The gym, otherwise known as "the mistress."

I have likened my husband's incessant need to go to the gym as being his "mistress" in our relationship.

Today a guy at work walked into the lunchroom, where my husband and I were eating lunch together. (He "treated" me to a sandwich. Ain't he sweet? Just like dating again! Actually, now that I remember, when I asked if I get to have chips too, he sighed and said, "I GUESS...." Not like dating at all. Not sweet. Boo!)

"Did Mr. Not Sweet tell you what I told him to tell you yesterday?" the guy asked.

"Um, no....," I said.

My husband, whose new name for this post is Mr. Not Sweet laughed.

"Well," the guy started, "I told him to tell you that he's getting too big and you need to tell him to stop going to the gym."

Uh oh, I thought. First, he's bringing up the shhhh...Mistress. Second, I don't think he's getting big, um, bigger, and wow, if he is, and I'm not noticing it, and perhaps we should hire an overnight nanny and get a hotel room.

Right then another guy came in and started going on and on about the last episode of Survivor, a show we normally watch, but we aren't watching this season for some reason, and we all laughed and chatted and good times were had. Phew, I thought. No more Mistress talk.

As soon as the second guy left, Mr. Not Sweet picked it right back up.

"So yeah, he told me to tell you...blah blah blah gym talk blah," he said.

"Um. I call that thing called the gym his Mistress," I said.

There was talk about if someone took the gym away from Mr. Not Sweet, it would be like taking his life away and this and that, and the whole time I'm thinking, sheesh. What about if I was taken away? Huh? What about me! Darn the Mistress!!! The Mistress needs to die!

"He's going to have gym babies with his Mistress," I said. "And some day there will be a knock on the door, and when we open it, it'll be a baby dumbbell asking for his daddy."

I never said I was mature or made sense. I did, however, make my husband laugh. I guess that's all that matter. Since he assumes I was kidding.

Almost lost it. Almost.

I'm sitting here on the couch, next to my boy, who is freshly washed and clothed in footy PJs, half listening to Sesame Street but definitely not watching it, trying to let loose every ounce of frustration and annoyance I just felt between the half hour of 5pm to 5:30pm when all hell seemed to break loose in our house.

I thought, maybe if I write about it, find something funny about it, then I can let it all go and not feel so empty for wanting to walk out the door, walk down the hall, walk outside, sit on a bench and just breath. But that would mean leaving Mateo in the condo alone with the cats and no knowledge of how to work the remote to the TV. And that just seems really mean.

Mateo is entering this fun new stage of life called "you put me in my high chair to feed me and I'm gonna swing my arms around like a wild monkey and knock everything off, or better yet, flinging my arm when I have something wet on it so splotches hit the wall and floor and you and me." It's not fun. And, well, I'm getting really sick of it.

I don't know how he is in daycare, but since I haven't heard anything negative, I have to assume he's sitting at the table like a good little angel, eating the food given to him. When he's home? It's a constant battle. Sometimes I get so frustrated with it all, I just take his dinner away from him and he probably goes to bed hungry (he still can't tell us). I know he doesn't get what I'm doing, but it's a lot easier to take the food away than watch it all covering our floor and walls and table.

Tonight was no different. He hasn't eaten much today, mostly fruit, because every time we tried to feed him in his high chair, he just wanted to be the craziest boy on this planet and only ate bits. Now, you let him eat bites while he's playing, then he'll get an almost full meal inside him. But do we want to start that madness? I think not.

After chucking dried pea pods one by one on the floor (dried pea pods he just ate before being put in his chair, exclaiming "mo, mo, mo" when he was finished), then dipping his hand in hummus so he could fling his hummusy hand back and forth at top speed, causing chunks of hummus to stick to the wall (the very same hummus he devoured after returning from Trader Joe's with his daddy), and then dropping pita bread bits on the floor while laughing manically (the same pita bread he ate with the hummus he devoured), I told him it was enough, took his tray away, cleaned him up and let him down onto the floor. And because I'm an emotional eater (I've decided), I ended up eating the little appetizer pizzas I heated up for him along with the hummus that didn't make it on the wall or floor with some pita bread (not the bread that fell on the floor - I do have standards).

While I was stuffing my face, he decided to pull the bottom part of our refrigerator grill off. I took this from him and put it where he couldn't get to it. He then laid on the ground and started reaching under the refrigerator. I grabbed him, told him to stop, moved him into the dining area, closed the gate and walked away....

Because walking away is so much better than eating everything in sight or yelling at the poor boy when he doesn't even get what he's doing (to some extent).

While he proceeded to cry big crocodile tears, I started getting his bath stuff together.

