Mounting My Box

So yesterday I discussed my methamphetamine-fueled redecorating which occurs when Current Husband is gone; honestly, it's why he never leaves. What he doesn't understand is that if he would leave more often, we would have a clean, kick-ass house. Reverse psychology, CH. You should learn about it.

CH and I have been in major negotiations over the past two months over my box. Specifically, my window box.

THE CONTENDERS:

Current Husband, a 40-something man in Iowa, likes the Sci-Fi channel, Fox News. CH enjoys surfing the Internet on his iPad, weekend naps, and not getting caught in the rain. CH is anti-yard, plantings, or windowboxes. "They're too much work and it's going to rip the siding off of the side of the house."

Julie the Wife, a 40-something woman in Iowa, likes HGTV, live music, and reading. Julie enjoys hostas with porn names ("Don't Touch My Junk" is the next hosta on her list), pinot grigio in the summer, Jane Austen, and windowboxes. "They are so pretty and add cottage charm."

THE SCENE
I'm outside in the front yard, looking at the house, glass of wine in hand, contemplative look on face. CH sees me and yells from window, "What are you thinking about doing NOW?!?" I pause.  I normally don't like to let him in on my plans until they are fully formed and halfway executed.  "I think we need a big windowbox on the front of the house.  Like the ones we saw in Martha's Vineyard, with the big, trailing flowers."  I hear a large sigh of exasperation.  "We don't need a big windowbox.  It will tear the front off of the house."  At this point, I know he is not on board yet.  I take measurements.

About a month later, we're in Home Depot getting a few items, and I leave him and go to the lumber aisle.  I select three boards and take them to the cutting table, where CH finds me.  "What are you doing?" he asks.  "I'm getting the lumber cut for the windowbox," I explain.  "So you're sure you want these cut to 110" each?" the sawing guy asks,  dubiously.  "Yes."  CH gets a little red about the face, which is sort of his natural state because he's Irish, so it's hard sometimes to tell if he's mad, sunburned, or just breathing.  "I thought we weren't doing the windowbox...that's...that's...110" is nearly 12 feet!" 

Well, duh.  The windows are nearly 12 feet long.  My wonderful cottagey windowbox must span the entire window if it's going to be in a magazine.  I just shrug at CH, because our voices are being drowned out by the sound of the tablesaw cutting into my non-returnable lumber.  "I'm not having anything to do with this thing," CH mutters while shaking his head.  "It's going to ruin our house."  No, it will make it look like it's on the Eastern seaboard.  You're welcome.

Two days later, I'm in the garage pre-drilling the holes in the lumber, which is set up on sawhorses.  CH wanders in and surveys my work.  "Your ends aren't matching."  I punch him in the junk.  I smile sweetly, show him some boob top, and say, "Can you fix it for me?"  and hand him the drill.  He spends the next hour getting the ends lined up on The Windowbox That Is Not Going On The House.  And then he fills the holes with wood putty.  Sucker.

I prime and paint The Windowbox That Is Not Going On The House.  CH is getting increasingly nervous.  "How are you putting this thing up?  I'm not kidding, it's going to rip off our siding."  I make a bargain with CH.  I will call the contractor who did our basement, and ask him to find the studs on the wall so I know I'm putting everything on properly.  CH agrees to my terms.  I call the contractor.  He's really busy, it's going to be a while.  CH leaves town for two days.  I have a drill and I know how to use it. 

My neighbors come outside drinking beer and look at my project, and they both advise me to wait for the contractor.  "You'll rip the siding off," they say.  My friend, who is normally a terrific enabler, drops off her daughter to play with Youngest Daughter, and says, "Don't do it Julie.  You're going to rip the siding off.  Wait for the contractor."  Shit.  Waiting is NOT my strong suit.  And I have two days to get the thing up before CH is home and able to tell me no.  I drink a glass of wine and think about it.  Then I drink another.  And then I decide that I am really good with power tools, and because my dad was a bricklayer I know my stuff, I move forward.

