Sunday, June 29, 2014

I like making things about me.

I had the best weekend.  I'm going to describe it a little out of order to emphasize its full impact on me.  Jump into my rented TARDIS; mind the upholstery.

Our first stop in the TARDIS is Monday morning.  After I dropped Ace off at art day camp at 9, I got the WASP-iest coffee I could find at Cups and got home and realized I could do anything or nothing at all for SIX WHOLE HOURS.  So, naturally, I stripped to my underwear (sorrynotsorry) and sat in my fluffy recliner and enjoyed a completely quiet house while I drank my Java del WASP.

I decided I wanted to watch documentaries and found American Experience: Freedom Riders.  I learned SO much from that doc; it was extremely well done.  Highly recommended.  I then asked for recommendations for civil rights era documentaries on Facebook and Twitter and several people recommended Eyes On The Prize, a 14-part PBS series on YouTube, so I started that.  One hour is entirely about Mississippi and it's horrifying.  Art day camp kinda got kiboshed so I'm stalled on hour 8, but it's all so informative and I recommend it as well.

Stop number 2 in the TARDIS brings us forward to Saturday.  My very best friend and her husband came from New Orleans to stay the night and since he's a photographer and she's always loved photography, I decided to take them to the photography exhibit documenting the civil rights era at the Mississippi Museum of Art called This Light Of Ours.  One of the more moving photographs was of a 104-year-old gentleman of color being hoisted above the crowd after registering to vote for the first time in his life.

This was one of the more shocking images:

(Photo credit: Matt Heron)

I held back tears when I saw that picture and had to look away.  I cannot fathom being a person of color and seeing that woman holding that sign in an era in which I had to fear violence or death just so I could be granted the right to vote or send my child to an integrated school.

For our 3rd stop in the TARDIS, we're going back in time to Friday night.  It was the public premiere of A Mississippi Love Story, a short film documenting 14 months in the life of my good friend Eddie Outlaw and his husband Justin.  It's a very moving, poignant, and funny film about the fight for gay rights in Mississippi and I urge you to spend the $2.50 to buy it and support the project.  Hopefully it'll get national attention.

Here's where I make these very important events about me, like I do - I'm in A Mississippi Love Story.  Since I still have the TARDIS, let's go back a year when SCOTUS struck down DOMA.  I had an appointment with Eddie that morning before the decision was handed down, although I suuuuuure tried to reschedule because I was afraid he'd be nervous and mullet me.  He assured me that he'd be very zen and calm because "everything's the same right now.  Your haircut will probably be the best I'll give all day because I'll either be very excited or very angry for the rest of the day."  Sure enough, he did a great job, after which we walked outside where he gave interviews and our close friend Lori and I stared at our phones waiting for the live announcement of the SCOTUS decision.  Lori and I jumped up excitedly when we got the news (I still remember the tweet from @SCOTUSblog; it just said "DOMA," but with a strikethrough), but Eddie was giving an interview to our local news station so we had to hug each other and keep quiet until he was finished.  He finished the interview, read the decision out loud for the documentary crew, then Lori and I practically exploded into the scene to hug him and make the loud noises we're prone to make until his husband walked out and they gave each other the kind of hug you only see in the credits of Love, Actually.

(Photo credit: Yo.)

I'm also in the movie briefly at a rally at the Capitol.  I'm really overstating my presence - you can only see me if I point myself out to you for all 6 seconds I'm in there, but by damn, I'm in there.

Back to Friday night.  After the movie, Eddie and Justin both gave speeches, and in Eddie's, he said the only thing he felt somewhat hesitant about was getting his friends involved - he didn't realize how much his friends would be in the film.  I wanted to walk to the front of the room and pinch his arm.  This entire week, I've seen pictures and videos of vile, despicable racists.  Holding up hateful signs, committing acts of violence, sneering angrily at people, simply because people of color wanted to not be second-class citizens anymore.  What must the children, the grandchildren of these people think of them?  They were committed to permanence for acts of hatred.  I would be mortified if the woman with that awful sign in the picture above was my grandmother.  Or if *shudder* I was a descendant of Ross Barnett.  (I hope God lets me kick Ross Barnett in the balls.  A couple times.)