I think this is where I almost lost it. Almost. Because if my husband had been home, I think I would have gone ballistic on him and then ran outside in my slob clothes, my somewhat broken glasses and my very much so bird's nest of a hairdo, screaming at the top of my lungs, "I'M SO DONE! TAKE ME TO THE LOONY HOUSE!"

I always get Mateo's PJs, night diaper, extra towel together for when I bring him into his room after his bath. It just makes my life that much easier, and that's all that matters, correct? I pulled open the top drawer, where his PJs are kept, only to find a whole mess of shorts and pants where the PJs should be. Hmm. I opened the middle drawer and saw my husband's fantastic organization of Mateo's drawer, with each clothing item neatly folded and piled on top of each other. Surely the PJs would be in here, I thought. Nope.

I looked in the very bottom drawer. Nothing. I went back through every drawer, getting more and more annoyed. That's when I headed to the phone and called my husband, who was at the gym, to ask him to call me back and kindly tell me where Mateo's PJs are because I couldn't find a single pair. I even looked in his laundry basket since most of his clothes got washed -- nothing.

I then went back into Mateo's room and very passive aggressively began riffling through all Mateo's neatly folded up clothes because I'm sorry, if you're going to rearrange a set of drawers/clothing that have been put away the same way for, oh, about 21 months, then let a gal know. Right? Right.

Then I turned around and saw the design of one of his PJs sticking out of a cloth bin we use for toy storage.

And that's where all his PJs ended up. I immediately went into our room, grabbed the phone, called my husband, said "NEVER MIND."

What was Mateo doing this whole time? Crying even bigger crocodile tears in the dining area. When I let him out, and told him to go into his room, that boy hightailed into his room as fast as he could, moaning and sobbing and basically saying "sorry" as best he knows how. We hugged it out, but I was still miffed at him, so his bath was quick, then into PJs and this is how we found ourselves sitting on the couch, snuggling because we both aren't understanding each other.

And I hear it only gets worse before it gets better....I love my boy, I love my boy, I love my boy (nightly affirmation).

My husband, my mom.

I have one winter jacket that fits me. Just one.

I wore it the other day, and when I got home, I tossed it on a box in our hallway because I'm infamous around these parts for not hanging up my clothes.

My cats are infamous for nesting in the clothes I so infamously leave laying around. More so the fluffier of the two cats, Missy Sophia. Missy Sophia thinks I'm her cat god and won't leave me alone unless that little creature is sitting on my lap or next to me. Missy Sophia hates that little creature but loves me.

I think nesting in my clothes is her next best thing to laying on me.

Anyway.

So I really don't care if our cats nest in my clothes. I just wash them. Or get the hair off with one of those tape roller things. Or, sometimes, I even hang up my clothes.

My husband does care. It seems to drive him crazy that I don't care about hanging up my clothes or that our cats nest in my clothes. Most times, even though it drives him nuts, he won't hang up my clothes for me. He just grumbles to the cats about how lazy their mom is. Other times, he will hang up my clothes for me. Either way, I just ignore him.

After a weekend of cats nesting in my winter jacket, he told me on Monday night that I should drop off my jacket to get dry cleaned. Because that cats have been nesting on it. And now it's covered in hair with some litter specks.

I ignored him.

I ignored him more because I have so much to do that fitting in going to the drycleaners just isn't a possibility. Plus, I don't care if the cats nest in my jacket.

Yesterday we were discussing the cold and rainy weather that is soon approaching the Bay Area (finally, I might add) when he said quietly, "You really should take your jacket in."

I looked at him and thought, "Really? You're really going to do this, again?"

He continued, "You know, it's the only winter jacket you have, and it's going to get cold, and the cats have been sleeping on it, and it has litter on it, and, well, you want to present yourself to people well, because litter is dirty, and there is litter all over your jacket, and you should take it in..."

He was speaking to me quietly and sincerely, as if this were a touchy subject and he was gently giving me advice to fix my situation.

"I heard you on Monday, MOM," I told him.

"I'm just saying," he said.

Where is my winter jacket right now? Still on that box, still covered in cat hair and litter. And yes, I will take it in, but first I will remove the cat hair and brush off the litter because it's going to rain tomorrow, it's my only winter coat, and I don't really care that the cats sleep on my clothes.

Case in point:



Missy Sophia, in all her glaring glory, on my pants.

And because I'm an equal opportunity cat mom, here is the other one, Zoe, the more "simple" of the two cats, staring at the light beam from my camera.

How to piss off your wife in less than 30 seconds.

I'm sick. I've been sick for days and days now. My husband has been sick, but his peak of sickness happened yesterday when he declared to me "I really don't feel good" via IM. I told him to stop acting like a baby. No, really, I did. But he was making me mad about something else, so you just have to believe me when I write that he deserved it.

