The trouble with brain numbing, time consuming tasks is your mind has to redirect itself, lest one falls asleep while operating the leaf blower. I’ve been considering the source of laziness and I think it might be closely associated with man landing on the moon in 1969. Leading me to conclude space exploration is pure evil, at least in so far as it relates to my ability to get things done.

Because technology exceeded expectation and imagination, my Better Half is constantly looking for a better way to complete tasks, after all if science can permit man the opportunity to walk on the moon, why can’t it create an easier way to: scrape paint, clean up yard debris, pressure wash the deck, pick up tennis shoes, and for goodness sakes, communicate with extended family?

Because of this scientific hiccup, brains become disdainful of actual application, spend hours laboring in front of computer screens inputing search terms, when the truth is, it is easier and more efficient to physically place your coffee cup in the dishwasher, than find a better way online. Of course the best way to solve this dilemma is to either choose your model of spouse very carefully or continue to live at home with your mother until she kicks the bucket.

The other issue with this space exploration thing, is it’s negative impact upon my patience. If a man can walk on the moon, why do I have to suffer an entire week with a sinus infection. Okay fine so maybe the technology that opened the gate to the great space race was the culmination of decades, hell, cumulatively speaking centuries worth, of applied science, big dreaming and a nominal, or maybe even higher than nominal number of failures. So it probably wasn’t easy, and a lot of people lost sleep, and a lot of wives were probably scared shitless for the husbands (because lets face women have yet to walk on the moon, though if Ralph Kramdem had his way….). If scientist have the resources to expend on something as far-fetched as space travel, the least they can do is expend a tiny amount of energy to ensure that no woman faces another yeast infection, and no man has to endure swollen hemorrhoids.

Some blame the full moon, when others lose track of their sensibilities, but why stop there? We’re always looking for someone else to thrust responsibility upon, might as well blame NASA, as well.

Exchange #1:

Mom: I’m going to let you wash the dishes for me.

self: ?

Seriously, ask me to wash the dishes or tell me to wash the dishes. But letting me, WTF? It isn’t a privilege, nor is it a pleasure. Absolving yourself of asking, or declaring doesn’t make you appear more polite, it demonstrates a lack of humility.

******

Exchange #2:

Better Half: (with attitude) You know if you feel like helping you could move these flaps…….

self: You know if you feel like asking, for help I’m over here.

Better Half: I did.

self: No, you did not. You made a declarative statement requiring no response on my part.

*******

Exchange #3:

FIL: A cup of coffee sure would be nice.

self: (unresponsive)

See Exchange #1, ask or tell. I am no fairy godmother wishes are wasted, and asking is not demeaning.

******

Why is it a faux pas to communicate directly and succinctly? Even the most basic exchanges are couched in innuendo. What is it about relationships that rob us of the ability, and right to speak our minds? Does it really make a relationship stronger to pretend like everyone farts rainbows, and it doesn’t grate on nerves when “X” happens?

Are these relationships actually better, or are we fooling ourselves into thinking that because none of us are willing to deal with the defensiveness that ensues from stating the obvious flaws. I don’t mean cruelty for the sake of cruelty, but directness for the sake of improvement.

Rather than talk about why my hair resembles Lily Munster, how insufferably my cats are behaving, or how I will gnaw off my own foot if I am forced to eat quiche or smoked ribs before 2012, lets talk about how much I suck as a role model. But if my siblings didn’t allow me supervised visits with my nieces and nephews, then technically I couldn’t be a bad influence, so what we’re really discussing is how my siblings suck as parents.

Exhibit A:
My brother paid a visit to my Mom’s while I was there last week and he didn’t come alone. He came with his 13yo, the 13yo’s buddy (because they always travel in packs), and a bag of firecrackers. He also placed me in a supervisory position. Oh the pressure! I responded by cleaning out the refrigerator and filling aluminum cans with jello, and stuffing firecrackers into containers with brunswick stew. To my credit no one lost a digit, and the fridge isn’t the toxic landfill it was upon my arrival.

Exhibit B:
My sister brings her kids for a visit. Like typical kids bored by adult conversation, they go upstairs and amuse themselves by investigating closets, rifling through drawers and looking under beds for anything worthy of amusement. What they find is a collections of shirts I painted as a teenager.