Then there's me, very briefly committed to permanence in a film about the advancement of gay rights in America.  Excitedly and tearfully hugging a gay man in one of the most victorious and emotional moments in his life.  Ace didn't have any questions when I introduced him to "Mr. Eddie and his husband Justin" - how will Ace feel about me in 20 years?  In 50 years, when (God willing) LGBT people are no longer second-class citizens and being a homophobe is as shameful as being a racist is now, will I be able to show my grandchildren A Mississippi Love Story (in our futuristic Apple iHouse which is underwater yet entirely solar-powered with walls made of computer screens and voice-activated vodka tonic dispensers) and have them be proud of me?  

(As an aside; I don't want to compare myself to the white Freedom Riders or anything.  I don't realistically face violence or death for my involvement with the LGBT movement.  I do fear violence somewhat for my involvement with the protection of women's rights and the abortion clinic and won't let Ace play alone in the front yard.  But that's another story.)

Here's the thing - change is coming, and you have an inevitable legacy.  Let's get back in the TARDIS and skip forward to June 29, 2064.  LGBT people are no longer second-class citizens - being a homophobe is as shameful as being a racist is in 2014.  Your grandchildren are at a photographic exhibition about anti-gay rallies in the early part of the century and see you holding a sign with a sneer on your face.  How will they feel about you?  How will you explain to them that you actively suppressed the advancement of people who only wanted the same rights you have?  I'll be proud of the legacy I'm creating for the rest of my life, will you?

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Hate

Hate is a disease.  Hate is an infection.

You can be born with hate; that is to say, it can be an infection transmitted from your parents who raise you with that hate.  It is all you know as a child and during your formative years.  It can be part of the interpretation of the religion with which your parents raise you.  Like your parents give you your morals, your guidance, your status in life, they also give you hate.

Hate can be a tiny seed implanted in you through some negative event, like a member of the subject demographic of your hate imparting some wrong upon you.  You hate the deed that was done so much that you grow to feel that it was the greater entity to which the person who imparted that wrong belongs that is responsible for that deed, so you hate that instead of the wrongdoing itself or simply the person themselves.

For whatever reason hate is borne inside of you, when unimpeded, it can only grow.  It grows to consume you, it becomes part of your being.  Not only do you hate the people or the ideology that is the target of your corrupting disease, you hate everyone responsible for bringing that person or ideology to power.  You grow to hate everyone who simply stands by and continues to allow those people or that ideology to exist, although those uninterested parties have never been done harm by the person or thing you hate.  It grows, it multiplies, and eventually, you become hate itself.

I said in the above paragraph, "when unimpeded."  Hate can be cured.  Hate can be purged from your system like any other disease.  Life experience and wisdom often cure hate.  But, most often, those with the disease of hate surround themselves by others with that same hatred or worse, are charismatic masters of rhetoric, like Hitler, who implant that hate in others.  Combine hate and power and build entire demographics on it?  Much, much harder to cure hate.

Then, those who are targets of that hate, hate in return.  It grows to where they not only hate the hateful oppressor, but the entire demographic to which the oppressor belongs, the ideologies the oppressors by proxy espouse though not related to the oppression to which the hated are being subjected, and all those people who stand by and let the greater demographic of the smaller hating oppressing class prosper.

Fred Phelps, leader of the Westboro Baptist Church, one of the most vile, hate-filled organizations in the United States, is dying.  He could be dead by the time I hit "publish," I don't know.  He has infected all of his descendants with the hate with which he is infected and is a charismatic enough master of rhetoric that he has created a small but powerful following.  The main target of their hatred is the LGBT demographic.  I am not gay.  I am a Christian.  Fred Phelps calls himself a Christian, though his works do not reflect the teachings of the deity I share with him.  I have seen the hatred of Fred Phelps and those like him create a hatred of Christianity, which I certainly can't blame LGBT people for.  Not only does he piss me off as an LGBT ally and fuel a greater power which oppresses people I care about, he also makes me look bad as a Christian.

