Him: (inspecting the cat feeder I brought home today) So this thing is going to keep the girls from starving this weekend?
Me: That’s the plan.
Him: How does it dispense water?
Me: It doesn’t.
Him: Well what are they going to do for water then?
Me: I was going to leave the toilet seat up.
(In my defense, they seem to prefer the toilet over their water dish anyway.)
It’s drill weekend again, which sucks for two reasons:
1. I miss the Captain like crazy (particularly when I have to sleep alone).
2. I have to clean the house.
The Captain has never said he expects me to clean the house while he’s away, mind you. However, I notice that when he walks in tired and haggard after a weekend in the field only to see me sitting on the couch in my comfy clothes, eating ice cream and watching DVDs while the cats romp in the surrounding filth, the first words out of his mouth are, “Well, what did you do all day?”* Therefore, I’ve decided that if he can spend these two precious days of rest serving his country, I should at least be able to wash the dishes.
Guilt is a powerful motivator.
This morning I awoke early, ready to face my list of chores. After showering (who scrubs toilets with greasy hair?) and slipping into capris and my super-cute, brand new white blouse (cause white is the best color to wear when combating dirt and grime) I assessed the job at hand.
I discovered that the dust bunny colonies were showing most of the characteristics of intelligent civilization. They had already populated much of the living room and seemed to be burying their dead in our carpet. Even more alarming was that I feared their technology might be better than mine, especially since the Captain last used our vacuum to suck up construction debris and plaster dust (NEVER do this).
The only solution was to replace the vacuum before the dust bunnies became warlike and attacked the cats. And so I set out for Target.
Four pair of shorts, a watch, and a bottle of sunblock later, I approached the arsenal of Hoovers and Bissells. Bagless vacuums. Cordless vacuums. Cyclone vacuums. With so many weapons to pick from, how would I ever choose?
Answer: buy the best.
Oh yes, I came home with a Dyson.
Of course, up to that point I knew nothing about Dysons except that they cost a shit-ton of money. However, everyone who has ever written about their Dyson loved it sooooo much that I swear just the thought of it gave them orgasms. With the Captain not around this weekend I could use that kind of excitement, so I plunked down the money from my economic stimulus check (which FINALLY arrived a few days ago) for my outrageously overpriced dirt sucker.
And then I tried it.
Oh. My. Lord.
Yes, approximately three seconds into vacuuming the rug I had to empty the filth receptacle thingy, but I could actually see the color of the carpet! Suddenly I was able to remember what our house looked like before it was coated in a two-inch thick impenetrable layer of cat hair. I let out a whoop of excitement and turned to the dust bunny developments.
The cats briefly paused from kicking the shit out of each other in the Dyson box (which they had promptly claimed as their new clubhouse) to see what I was up to. When I raised the extendable wand and issued a war cry, they ran out of the room.
The carnage! The destruction! When I was done, nary a speck of dirt was left in sight. The dust bunnies were completely obliterated. I stood there in the center of my sparkling clean living room, overwhelmed with love for my new vacuum.
Oh powerful Dyson, how I adore thee! You have restored order to my home and made Mr. Clean your bitch.
And now I must hide you from the Captain.
Sometimes I bake cookies just so I can imagine I’m a mom.
There comes a point in my relationships when curiosity overcomes the guys’ better judgment and they ask, “Where did you get these scars?”
For a time I used to reply, “I spent a few summers working in the circus as the lovely assistant to a sword thrower with a lazy eye.”
Whether or not they believed me, it generally stopped them from asking.
For a change, once I was honest.
“Oh those? They’re from my sister.”
My sister and I didn’t get along particularly well when we were children. She was a volatile personality with a quick temper in those days. Everyone walked on eggshells around her knowing that saying the wrong thing could send her into a wild rampage. Everyone, excepting myself. It was my personal mission to say exactly the wrong thing every time. I was a champion instigator.
For a while my parents attempted to preserve my pitiful life, seeing as how I was being so careless with it. But eventually they tired of prying my writhing, clawing, screeching, demon-possessed sister off my mutilated body. “She’ll learn,” they told each other after each maiming.
I didn’t. It was like a drug for me. I knew that provoking my sister into a Hulk-like frenzy meant that vicious beast of a child would attempt to decapitate me, gouge my eyes out, or drag me into the street and throw me in front of traffic, but I never got tired of that precious look she got just before she went postal.
One night I was sitting on my parents’ bed, relating some story or another to my mother and father when suddenly the door flew open, smashing into the wall and startling my folks. I cringed slightly, realizing that as my tale grew more animated I must have gotten louder. Yes, there in the doorway was the Harpy, with fire glowing in her eyes.
My father immediately pretended to be asleep. My mother glanced at me with genuine concern. My sister’s death stare was fixated upon me. I froze, mentally pleading with myself, Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t speak.
In a voice that would have made Satan shudder, she growled, “I was trying to sleep.”
I bit my tongue bloody. I wanted to say something, but I knew how foolish that would be. If ever you would like to experience the pain I was setting myself up for, go outside and look for a stray cat. A big, mangy, battle-scarred, starving tom. The kind that hisses at the sight of you. Now, grab him by the testicles and drop him into a bag. Shake vigorously for three minutes. Then open the sack just enough to stick your eager face inside it.
But I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t (and still don’t) know when to shut up. I knew I was about to say something I’d regret. I reached up to cover my mouth, hoping to prevent any antagonism from spilling out.
She saw me move. I was done for. Her body burst into flame and she roared at me. “I was trying to sleep!”
“Well, obviously you weren’t trying hard enough,” I said.
Time froze. There we were, suspended in that moment. I believe that in the heavenly sphere, angels were being dispatched in a frenzy of Divine Intervention.
And then my mother laughed.
My sister’s head snapped in the direction of the sound of merriment, and then she snapped it back to glower at me. I watched the brigade of seraphim beat a quick retreat as she came charging at me, hypnotic curls of smoke issuing from her nostrils.
. . .
I don’t remember anything after that.
Me: So I’ve been working out for about a month now, but I don’t think I look any different. Do you think I look any different?
Him: It takes awhile to see results.
Me: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean, I have more energy and I know I’m getting stronger. But -
Him: But what? Those are results.
Me: Not visual results. Maybe my expectations are a bit much. I think I set unrealistic goals for myself.
Him: What’s your goal?
Me: To have the ass of a Brazilian supermodel.
Him: (stunned expression)
Me: Shooting too high?
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