I Blog Because Boys Are Dumb

Last week, I wrote about The Agent and what an idiot he was. Go ahead and read it if you haven’t already; I’ll wait. I was mad about it at the time, then I wrote about it and poured all my anger into my writing. Having released my emotions, I promptly forgot all about the incident by dinner that evening. The Agent and I even joked about it the next day-- he tried to say he thought he had the stomach flu. Riiiiiiight.

After Christmas, I came back to work and thought that The Agent’s escapade would make a humorous anecdote for my friends.

(I must learn not to do this. This is clearly the reason why I blog-- so I don’t have to tell the real world what an idiot The Agent is)

My friends did not think it was very funny.

“You waited until 9:30 to call him?”
“You let him come to bed that night? You didn’t make him sleep on the couch?”
“You let him sleep in the next day?”

Um… yeah, yeah, no, and yeah. It wasn’t really that big of a deal.

They thought it was a very big deal. But the biggest problem they had was with how the story ended. “So, you went to your Weight Watcher’s meeting, you came home, and then what?” they asked. “Did you have it out then?”

“No,"  I answered, wishing I had never brought it up in the first place. “I was over it by then. He was hung over, that’s punishment enough. I wasn’t angry anymore. I made dinner, we watched a movie, it was fine.”

My friends looked at me like I was crazy.

“But Lovely,” one girlfriend said. “If you don’t get mad, he’s just going to keep on doing stuff like this. He‘s going to think this is acceptable behavior. Doesn‘t it hurt you when he acts like this?”

Ugh. Oh, no. They felt sorry for me. And they thought my husband was a douche. It's one thing for me to call The Agent an idiot, but I don't want anyone else thinking it.

I don’t know… I was mad, but it’s not like I was ready for Divorce Court. He’s an idiot, but he was an idiot before I married him. It’s not really a new thing. And what’s the point of getting upset? What does that accomplish? Isn’t it better to just move on?

"Gosh, Lovely," my other girlfriend said. "I wish you were my wife." 

I changed the subject after that, but the rest of our lunch was awkward. I was paranoid that they were thinking that I was a naïve and ignorant girl for allowing The Agent to behave the way he did, and I was also second guessing myself. Did I let him off too easy? Is it a big deal, and I’m just used to him acting like this that it has become not a big deal? Or is it truly not a big deal and my friends need to lighten up?

This wouldn't even be an issue if boys weren't so dumb in the first place.

Why The Agent's in Trouble

My mother is the back up cook at a convalescent hospital, which means she cooks when the main cook is off, which is every weekend and holiday. It is for this reason that I haven’t had an actual holiday dinner with her in years. I am ok with this, because it means I don’t have to choose between her and my dad on the actual holiday, although I do feel bad for my sister, who doesn’t have anywhere to go (we have different dads, and her dad is out of the picture. As is her loser baby daddy).

Anyway, yesterday was the last day my mother had off before Christmas, so she and my sister and my niece came over for pre-Christmas dinner. I already had the day off, and The Agent was going to only work a half day, coming home after his office Christmas luncheon. Cool. I took BK to daycare, and I kept Bug home with me so we could clean the house. My mother was coming over at 1, Bug would get some quality one on one time with her, and then The Agent would pick up BK and come home at 3. We would have dinner, open presents, and have a good time.

The day started out great. Bug and I had the house cleaned, my mother and sister came over at 1, Bug was excited to get them all to herself. I made a vanilla vodka and coke for myself and snuck one to my sister Kari (she’s only 16, but since she already has a 1-year-old daughter, I figure she’s already done worse than that). Merriment all around.

I made a lasagna for dinner, and it was ready at 3. The Agent had already said not to wait on dinner if he wasn’t there, so we ate without him, no big deal. But when he still wasn’t home at 4, I called him. He said that he had had a few drinks after the luncheon, but he would be leaving soon. He asked me to pick up BK. I was annoyed that he was late, but whatever. My sister and I left the girls with my mother and we drove to pick up BK, looking at a few cars for sale on the way. Good times with my sister.

We came back home, the family marveled over BK’s ultimate cuteness, and we hung out and waited for The Agent. And waited. And then waited some more. Finally, at 5:30, we opened presents without him. It was getting dark by then, my mother has poor night vision, she needed to get home.

The Agent missed it.

I blew it off to my mother like it was no big deal, but inside I was livid. Ugh! I hate making excuses for him. And I know some wives might have been worried about him, but I really wasn’t. I knew where he was.

Drinking with his coworkers. Clearly, more important than hanging with his family.

My mother and sister left, I fed the kids dinner, gave them baths put them to bed. Finally, at 9:30, I called the Agent again. I knew he was fine, but I had to make SURE, you know? So, I call him, and of course he was fine, but he was beyond drunk. “I’ll be home in a few minutes,” he slurred. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“Of course we’ve had dinner!” I raged. “My mother’s gone! It’s 9:30 at night! You missed the whole thing!”

“Wait-- what time is it?”

“Agent, check your watch! It’s 9:30!”

