that we were living in a sty hole, and as a result, he got a LOT more free time to himself than I am getting now that our roles have reversed. I have about 30 fabulous books I should and want to be reading now, but at the end of the day when both m'babies are in bed do I plop myself down on the couch and read them? No, you'll find me on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor tiles because I can't stand it if I don't.

So I am bitter, not necessarily at That Guy (although he would tell you otherwise), but because I was born a girl, and biologically programmed to care about how things look.