An alternative title for this post: Tis the Season For Spleen Venting
I'm about to bitch about my husband. This is, in no way, indicative of my affection for the man, it is simply a way for me to properly vent some steam before the lid blows off the pot and takes out the whole kitchen. I may delete this without ever hitting the publish button. Or, I might not, because, there are probably those among you who can relate to harboring intrusive thoughts about your dearly beloved on at least an occasion or two. You're not alone, my friends! Solidarity!
Anyhoodle, back to the title metaphor of this post.
You know how most women possess uncanny multitasking abilities? Those that enable said woman to simultaneously manage a demanding job while keeping an entire household functioning? While also coordinating the majority of family obligations, as well as completing every single Additional Duty As Assigned by The Universe?
Why the hell can't men manage the same?
Ok, maybe your man can.
Love that for you.
The vast majority of women I've polled on the topic, however, agree that your man is a fucking unicorn.
Men, in general, and, mine in particular, fail at this level of Life Mastery. Mine, in fact, is a champion of failure in this department. Case in point: the utter lack of attention paid to anything in our life not related to his current preoccupation with obtaining his EMT certification over the past year and a half or so. This includes every household task for which he claims responsibility "as the man of the house", including yardwork (as evidenced by the tragic appearance of our once-beautiful and lush lawn), general household repair and maintenance (don't nag! He'll get to it...eventually), financial management (which explains why we have had to file for extensions on our taxes two years running and why we were suddenly in an overdraft situation with our checking account for the first time in our marriage, not because we lack the funds, but because said funds need to be juggled between accounts. Refer to the title of my post, if you will). And please don't get me started on his level of neglect when it comes to the daily management of his family business, which is currently running on auto-pilot , vaguely supervised by the store manager.
During this amazing season of our lives, however, I have managed to juggle my fulltime job, the household, the family, the pets, the holidays, a summer garden, social obligations, and the financials for the hardware store (which means that I spend more hours a week there than he does), and, not one ball has been dropped.
It's irritating! Frustrating! Depressing! For the most part I think I've been incredibly supportive; I have soldiered on with a minimum of complaints.
My breaking point occurred last night, when I pulled into our dark driveway after yet another long day at work. This time of year, I live for the sight of our house, all lit up for Christmas. I am calmed and soothed by the lights of my blow molds and the general feeling of Christmas nostalgia that they evoke.
Guess who is " responsible" for setting up the outdoor decorations during the holidays.
At this point, we are a week and a half away from the day that celebrates our Lord and Savior and the tiny baby Jesus should be all aglow in the manger on my front lawn.
He is not.
Oh, he's in the manger. But, only because I put him there. The lighting portion of the program, however, has been delayed. And delayed. And delayed. What could be more important the the lighting of the Holy Family? Let's just assume that Jesus does, somehow, miraculously become aglow; how long will he linger in the stable once Christmas is over? March? April?
I don't know; ask Hugh if you see him.
He's probably at the fire station.
Well, enough about my irritation and depression; I've fully vented my spleen now, so; I can go back to eating my feelings until she's full enough to spew again. I really should make a note about it on my calendar so that I'm prepared to handle that additional task on what I'm sure will be another very busy day.