The Agent said he had no idea it was so late, and he would come home right away. I told him he wasn’t going anywhere. It was obvious he was too drunk to drive. I told him to stay where he was, I would get him. The Agent said no, he didn’t want the kids going out in the cold. I said I’d rather have the kids go out in the cold than to a funeral and hung up.

The Agent dragged himself home at 11:30, which is earlier than I thought. Don’t worry, he didn’t drive, a coworker’s wife took him home. At least he did one thing right.

The Agent promptly went to the bathroom to throw up and then collapsed into bed. Gross.

It is now 11 am the next day as I write this. The Agent is still in bed. I got up 7 am, got the kids up, made them breakfast, played with them, did a load of dishes, put away the laundry, and put BK down for a nap.

I was in our room putting clothes away when the Agent stirred. “Hey, Baby,” he mumbled.

“Hi.”

“Were the kids crying earlier?”

“That was BK,” I answered flatly. “He fell down. He’s fine. He’s sleeping now.”

“What’s wrong, Baby?”

Ugh! Drunkard! “What do you think is wrong? You don’t get that I’m mad? You missed the whole thing! That was my mother’s Christmas, the only Christmas she’ll have, and this is only family you’ll have, and you decided to spend the night drinking instead.”

I left the room, without saying another word and without giving him a chance to respond. Not that he would have, anyway. He was too hung over to say anything, and what could he say? He knows he messed up.

So now, I’m trying to decide what to do next. I have one more present to go out and buy today, and I wanted to try to get to a Weight Watchers Meeting. I haven’t gone in 3 weeks, and my butt is showing the effects.

Is it more of a punishment to drag him with me, where he’s forced to function in the world but I’ll be able to help with the kids, or to make him stay home with the kids while I go out by myself, but really all he’ll have to do is lay on the couch and make sure the kids don’t poke each other in the eye?

Decisions, decisions…

Ghosts of Christmases Past

Let’s take a rewind, 6 years back. I was 7 months pregnant with Bug, and I had already gained 50 of the 76 pounds that came with the pregnancy. I was large, uncomfortable, and more than a little bitchy.

It was the Christmas season, and a lot of the moms I worked with had started breaking out their Christmas sweaters. Some were kinda cute-- I remember one lady had a gray sweater with a snowman embroidered on it that was nice. But most of them were straight hideous. I told my girlfriend one day in the break room that apparently it was an unwritten rule that once you become a mom, you have to wear a tacky Christmas sweater. We had a laugh, and I went on to complain about how my feet were swelling up so much, I was wearing flip flops in the 40 degree weather.

Two weeks later, we were having our annual holiday lunch-- catered from the local Italian place. After the lunch, various forms of recognition were awarded to those who were worthy, coworkers who had gone above and beyond throughout the course of the year. Certainly not me. I wasn’t really even paying attention until my boss said, “A little birdie told me about something our expectant mom asked Santa for this Christmas…”

My ears perked up. I was the only pregnant girl in the office. I was getting a gift? My boss beckoned to me, and I waddled my way to the front of the room. My boss was holding up a large bag, and gesturing for me to open the gift in front of the entire office.

Oh, Lord.

I suppose it was not the ugliest sweater ever made. Just that year, my step mother had ordered a hideous turquoise monstrosity, featuring elves holding strings of lights that really lit up. But the sweater that I pulled out of the bag was, well… not cute.

It was bright red, with white snowflakes embroidered all over it. On each front panel, there was a happy little family of snowmen, perhaps caroling in the neighborhood, or picking out their Christmas tree. It was so not me. As if the sweater wasn’t bad enough, it came with a matching pair of pants: red, with a classy elastic waist band. Let me tell you, I was one sexy pregnant Mama.

The whole office laughed over this gift, and I was mortified to have this kind of unwanted attention.

6 years has passed since this gift was given to me. At least 80% of the office has turned over since then. In fact, the very woman who gave me the sweater no longer works for company. And yet, someone always remembers, and reminds me.

“Hey, Lovely! You going to wear the sweater this year?” “Great sweater, Lovely. Is that the one the boss gave you, or are you starting a collection?”

Lest you doubt my sexiness, here is a picture of me in the sweater the Christmas after I had Bug:

You know you want some of this.

The Big V

So, as you know, I have two kids. I am happy with my two kids, I don’t need three. Therefore, The Agent has decided to get the Big V. Snip, snip.

I’m not sure how I feel like this. Sure, I don’t think I necessarily want anymore children, but KNOWING I can’t have anymore is completely different story. Yes, I can adopt again (for those who don't know, BK is adopted), but I will never again experiences the feelings that go along with a pregnancy. It’s a little sad. But, on the flip side, I already have two young kids. I am tired.

What we decided to do was go off the pill back in May, and just play things by ear, in case fate decided to step in. At the end of the year, The Agent would make his appointment, baby or not.

Well, it’s the end of the year, and Fate decided to stay out of the equation. I am not pregnant, and The Agent is getting cut.

Our insurance requires that The Agent take an hour long class before scheduling the procedure, presumably to make sure that the guy is really sure this is something he wants to do, and just using it as a way to have sex with as many women as he wants.