Yet, I want Fred Phelps to find peace in death.  I sincerely believe that the majority of his life has been filled with suffering from the disease of hatred with which he is infected and I want him to be released from that.  My belief in the afterlife is foggy, but if there is a Hell, I don't want him there.  I don't want anybody there.  I want everyone to spend their afterlife with God, in peace, released from all of the things that tortured them on Earth.

I believe God will punish Fred Phelps, I do, and greatly, and deservedly.  He has most assuredly turned people away from God with his hate, and he should be punished for that.  But I want him to be released from the hatred, the suffering, the disease he had on Earth.  When he dies, the internally- and externally-fueled suffering of a diseased man, and the power which he exerts over those he infected, will be over.  And for that, I will be glad.

Thursday, March 06, 2014

I need car manufacturers to hear me.

Cars are fancy these days.  Minivans come with vacuums, some cars have backup sensors and even cameras, some have headlights that turn with the road, some will parallel park for you, some have sensors that tell you if the car two cars ahead of you is braking suddenly.  (I do believe the last two are voodoo.)  These are just middle-of-the-road cars, not even for 1%-ers - these are cars I see during my daytime trashy TV commercials.  This is the future!

I have a 2013 Limited Edition Toyota Camry SE.  It was an impulse therapeutic purchase while Ace was in the hospital last January.  Drew and I were emotionally compromised, so we blew the cost of a small house on a car.  It has a sunroof that opens, like, 9 different ways, big tires, leather seats, seat warmers, and a USB port.  Its LCD touch-screen display tells me what song is playing on my iPod, the band name, the album name, and shows me the album cover.  I can switch to satellite radio or Pandora.  I can see my fuel consumption rates and tire pressure and access a map.  I can make and receive phone calls from the display or my steering wheel and the call comes through the radio speakers.

While the car is in park, I can input an address and a businesslike female voice will gently navigate me turn by turn to my location.  Also while the car is in park (safety first), I can check movie times, nearby gas prices, stock prices, sports scores, and make restaurant reservations.  You get the picture.  I'm saying, my car is pretty fancy for a Toyota.

Yet, my vanity mirror still shows my disturbingly multiplying amount of gray hairs in glaring detail.  What the hell, science?  Young people with smaller budgets and hair that's all the same color are not buying Limited Edition Toyota Camry SEs.  Well-established thirty-*cough*-year-old people are your target market, and we're a little salty up there.  I don't care what my next car costs or if I have to *beleaguered sigh* give up the ability to check my stock inflation while my ass is nice and toasty in my leather seat, I want my vanity mirror to blend the grays in.  It's called a VANITY mirror, can we not make it for the vain?

Monday, February 03, 2014

Baconators and heroin

This may piss y'all off, but you're pissing me off, so I don't really care about your feelings.

If you have ever been significantly overweight, barring a medical condition causing the weight gain, you have no moral high ground to talk about the famous actor who died of a heroin overdose yesterday.

Stop furiously texting me and hear me out.  You, for whatever reason, developed an unhealthy relationship with food and didn't exercise enough.  Maybe, just maybe, you use food to cover up your feelings.  Maybe you didn't use it to cover up your feelings - you just REALLY enjoyed food and just couldn't say no even if you knew you'd had too much.  So you gained a bunch of weight.  Gather 'round, kiddies, that's addictive behavior.  Are you pissed that I'm calling you an addict?  Then tell me how your behavior doesn't parallel the pattern of an addict's.

Some (damn) people are able to eat comfort food or just overstuff themselves on special occasions and snap out of it and exercise it off and face their feelings and go on about their lives and maintain a healthy weight.  We significantly overweight people, when we eat unhealthy food, hope we are those (damn) people.  We are not.  We stuff our faces, vowing to work it off or start a diet on Monday but that doesn't happen, so we figure what the hell, might as well stuff our faces again.  Eventually, we become overweight and we crave more food to satisfy ourselves.  And sugar, trans fats, aspartame, all physically addictive, and we NEED more.  We know when we put that food in our mouths that we're hurting ourselves, but we don't care.  That's addictive behavior.