Yet another indicator as to my loser status during secondary education. I painted my own shirts to wear at a public high school. No mystery as to why I was never elected prom queen. Anywho most of the shirts had images of other people’s ideas. Things like album covers, quintessential 80’s movies like, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Less Than Zero, or Some King of Wonderful, or comic strip characters, basically 80’s based pop-culture

So my nephew runs in with a Where’s Waldo? t-shirt, complete with assorted characters, painted front and back. My mother starts exhibiting twitchy behavior associated with having seizures, or seven year olds who can’t sit still. I realize she is dropping not so subtle hints that I should follow the kids and pick out shirts for each of them. Okay dokey. Kid One with Waldo shirt, dilemma solved. Kid Two….hmmmm. Kid Two is eight and will not appreciate the finer points of an 80’s teenage angst movie, nor is it appropriate to send her into a room full of adults with an “I Really Need to get My Ship Together” shirt.

I opted for the Martika’s Kitchen shirt. I picked it because it was bright. i painted the album cover on the back of a man’s dress shirt. Kid One dropped a subtle hint that Kid Two would not be able to wear the shirt to school and I thought duh, of course not, she’s eight and the shirt length violates the dress code. I neglected to consider the bare breast, I mean, Hell I wore it to school when I was a teenager, and I didn’t get sent home. They’re breast, so what? It’s not like people don’t know what knockers are supposed to look like.

After the other adults freaked and laughed, we picked out another shirt, though I’m not sure why we bothered, Kid Two, like me, was completely unfazed.

Did you get the memo? You know the one yesterday? Oh, maybe not. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to overlook you, of course you are important to me. Please accept my sincerest apologies, oh the memo? Well yesterday was national hand-your-contractor-his-ass-on-a-spit-day. I’m sorry you didn’t know. It would more fun to celebrate together. You know after I finished grinding my teeth and pacing up and down the driveway. Well, no matter, we can celebrate together the next time it rolls around.

********

After last summer’s drought, I told myself I wouldn’t complain about the rain, and I’m not, but wow, the frequent showers this month have made it difficult to complete work. Green things are thriving without any assistance from me, which is the best way. My assistance leaves much to be desired where green things are concerned.

*******

Do you ever wonder after a lavish wedding if the bride and groom look back when they are courting the seven year inch and say, “Wow I wish I would have a simpler reception instead of a sit down dinner for a hundred fifty so that I could have invested that portion of my wedding budget into a portfolio to pay for marital counseling later.”

******
So, my better half reads one or two books a week. His job seems to allow more free time than my (ahem) job. Go figure. Anywho. At one point five paperbacks a week there are lots of books in the house. Our reading taste don’t intersect often, but I will read from his library occasionally, because it seems ridiculous with soo many books lying around. Case in point: I’m reading Stephen King’s Lisey’s Story. At least trying. I’ve gotten bogged down. The protagonist has just been tortured with a can opener. I’m not terribly squeamish about content, but this scene, described minimally in the book has left my inner imagination spinning out of control.

What is so perplexing is I read this years ago and never gave it much thought. I guess the difference is I have spent the past few weeks getting to know King’s protagonist, where as in the other book the victims were largely devoid of soul.

*****
Onward. There is a low chance of rain and a paint roller calling my name.

Frequently my criteria for getting sucked into other people’s problems is low. It appears my brain has established a mental curve allowing people who ask little of me, more latitude, than people who insist upon nagging the snot out of me, and then there are those who ask little and then proceed nag me once they are receiving the help they desire. Insert squiggly line here representing utter disgusst like one of the Charlie Brown characters might express.

Case in point; while the Mister has been away on a six day work trip, I spent eleven hours in a car so that I could help my mother clean out her wood working shop. Ostensibly, we were supposed to be cleaning out clutter, organizing tools and freeing up space. In reality, we DID organize the tools, but the other goals were merely illusions to falsely motivate me into spending all that time in the car.

In short, I wasted a lot of time, energy and increased my carbon shoe size, on good intentions, totally lacking in intent on her part. I’ve read enough posts recently about ungraciousness, to realize the importance of stating she was grateful and appreciative of the effort, in “her own way”. But anyone who haas been treated like a petulant child with a milk mustache knows, phrases like “in her own way” are simply euphemistic of placing a big, fat “but” into an antagonistic relationship between a parent and an adult child. Animosity with an exponent.

One (as I have many) of my shortcomings in this relationship is the lack of tolerance for extensive criticism. I will quietly endure it to a point, saying nothing and rolling my eyes restraining my tongue. This is effective in the short term, but when required to work together for hours, I graciously allow myself the luxury of snapping and going verbally medieval.

Being berated because I insist one stapler is enough, one jig saw is enough, you don’t need a ball trailer hitch (as the house is flooded with refinished furniture with no buyer), 5 pounds of roofing nails. At one point, I asked why I was there, since we were eliminating so little in waste and excess.

The relentless disapproval forthcoming after I forfeit my time is unacceptable. If I expected to behave like a thirty-something grown-up, then I should be treated like, not the eleven year old hormone stupored pubescent she came home to after rehab. If she has changed and grown, chances are, so have I.