Apparently the Universe was also nervous about my plan (She'll rip the siding off), and just as I was getting the extension cord out, I got a text from the contractor.  Even though he was in a big hurry, he could squeeze me in between jobs.  He stopped by, and couldn't find the studs under the aluminum siding.  He drilled a bunch of holes, nothing.  He was getting nervous, I was getting nervous, he was getting texts from other jobs saying, "Where are you?" and finally, maybe TOO conveniently, he found all four studs and then left in a hurry.

I then drilled twelve holes in the front of my house.  They are not small holes.  Out of twelve holes, only one of them came out with wood shavings.  I started to get a little nervous.  My neighbor checked in again, and I told him only one hole had wood.  "That's not good," he said, and backed away from me nervously.  I had just ruined our house, and CH would be home in about two hours.  Could anyone quickly come over and re-side our house?  No.  No, they couldn't.  The only way to cover them up was with a windowbox.  I screwed in twelve 3" bolts, and to my intense relief, they seemed to catch into what was probably a stud.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Once those potato vines and wave petunias go crazy?  Total cottage charm.  CH pulled up from his trip to Ames, got out of the car, stood on the sidewalk for a second and then started smiling and shaking his head.  He got his suitcase and walked past me into the house, saying, "Nice windowbox."

I'm going to put this one in the victory column.

Meth Sister Wives

I've been a bit neglectful of the blog this week because I have been a Meth Sister Wife. This is a lot like regular Sister Wives but without the religion, and plus the methamphetemine, which means you get the work of four Sister Wives from just one monogamous wife. Everyone wins.

NOTE TO THE 17 MANDATORY REPORTERS WHO READ THIS BLOG: I don't actually use meth. I like the concept of meth without the actual addiction and the hair falling out and the teeth rotting, because meth addicts seem to get SO DAMN MUCH done.

Last weekend, Current Husband took The Son to Iowa State for basketball camp. If you'll recall, I stalked Head Coach Fred Hoiberg a few weeks back, and got dimed out by my local newspaper when they printed a picture on the front of the Sports section of me talking to Fred at a casino when I was supposed to be at work, and my boss put the paper on my desk the next morning and said something to the effect of "Have a nice time at the casino yesterday, Julie?" When The Son saw Coach Hoiberg at camp, he said, "My mom was in a sorority with your wife!" and The Mayor said, "Oh, you must be [Insert Name Here]! Tell your mother to quit harrassing me."

Honestly, this would freak some kids out, but not mine. They usually just smile and say, "Okay, I'll tell her" and they understand that this is yet another person who has a restraining order out against their mom.  I should note here that The Son has replaced a picture of his mother with a picture of Coach Hoiberg, and should The Mayor ever decide to overthrow the government, The Son will be his willing minion. 

CH and The Son were gone for two days. CH tries very hard not to leave home without me, because as soon as he pulls out of the driveway, he knows all hell breaks loose. In the days leading up to his departure, I walk around the house and quietly plot my strategy for what major home improvements I've been meaning to make but can't because he's around to stop me. I stockpile supplies in various hidey-holes around the house, and get extra sleep. As soon as he leaves, I am overcome with giddy joy as I break out the paint cans and power tools. Last weekend was no exception.

I started the day by putting in a new flower bed on the East side of the house. Before, it was a bunch of hard packed dirt and a few scraggly weeds, but I bought brick edgers and four bags of mulch, an azalea bush and six perennial plans and went crazy. At about 1 p.m., I broke open a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio, because I was hot, and it was delicious. When the flower bed was installed, I moved the crazy train inside.

We finished our basement over the winter, and I will tell you that it went from being a sexual deviant cellar (we found a pornography letter written in the late 1950's in the ceiling - and let me tell you, it was hardcore) to this lovely, kick-ass family space. There is a full bath down there that we put in, but it stalled a few months ago, and it needed to get finished, so on Sunday and Monday I painted the walls and trim, tiled and grouted the shower, and put in a towel hook thingy and the toilet paper holder and that sort of thing.