You know when I knew I had a problem?  When I ate a Baconator (two beef patties, two slices of cheese, four slices of bacon, condiments, lettuce, tomato, and a bun) and a large fry to stifle my anger and was still angry and hungry and wanted more.  That was a rude awakening.  I was fortunate enough to be in a place in my life and have enough money where I could seek professional help.  Others are not so fortunate.  I don't judge them, and neither should you.

Replace "food" with "substances."  Some people are able to have a couple glasses of wine after a particularly hard day or get drunk occasionally and not have a problem.  Some people can take a pain pill as prescribed for pain and then let the rest of the bottle rot away in their medicine cabinets forgotten.  Some people can smoke cigarettes once or twice a month.  When we try a substance for the first time and enjoy the high, we hope we are the kind of people who can walk away from them.  When addiction happens, it's triggered from the first time you try a substance.  You don't know until you try it.  You're aware of the chance, but you think it won't happen to you.

It's the same thing with heroin.  Some people can and do use heroin recreationally and don't develop an addiction.  I'm sure that when Philip Seymour Hoffman tried heroin for the first time he didn't think he'd become addicted.  Nobody WANTS to become addicted to anything - they just want to experience a high or have a temporary escape, or be like non-addicts who can use those things on occasion.  And as with food and other substances, heroin addicts eventually need more to become satisfied.  You never know which dance with your drug of choice will be your last.

"But Stacey, Philip Seymour Hoffman was clean for a really long time and went back to it."

Hey, overweight people?  Have you ever gotten to a much more manageable weight for a number of months or years then gained it back?  Tell me how you're better than Hoffman.  Hint: you're not.  Unlike with substances, you can't quit eating food.  You can develop a healthy relationship with food and a good exercise regiment and keep the addiction at bay.  Then at some point you're just tired of watching numbers all the time and just want to be like one of those (damn) people who doesn't put on weight with everything they eat.  You know exactly what you're doing to put the weight right back on, but you do it anyway, thinking there's no way you'll get all the way back into your fat pants.  Maybe a footlong chili cheese dog won't kill you immediately like too much heroin in a needle will, but you know eating the wrong things and not exercising will eventually get you overweight again.  You do it anyway.  That's addictive behavior.

Hoffman probably didn't put that needle in his arm thinking it would kill him.  Maybe he did, who knows.  But turning your nose up at him for falling off the wagon ignores the very real disease of addiction.  He could no more stop himself from putting that needle in his arm than an obese person can stop themselves from getting a third plate at a buffet.  Yes, they can stop themselves, but the voice of addiction is much, much, MUCH louder than the voice of reason.  I topped out at 291 pounds.  I know.

(Before you "but Stacey" me some more, I'm aware that you can be 100 pounds overweight and still have healthy blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar numbers.  I'm also aware that you can be at a healthy weight and have healthy numbers and eat a fried chicken sandwich with mayonnaise with every meal.  You can also be a meth addict and still have all your teeth.  Doesn't mean you won't lose all your teeth eventually.  I'm also aware that you can eat healthy and exercise and still be overweight.  That's awesome.  I'm referring to people with food addictions.  Did I cover everything you want to "correct" me about?)

Friday, January 31, 2014

Parentier-than-thou

I've seen this post all over my Facebook this morning.  I reckon she envisions herself as some kind of revolutionary but 99% of the parents I know espouse this philosophy.  It's just part of the universally accepted rule book for how to raise a child.  I do it, you do it, your parents did it, their parents did it, ad nauseam, time immemorial.  I hate to wreck this selective memory echo chamber, but I call bull.

My parents certainly espoused this philosophy.  They were in no way going to cater to my individual meal demands.  I sure did go some nights without eating supper.  I have lived in France, New Orleans, and Los Angeles and traveled to Las Vegas and New York City and have been exposed to and tried many, many different cuisines.  I have been adventurous in my cooking since reaching adulthood and am very open-minded about the things I will try.  Key word:  TRY.