(Incidentally, I do believe that in the case of my niece’s father, who had sired 5 children with four different girls before he turned 20, a vasectomy should be state mandated. But that’s a different story.)

So, The Agent went to his class with about a dozen other guys (one who dragged his wife and infant child with him). They watched a movie, the process was explained to them, as well as recovery time and possible complications. The Agent is particularly concerned about the side effects, something about “perpetual blue balls.” My sweet innocent mind does not allow me to know much about this condition, but apparently it’s not very pleasant.

The Agent came home after the class with his mind made up. “I’m not going to do it,” he said. “We’ll just have to take our chances.”

“Sure, we can do that,” I answered pleasantly. “I think I would love being pregnant again, actually. And you know, multiples run in my family. Maybe we’ll get lucky next time and have twins, or even triplets. Wouldn’t that be exciting? To be 40 years old, and trying to potty train three toddlers at once? Fun!”

That changed his mind right back again.

“So, what’s the next step?” I asked.

“I get shaved,” he answered. “And then you buy me sweats that I can wear to work, because I am sure it will be at least a month before I can put on a pair of jeans again.”

Yes, Dear. They’re already under the tree.

Prima Ballerina

We started Bug in ballet this year, and she had her first dance recital last week. We almost didn't make it on stage. What a mess. The recital was at a huge auditorium at our local college, and it was packed full. The Agent and BK went to go sit in the audience with the seven other family and friends that came to see Bug perform, and I went to take out little ballerina to where the dancers were meeting.

The usher checked his list and told me to take Bug to section 2, where at least 30 other 4-year-olds were sitting. "Do I go with her?" I asked. The usher said no, parents were not allowed with the dancers. Umm... OK. Bug went to sit between two other little dancers, and she seemed fine. "OK Baby. I love you, be good." I went to go sit with the rest of the family.

It was still  a good 20 minutes before the start of the show, and I was chatting with my stepmother when I happened to look across the auditorium and saw a little girl in her little leotard, climbing up the stairs to the empty balcony level by herself.

"Look at that little girl up there," I said. "No one's watching her. That poor kid's going to get hurt. Wait a minute... is that Bug? Oh my God! What is she doing up there!" I got up from my seat and started running across the packed theater, pushing people out of the way and screaming Bug's name. "Bug! BUG!" She couldn't hear me over the crowd, and kept climbing up the stairs. As I got closer, I could see that she was crying. "Bug, stop! STOP!" I was almost crying myself, panicked that I was going to lose sight of her, when she finally turned around and saw me. We ran to each other, and I wrapped Bug in my arms. "Bug, what were you doing? You never leave by yourself, do you understand? NEVER!"

"Mommy, I wanted you," Bug sobbed. "I couldn't find you."

"Bug, you NEVER walk away like that! What if I hadn't seen you? What if I lost you? What if someone took you? Never never NEVER walk away like that!"

I was relieved that Bug was ok, but I was livid. If you tell me I'm not allowed to be with my kid, you damn well better make sure someone is watching her. I took Bug by the hand and marched back downstairs to where the other 4-year-olds were. "Who's in charge here?" I demanded.

A woman older than my grandmother spoke up. "I am," she replied. "Call me Grandma Vera."

"Well... Vera," I said. "You're watching the kids? Then why is it that I found my kid at the top of those stairs? You're not watching them! You can't let these kids out of your sight!"

"W-well, I'm w-watching them now," Vera stammered.

"I frankly don't care about these other kids. I care about my kid." I put Bug's hand into Vera's. "You will not let my child out of your sight. When you sit down, she's going on your lap. You don't even blink without grabbing her hand first. Are we clear?"

Vera said yes. I felt a little bad for going off on her when she was clearly a volunteer, but maybe they should get someone less than 90 to watch 30 4-year-olds.

OK, I had dealt with Vera, but Bug did not want to go back with the other kids. "Mommy, I want to be with you," she cried.

"Baby, I can't sit with you, and if you sit with me, you won't be able to dance. Everyone came to see you, don't you want to dance on stage?"

Bug said she did, but she still looked doubtful, and she hadn't stopped crying yet. I was pretty sure our friends and family just paid $12 a ticket for nothing.

Just then, my best friend Vanessa walked in. Ah, Vanessa. Always late to the party. "Hi, Bug!" she said happily. "I came to see you dance! Did I miss it?"

"No," Bug sniffed.

"Oh, thank goodness! Because I brought a flower for you!"

Bug immediately brightened up. "A flower for me?" Bug asked hopefully.

"Yep! But you can't have it until after you dance. If you dance really really well, you'll get your flower. Your show is about to start, right? So Mommy and I better sit down so we don't miss it."

Oh, Vanessa. How I love you.

So, Bug happily sat next to Grandma Vera, and Vanessa and I sat in the audience. I don't want to brag, but Bug was the best dancer there.

By far.

After the show, Bug got a rose  from Vanessa, as promised. She also got a dozen tulips from me and The Agent, but I could have saved my money for as much as she cared about those. She shoved her rose in everyone's face and shouted "smell my rose!" to anyone who would listen. And when she saw the older dancers with their bouquets, Bug happily said to them, "Look! I have one, too!"

She was so cute.