Youngest Daughter had a friend over for a sleepover, and at 11 p.m. as the girls were putting in Grease to watch while they went to sleep, her little friend looked at me in the bathroom and said, "Do you ever sleep?" Then YD came into the bathroom and saw my empty bottle of pinot and said, "Mom, did you drink that whole bottle of wine?" I looked at the empty bottle, and immediately lied. "No, of course not. It was in the downstairs fridge already open." But in my mind I was like, "Holy shit, I did polish off an entire bottle of wine. Do I have some kind of problem?" After doing the math, I realized I drank a bottle of wine over 10 hours, so it's not like I was all crockered up, but still. I will say, however, that it was delicious, and paired with the sounds of The Black Keys made grouting over my head much more tolerable.

Tune in tomorrow for Part 2 of Meth Sister Wives, where I build and install a 10 foot window box before CH gets home.

Burned By The Son

Yesterday, my sweet little sunshiney blonde baby turned into a teenager.

Oh dear. I could get a little verklempt.

While I wouldn't be happy about any NEW babies (see "Essure procedure"), I would so love to have each of my kids as a six-month-old or a one-year-old for ONE DAY, 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. Just to hold them close and smell their skin and put my face in their hair and touch their chubby little fingers and toes and cheeks. Oh, the cheeks. Listen to their sweet little sounds and rock them in a chair. Oy. What is it about birthdays that does this? When I'm 63, will I be writing, "Oh, how I wish I could have them back as teenagers so I could be confused about whether or not they are mad at me or just generally angry and to try to keep them informed about good hygeine and manners and give them money and drive them places..." Teens hug, but in the words of The Bloggess, sometimes "A hug is just a strangle you haven't finished yet." You get pretty good at figuring out which is which.

The Son? Was a cuddler. Oh, how that boy cuddled, and still will. He was a good sleeper, God bless him, and he still is. He always wanted to help, and still does. Now that I have TWO teenagers, I'm starting to hear the tick-tock of when I won't have them in my house anymore. Some days, that isn't such a bad thought, but most days, it's distressing. They are all really fun kids, dammit! Just stay and play! But learn to do your own laundry.

Yesterday, I was getting ready to leave for work at 7 a.m., and The Son was out of bed because he was "pretty excited about being 13 and couldn't sleep anymore." I told him Happy Birthday and he gave me a big hug, and I started chanting, "Who's so old? Who's so old? Who's so old?" and he said, "YOU!"   Damn. That burns! Oldest Daughter would've left it at that, but The Son wants his mother to be happy, so he said, "Just kidding Mom! You are young and beautiful and awesome!" Which is how I've trained them all to address me.

I took a half day off work and took the kids to the pool with friends, where I read a book written by the instructor at my Iowa Summer Writing Workshop, "Like Normal People" by Karen Bender. I honestly didn't expect to like it so much, it didn't really seem like my thing, but I try to read the work of my instructors so I am able to suck up and be in prime stalking position if it becomes a necessity. This book is surprising me. It's beautifully written, I could only hope to craft such rich descriptions and dialogue. I got so wrapped up in the book that I ended up in the sun for three hours and fried myself to a crisp. Damn.  That burns.  Someone at work this morning said, "Either you are really, really mad today or you have a sunburn" and I replied, "Piss off before I punch you in the face." (Just kidding. I used the F word.)

After the pool, our family took The Son to Buffalo Wild Wings, where you get a side of testosterone with everything you order. This seems to be the fave go-to place for all boys, ages 12-43. We sat outside on the patio, the only group out there, and had a great time. We went home and he opened his gifts, and loved all of them. We ate cake. It was one of those days you need to have every once in a while, as a shining city on a hill, to remember and hold when the kids are fighting amongst themselves, forgotten to give you an important message, and have eaten the last ice cream sandwich.