Y'all, I am a super picky eater and I assure you, I will slap damn be a brat about not eating the foods I don't like.  The food I find most offensive in the world is cooked cauliflower.  I don't know what hellish otherworldly realm cauliflower goes through during the cooking process that turns it from a perfectly palatable vehicle for hummus into... whatever it becomes, but I refuse to eat it once it's cooked.  I'm not throwing it in the face of the person who cooked it, but I will not put it in my mouth - I don't care if Justin Timberlake cooked it for me.  And no, I won't like your cooked cauliflower, no matter how proud you are of it.  You can put a bunch of parmesan and garlic in a goat's ass and deep fry it and it still tastes like a goat's ass.  I also refuse to eat anything that has the texture of a tongue (ugh, sushi), I think cooked cabbage smells like farts and tastes worse, the only spicy food I will eat is crawfish, and I think you might as well put a teeny mound of hot rotting garbage on a filet mignon if you're going to put bleu cheese on it.  Disgusting.

You know whose parents did not espouse this philosophy?  Drew's.  I know this because his mother llloooovvvees to recount literally every single meal he ever turned down and what she would serve his spoiled self instead.  She cannot tell me enough about the times she'd make "spaghetti with meatballs and red sauce from scratch and muffalettas and gumbo and fried catfish but noooo, he wouldn't even try it.  He ate Chef Boyardee instead.  Oh, he LIVED on Chef Boyardee, boy boy.  I thought he'd turn into a can, Stacey!  Thought he'd turn into a CAN."  And I assure you, Drew's mother is an incredible Cajun cook.  But she spoiled him to pieces.  You know who's the least picky eater I know now?  Drew.  Once he started cooking his own food, he became a lot more adventurous and now he'll eat anything, especially his mother's food.  The only food he doesn't like is raw celery.  He even eats MY cooking, so pray for him.

There's a whole massive middle ground between "mmmyyyy children eat a new cuisine from a different country every night or they starve" and "I thought he'd turn into a CAN."  It's okay if you are on one side or the other, and it's okay if you fall in the middle.  It's where my parents fell, and I guarantee it's where most parents fall.  No, my parents didn't serve me a bowl of Cookie Crisp on a silver platter if I didn't eat what they served me, but they also weren't serving star fruit and quinoa at every other meal.  My dad was (is) a very meat-and-potatoes and restaurants kind of guy and my mom and stepdad had 4 kids to feed and were doing their best to please a crowd 6 nights a week.

I make Ace take a few bites of new things, several times, but once it's established that he absolutely hates it, I'm not going to make him eat it.  Blueberries, for example.  What food is more inoffensive than blueberries?  Why would ANYBODY not like blueberries?  Ace just doesn't.  I've given him blueberries in every presentable fashion and he simply hates them.  Am I gonna give him blueberry pancakes if that's what Drew and I want for supper?  Of course not.  He gets a grilled cheese sandwich and some baby carrots.  Now, if I'm cooking something I know he likes and he wants something else, or if I cook something new that's relatively inoffensive and he refuses it, sorry, champ, see you for breakfast.  But 99% of the time, Drew and I make stuff that the whole family likes.  Ace gets a healthy diet and doesn't fight much with most meats and fruits and veggies, so I'm not gonna fight with him over food if I don't have to.

I'm pretty sure the writer of the article is the same way, and I'm pretty sure all of you reposting that article are, too.  There's so much to fight with your kids over, why fight over food every night, or hell, even every week?  She probably just wanted to brag that her kids like goat cheese.  The children of France who ate Neufchatel for lunch laugh wholeheartedly.

Monday, January 27, 2014

Ugh, oysters.

Man, I freaking hate oysters.  They have GOT to be the worst food.  So gross.  Taste, texture, all of it, buuu-HARF.