So yes, we've all been sick around these parts, and it seems like Mateo is the only one who is now at the very tail end of his cold. His attitude did a complete 180 this morning, and he was acting very much the normal, goofy, cute, snuggly little boy that he so clearly is.

When my husband gets sick, he lets out these really weird noises at night. All night. All night LONG. And it drives me absolutely nuts. It's somewhere between a murmury whine and a nasally whistle. Eventually either he or I will leave the room so both of us can get some sleep.

Last night he actually laid down early (for him, late for me), and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he started making the noises. Somehow I managed to block them out, but then a bit later he got up to put a long sleeve shirt on, which woke me up.

I have to have the fan on all night, every night, 365 days a year, no matter how cold it is outside. I'm just weird that way and more weird now that I've had Mateo. My body temperature is all jacked up, and I cannot breath in our bedroom without some air circulating around. I never get cold. Well, that's not true; you find me at 6:30am on a windy SF morning, I'm usually somewhat cold, but I've yet to break out the winter jacket and probably won't for another month or so.

I knew he put the shirt on because he was cold and he'd have holy heck to pay if he turned the fan off. Believe me, he knows better now. And let's not even talk about the 2006 "the cats killed your fan" incident. I'm still mad about that one. Try finding a fan in late September - it's impossible.

He came back to bed and immediately spooned me. We don't spoon. I don't like anyone bothering me while I'm trying to sleep. So my first thought was, ugh, the spoon. Why? Why must you spoon me? But I let it go because he wasn't feeling well, and even though I don't like to spoon, I do love him, so these are the sacrifices I'll make for him.

"Mmmmrmmmmrmmm."

"Mmmmrmmmmmrmm."

"Mmmmrmmmmrmmm."

Yes, you guessed it. Not only was I being spooned, he was making his sick noises directly in my ear.

I waited a little bit to see if maybe he would stop after he fell asleep, but he didn't. I had to be mean and tell him to get away from me. He rolled back over to his spot.

"Why would you do that and make those noises in my ear?" I asked him.

"Cold...I'm cold," he told me.

I hurmphed and went to sleep until his noises woke me up again. I gave up and moved into the living room and slept on the couch so I could get some peace and quiet. That is until Zoe decided to attack whatever invisible things she was seeing at 3am, a mere one hour before I had to get up. But that's okay! That's a-okay.

I'm just trying to convince myself. If you must know.

Why being sick and watching Control don't mix.

I caught Mateo's cold, so I've been downing NyQuil at night to help me sleep. This past weekend, since my husband was home Friday, we actually managed to watch a movie - Control - which is about Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division and how he killed himself when he was a wee 23 years old, married (although cheating on his wife) and had a daughter (who never knew him, sadly).

I really hate movies like this. But "hate" in the way one would "hate" cake because it makes them fat but still eats it cause he/she really loves the cake. The director of the movie is one of my most favorite contemporary photographers of all time, Anton Corbijn, because he some how manages to layer such visual intensity to moods unlike any other black and white (or color) photographer I've seen. Simply put, he rocks.

So not only is the story a sad one, even if you don't care of Joy Division or don't know who the heck Joy Division is (and if that's the case, shame on you and go buy yourself a CD), but the way it was filmed adds way more sadness to the story.

Anyway, that was my mini review of the movie, I guess. What I really wanted to write about is how NyQuil and Control don't mix.

Being someone who has had a tragic suicide affect someone she loves, and a suicide wrapped in somewhat similar circumstances, it was hard watching this movie with my husband (okay, the someone is my husband). He's not an emotional person, but when he is, things like this movie will spark it. He's lost many people close to him, and it goes without saying that this type of movie will make him sad.

So what do I do? Before going to bed, I took NyQuil. I passed out. I dreamt. What did I dream about? My husband killing himself. Of course I did.

At some point he was in jail, so I think he ended up killing someone else too. You know how dreams go.

All I remember about the suicide part was saying over and over again, "I told him if he ever felt like doing this, he needed to tell me, why didn't he tell me???" which is something I did tell him after his friend killed himself.

And the most I remember about the jail part was me and someone else waiting where the prisoners are sent for visits (which was outside, in the open, without fences - and this goes to show how much I know about prisons), and my husband never coming. Then we realized we were supposed to tell someone we were there to see him.

Last night I had a dream that the hood of a new car I bought started falling apart the day after I bought it and then a giant hippo walked over the hood, denting the hood.

Dreams, needless to say, are fun. Especially mixed with NyQuil.

I think my husband is some secret genius.