Before I sign off, one more quick thing - on the Facebook ADITW page, I posted "The Son is 13 and a year closer to some skank taking him away from me". Of course I kid, but I want to defend myself against any charges of future DIL cruelty. My point would be that whomever MY children marry, men or women, will probably need to be able to joke around with our tribe to make the marriage cut in the first place. Not because of me. Because of who my KIDS are; I get that their marriages aren't about me, nor would I ever want to interfere in that relationship. Oldest Daughter's Current Boyfriend is a great kid, and able to toe the line of being respectful and caring, and yet being wickedly funny, which we all love. He gets us. He fits. (Except that he exercises and eats healthy, but we're working on that.)

I can see a Thanksgiving in the future, when I'm drinking wine and tricking my daughter-in-law into making most of the meal, and I'll make an inappropriate comment about her stuffing the turkey, and she'll look at me lovingly and say, "Quit being a skank. I'm cooking here."  I will walk over to her, lovingly stroke her face, smile proudly, and say, "That'll do, Pig. That'll do." And then I shall refill her glass and spoil her children. And be thankful.

CH-CH-CH-CH-Changes.

Hello all! Hope your June has started off well and you are groovin' to your summer playlists. I have personally been listening to my Black Keys playlist quite a bit, and one I call Kickin' Chicks that has Paramore and Florence and the Machine and the Ting Tings on it.  Good gardening music, but I get caught shaking my moneymaker while planting and Oldest Daughter gets upset.  "Keep it in the back yard!" she stage whispers out of the windows.

I'm a big ideas girl, but can occasionally be a little low on action.  I've been meaning to write a book since 1999, but I've been having a problem stopping partying like it's 1999 and party time cuts into book time.  But now?  I've got a lion in my pocket, and baby he's ready to roar.  See?

SO.  If I go public with my commitment, it means that I will be shamed if I don't fulfill it, no?  Here are the ch-ch-ch-ch-changes coming around Wiferville this summer:

1.  I'm moving my blog to Wordpress by next weekend.  I'll make an announcement on Facebook and here when I'm ready to roll, and this page will be here but it will direct people to go to http://www.adayinthewife.com/, minus the "blogspot" in the name, and it will now carry you to the Word Press site.  I'm told Word Press is easier to use and easier to leave comments, so now all of you who e-mail and tell me you can't comment because Blogger is an asshole can party with the tribe.  Like it's 1999.

2.  I'm getting in my Little Red Corvette, and taking two classes at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, held at the U of Iowa at their Writer's Workshop facilities.  I've taken classes off and on there over the past 5 years, and it's very motivational and gets you in your writer head.  Hopefully I use the time to write and not to drink with the other well-intentioned writers there.

3.  I'm having a Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein Squirrel Blog-Up Party in Minneapolis, possibly the weekend before the 4th of July.  Getting deets together.  I will be making Todd t-shirts to pre-order.  I'm not sure how this factors into me writing a book, but I tell Current Husband that the dead squirrel is a marketing tool, so I need to occasionally trot him out so Todd doesn't end up in a garage sale against my will.  Alongside a Raspberry Beret.  The kind you find in a secondhand store. (Did you realize the actress Kristin Thomas is the girl in that video?)

4.  I'm going to ACTUALLY WRITE.  It's weird, but most publishers don't really let you call yourself an author until you have authored.  What a bunch of dicks they are.  They are what it sounds like, When Doves Cry.

SO.  I've said it.  OUT LOUD. (Hey Twi-hards, did you read that and hear Robert Pattinson saying it in your head?  Only 5 months until BD2!)  Now it's time to come through.  I guess as long as I'm shaming myself, I'll throw in another:

5.  Lose 10 pounds through exercise and diet and not through Benadyl and Merlot.

If any of you would like to Declare Yourselves and make some goals, I will have a Comment Coming Out Party when the Word Press blog is launched, and let's make a Summer of Success Partner Commitment Coming Out Party!  Yeah, that's right. 

I'm going to marry all of you.
It's legal in Iowa.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 81

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or people going to estate sales.



Today's topic: Krazy Boob




I try to have a Zen attitude about most things in life. Really, I do.