Since I hate oysters, everyone should hate oysters and anyone who does like them is wrong.  Just read the Bible!  Eating them is a Levitical sin.  It goes completely against my way of life of eating tasty animals because watching one of Those People eat an oyster just makes me sick to my stomach.  And don't get me started on OYSTER BARS, where oyster-lovers flaunt their gluttonous sin in front of regular, God-fearing people.  And how many serious hand injuries have happened in those oyster bars while shucking, hmm?  The love of oysters is clearly dangerous and unnatural.

People are not born to like oysters because eating oysters is a sin and God doesn't make mistakes.  It's got to be due to some childhood trauma, like an older sibling forcing them to eat boogers resulting in some kind of Stockholm Syndrome.  Or, even worse, being exposed to oyster lovers.  How could I possibly explain to my child that people like oysters?  He, himself, will never like oysters because I will raise him knowing the truth that oysters are disgusting.

Now, we mustn't judge oyster lovers.  Love the sinner, hate the sin.  But I should be allowed to exercise my religious freedom and deny an oyster lover housing or employment because I absolutely disagree with their lifestyle.  Oyster lovers shouldn't be in any kind of leadership position over children because one of them might offer a child an oyster.  We CERTAINLY shouldn't allow oyster lovers to marry each other and spread the oyster-loving agenda!  What if they succumb to the aphrodisiac properties of an oyster binge and create a child who grows up to love oysters?

Do I sound ridiculous?  Well, so do you if you're against equal rights for LGBT people.  Get on the right side of history, y'all.



(Oysters really are gross though.)

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

I may seem crazy, but...

People think I'm this HUGE clean freak because I talk about cleaning a lot.  They say they couldn't do what I do, that they wish they were the housekeeper I am, and some have asked for my cleaning schedule.

Listen, y'all.  Lemme make a couple things clear.

1.  Of utmost importance, cleaning is not a burden to me.  I look forward to it because it's, quite honestly, my zen time.  You can stop reading now if you want.  I turn on my iPod, put on my headphones, and escape from my reality for between 1-3 hours every day.  I'm a cleaning ROBOT if I'm stressed out or angry or sad about something.  I'm told it's a healthy coping mechanism although I do see in ways where I'm anxiously controlling about it - but then again, it's my main escape.  Some people read.  Some people do heroin.  I'm told there are escapes between those two extremes, but I clean.  (And maybe a little heroin.)  (I don't do heroin, that was a joke.  I'm bad at jokes.)

2.  I'm a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom with very few hobbies or obligations, no chronic pain or fatigue conditions, and only one child who is 7 and isn't very messy.

3.  I had to live with a hoarder in my teens and as a result have grown up to develop a physical aversion to clutter, and EVERYTHING is clutter to me.  Everything I own has to have an immediate purpose or it's purged from my home.  I don't have a lot of decorations or knick-knacks, photos on my walls, books, or anything else that will accumulate dust.  I donate Ace's unused toys to charity every 6 months and I'm fairly ruthless about it.  My closets and cabinets are uncluttered (but admittedly unorganized) and my attic is still mostly empty.  This may seem like a good thing, but I really will donate things or throw things out that we have to buy again, like phone cords or boxes or craft/office supplies.  Or fat/skinny clothes.  Don't get me started on deviled egg trays.  Or... couches.  (Not a joke.)  If I deem it clutter, it is GONE.  It has flustered Drew more than once.

4.  I may not do heroin, but I do take Adderall, as prescribed, and it's The Motivator To Rule All Motivators.  I still would clean as an escape before I was on it but as is common with people with ADHD I had to force myself to keep a very, very strict schedule or things wouldn't get done.  I wouldn't do dishes unless I absolutely had to and I'd go 2 weeks without touching the washing machine.  Now, cleaning has just become The Thing I Do On Adderall.  And drink a lot of water.

5.  I don't do a damn thing after 5-ish, which is probably when the Adderall wears off.  Any laundry or dishes that remain or accumulate after I turn back into a pumpkin will wait until the next day.  And heaven help everyone if I haven't showered by that point.  I'll be in a cloud of filth reading Twitter and watching TV for the rest of the day.  (That was a joke.  I'm still bad at jokes.)