I've mentioned many times how my husband and I play Scrabble on Facebook all the time. In fact, we're playing right now when I should be reading or going to sleep.

Well, I'm the more educated one of the two, the smarty mcfarty, if you will, and he keeps kicking my butt in Scrabble, day in, day out, every day, all day long, you get my point, and I'm starting to wonder. And I'm the one who had to tell him what a precipice is when we were watching Project Runway and Tim said to the whiny chick, "You're throwing me off a precipice," or something like that. I'm the smart one!

Or am I secretly stupid?

Don't get me wrong. I've played plenty of moves just to get his annoying self off my butt. So I've lost more because I don't always have time to obsess about my next move and POINTS, and I just play the most obvious move and keep on working (because I'm so focused - you know, when I'm at work "working"). (He's always telling me, "It's the points, baby, the points." Well, he can take his stupid points and shove them where the sun don't shine.)

He's way more competitive than I am. So much so that we were playing this one word game on Facebook, and when I became a ring master and he couldn't get past cheerleader, he mysteriously stopped playing. Oh, he tried to beat my ring master status and couldn't. He even asked me how I got my score, and I said I'm smart, and he said whatever.

But with this whole Scrabble thing, it's really starting to get weird and annoying. I've even gone so far as using the online Scrabble word helper thing in hopes it'll give me some fabulous word options and POINTS. Sometimes, when I stick with it, and I do plan, I can seriously kick his butt. But most of the time? He's still kicking my butt, even when I'm laying down words like jupons and other things I can't think of because that's the only smarty mcfarty word I've used so far in the game and since I don't really know these words, I had to go back and look at the current game to give examples.

And he still keeps winning.

And I'm the English major who is so well read and smart and who can do anything she puts her mind to doing (well, sort of, I can't do many magic tricks (although I do know the secret behind most illusions - a plant! Didn't you watch the Illusionist?) nor can I cook chocolate chip cookies and I've lost all ability to make a pie crust nor can I do math that goes beyond adding whatever to whatever as long as it isn't longer then three numbers and I can't really sing good, but try, and well, you get the point).

He's not dumb by any means. School has never been and probably never will be his forte in life. If he had any ounce of dumbness in him, I couldn't have continued dating him because the whole situation would have become awkward and pointless. He reads about world events and politics and is all crazed about the economy - way more than I do and I am. He can talk circles around anyone at anytime, a fact I've learned to just accept, and when he starts circle talking me, I just sigh and let him have his way because I really can't circle talk but I can remember just about anything and have been known to bring up just about everything during key times. He knew nothing about the job he does now, and since I know him very well, I had complete and utter faith that within a few months he'd be talking about his job like he's been doing it for 20 years, and I was correct.

Perhaps I don't have perseverance like he does.

I really want to buy him a Scrabble game for Christmas, but I have a feeling he wouldn't do so well on his own (online allows you to slap down tiles until you see how many points you've achieved, and it also has a dictionary so you can to see if your crazy tile combos are making real words; it does not have the word helper that I use, however) and then my bubble would burst, he'd feel sad, and I'd be winning all the games.

So while I think it would be fun gag gift, I fear that he would actually want to play, and I really don't want to go there and see what happens.

He's also really good at dominoes. And doing math on the fly.

I think he's a strategist. I think he should be running our country. I think I'll write him in on my ballot. I think I find him scary and awesome.

Dell, stop pulling at my heartstrings, you teaser, you.

Today I received an automated phone call from Dell to tell me my part is delayed and will take an additional 1-3 days to arrive. My heart sank.

A few hours later I received a message from my momma, whose house I use at times for deliveries, saying my keyboard arrived. Oh, the joy!

Dell, you teaser, you.

I've lost it. It's final.

With less time to myself, and with tons of time to spend with my constantly getting into everything toddler, I find that managing our money has gone to the wayside. I know what's going on, and I'm not afraid anything is going to bounce or I'll forget to pay something because I tend to store things in my brain fairly well.

But today was the topper. I have a HUGE pile of receipts to go through, as well as going through charges and debits that don't have a receipt, and getting it all squared away on Quicken.

On Friday I remembered we got a Comcast bill a week or so ago, and I didn't remember if I had paid it or not, so I assumed I didn't. I got online, paid the bill, which was higher than normal because of a pay-per-view charge, and all was good in the world again.

Today I was going through our online bank statement and saw some random check I didn't remember writing. I clicked on the link to view the image, and low and behold - it was a check for Comcast. I had paid the bill and didn't remember.

So now another huge chunk of money will be taken from our account. Good news is now we're paid up for a month and a half. If you could call that good news.

The really bad news is that I've lost it...finally lost it.