The problem is that I inherited my Dad's ability to be overly high strung about things, and there are times when I'm not mad, but people think I'm mad because I'm focused on getting something done and not screwing it up, because BELIEVE ME, I have great ability to screw things up.  I spend most days trying to anticipate which priceless piece of Wedgewood china I'm juggling is going to hit the ground and shatter.


When I get uptight, I try to think, "Hey, I'm not a victim of genital mutilation in Rwanda.  I don't have leprosy.  My children are not in prison at this time.  I remember my name and address.  I currently have my original teeth.  Wine and coffee have not yet been restricted from my diet."  This is my mental version of 'count your blessings' - things could always be worse, no?  That said, this week has been a little bit WTF.

My extremely awesome neighbor bought these for me. 

She also buys Gruet and invites me over.  I heart her.

First, it was the flags.  After that whole debacle, I drove to the high school on Wednesday over my half hour lunch to get the van with 87 freshly dried flags and take them back to the Optimists.  I pulled into the lot, and ....ohdearGod....the van was gone.  As I walked to the school office, I wondered about liability if the school cargo van was stolen on my watch.  It turns out the maintenance people at the school had another set of keys, and they moved it - WHEW - so I got in and drove it across town.  In my Jambu wedge shoes and prairie mini-dress.  I felt a little badass, I'm not gonna lie.

Second, I tore my boob.  On Wednesday, I got ready for work and noticed a little pain in Rightie, but didn't think much of it.  While talking to a co-worker, I noticed it hurt again, so when I got back to my desk, I stuck my hand down the front of said prairie dress and adjusted my cup, much like an MLB baseball player. (It should be noted here that I didn't spit.)  Suddenly, I'm convulsing in pain, because it turns out that Rightie had some fluid come out that hardened like Krazy Glue.  Remember the Krazy Glue commercial with the guy in the hardhat glued to the beam?

Well, the yellow hard hat is my boob and the beam is my bra.  And I sort of accidentally ripped it off.  So then there was bleeding.  And Band-Aids.  And I had a little secret in my bra all day while I walked around the office.  I know, male co-workers, that's pretty hot.  Bidding's over, CH won.


So I go to Book Club, my go-to panel of women on all life topics, and after we discussed 50 Shades of Grey and I found out that most of them have regular and spontaneous orgasms (What?  Broccoli is on sale?  OH GOOOODDDDD...) I brought up my boob, and they all stopped talking and two people said, "Call your doctor tomorrow."  And then everyone sort of awkwardly stood up and prepared to leave, and then whispered among themselves about who was going to start the casserole schedule for my family.  (I'm of course kidding, since I know some of you are reading this.  Remember, I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)


Instead of calling my doctor, I got on Web MD, which as anyone who does Web MD knows, it always drills down to cancer.  Of course, Web MD said, It's either Mastitis, OR, if you aren't nursing anyone, it's probably a rare cancer.  I still didn't call my doctor, I had a glass of pinot and then texted, FB'd and called my OB-GYN high school friend, Paige.  (I have been known to call her answering service semi-drunk and demand to know why she isn't at a party.  It's a miracle I haven't been blocked.)  Paige asked me questions only a doctor or someone who knew you before you got your period can, and we determined that I should see my doctor but it's probably just an infected duct.  But I'm still wearing a Band-Aid on my boob.  Now you know.  CH is one lucky bastard.


Third, my neighbor is having an Estate Sale starting today, and there is a strong possibility I'm going to hit someone with a shovel this weekend.  I love me a good estate sale, but some people like to see if they can actually drive their car through the estate sale, or pull up on lawns, or block driveways.  It's like someone is handing out free cigarettes in prison, or Justin Beiber is visiting middle school.  The crazy just oozes out of people.


BUT.  It's Friday.  I'm not a victim of genital mutilation in Rwanda.  I don't have leprosy.  My children are not in prison at this time.  I remember my name and address.  I currently have my original teeth.  Wine and coffee have not yet been restricted from my diet.  So honestly, it's all good.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!