If you have some other healthy coping mechanism, you have a baby or more than one child or a messy child or a job or something else that makes cleaning challenging, you've never lived with a hoarder, or you're not on amphetamines or even a bunch of coffee, who cares that you're not the housekeeper I am?  Nobody notices the mess in your house, seriously, unless you're actually a pig.  People notice smells - they don't notice messes.  If they do, more than likely, they're not judging you for it.  And if they are judging you for it, they can clean it their damn selves.

If you still want it, here's my schedule.  If you've already decided I'm a complete nutcase, hit your browser's X button.  It doesn't get a whole lot better from here.

Every single day, I start with dishes.  On days I just do. not. want. to. clean, I still just start with the dishes and it almost always snowballs from there.  Clear the clutter off the counters, spray them down, wipe them off.  Spray/wipe the front of the microwave/top of the stove.  Clear the clutter from the tables/floors in the dining room/living room, spray/wipe all the tables.  Most days, I then sweep the floor in the kitchen, dining room, living room, scoop the cat litter, sweep the hallway.  All that takes about an hour.  Then, homeschool.

On Mondays, I wash all the clothes, which is usually 3-4 loads.  I do hang/fold it all and put it all away when it comes out of the dryer, so martyr me at will (unless it's after 5).  I do not freakin' iron.  Ever.  If the wrinkles don't come out in the dryer, I'm not wearing it ever again.  Sometimes, for fun, I mop the kitchen on Mondays.  I literally just said "for fun," you read that correctly.

On Tuesdays, I wash/replace bedding/blankets.  Drew puts the fitted sheet back on our bed, though, because that son of a gun is TIGHT and requires manly muscle power, or womanly muscle power, or trained monkey muscle power.  I'm saying I have the muscle tone of a 3-day-old baby and Drew is manly and can put the fitted sheet on our bed.

Wednesdays are "maid days," although my maid only comes every other Wednesday.  I do pre-maid cleaning, and anyone who tells you they don't is lying.  I pick up all the crap that's accumulated in the house and put it back in its right place.  Shoes go back on their shelves, jewelry goes back in the box, books go back where they belong, etc.  I wash the bathroom rugs and the towels.  Then either the maid comes and does her wonderful, wonderful thing or I do my regular daily cleaning then sweep the entire house, vacuum the rugs, and mop everything but the bedrooms.  I leave the dusting, cleaning the bathrooms, and mopping the bedrooms to her.  She also does little things I just don't think about, like cleaning the inside of the microwave, wiping dust off my individual plant leaves (maybe she's on Adderall), sweeping under furniture, stuff like that.  She's my favorite luxury and she's worth every penny.

On Thursdays I wash a load of clothes if I need to.  Mostly on Thursdays and Fridays, I either do a big load of nothing after I do my daily cleaning or I take on some project.  Something small like cleaning my makeup brushes or shaving an armpit.  Just one armpit, though.  I'll do the other next week.  (Also a joke.  Pfffft, shaving.  I've been married 13 years.)

On weekends, I either eschew my daily cleaning in favor of a big project (like throwing away valuable things like screws or a stapler or something else my freakish mind has deemed cluttery), or I wither away watching documentaries about people who are addicted to eating cat hair.  Depends on my level of GiveADamn.

I don't expect Drew to do much in the way of cleaning because Ace remains, as ever, very difficult to manage and Drew takes him off my hands every day after work and on weekends and puts him to bed almost every night.  Drew's only chores, really, are the fitted sheet, taking the trash out on trash days, and most of the grocery shopping because I refuse to take Ace to the grocery store.  Plus, you know, earning the money to keep me in my life of sublime leisure.  I'd really like to take back grocery shopping because I think Drew does enough taking care of Ace and working, but I'm gonna have to do it after Drew gets home from work, so please refer back to where I turn into a pumpkin after 5.  Otherwise, I'm completely happy with the chore balance.

Writing this blog post has thrown me completely off schedule.  It's gonna be a Netflix-documentary-as-homeschool kinda day.  I'm gonna turn on some filthy misogynistic rap station on Pandora and start the dishes.