Friday, September 29, 2006


So Tom calls me yesterday afternoon at work. He's always slightly insulted that I sound put off whenever I pick up the phone. As though I've been sitting around all day, curled up on the couch, head shoved in a book. In reality I've spent most of my day cleaning and chasing after his son, begging him to lower his voice, to stop climbing the furniture, to stop throwing his Legos when they won't go together as he likes.

"Hello?" I demanded, picking up the phone as Tommy ran around the living room, laughing, saying he was going to "get naked."

"Hi," Tom said cheerfully, in a rested tone. A RESTED tone. I wanted to reach across the phone lines and throttle his neck.

"Oh hi," was my bored response.

"Hello to you too," Tom said, sounding mildly insulted.

I mean what does he want me to do? Click my heels together and say in a bright voice, "Oh it's YOU my darling husband, the husband who gets to ESCAPE the house of loud?"

Apparently yes.

"What is it?" I asked, motioning to Tommy to keep his shirt on.

Tom got over my unenthused voice. "We have pre-inspection on the house tomorrow at 10."

He said this like it was nothing.

I nearly dropped the phone.

"Um. Pre-inspection tomorrow? At 10?? Do you realize the state this house is in? These people, these inspectors, are trained to spot dirt," I said, a slight panic in my voice.

"We'll be fine," Tom said gently.

And once again I wanted to throttle him.

We'll be fine, indeed. What he was secretly saying was, "You're home, clean up the dirt. Thanks."

"The upstairs bathroom is horrible, Tom. The limescale and calcium deposits in the tub..that YOU'RE in charge of," I added in case he questioned why I haven't cleaned it myself.

"I'll get it. Look, pre-inspection is nothing. They just tell us what to clean when we move out. That's all," Tom said, still calm as ever.

"CALCIUM DEPOSITS!" I screeched and then shouted at Tommy to get off the top of couch and not to stick his raisins up his nose.

"It'll be okay," Tom assured me. There was a silence. Then, "How has your day gone?"

"Your kid is driving me nuts," I replied. "He got upset when his Legos wouldn't work as he wanted. Then he threw them. He didn't WANT to nap. He didn't WANT to brush his teeth. He wanted to watch Star Wars but I can't bear to sit through it again. I offered to color with him, he didn't want to color. He kept shoving that blasted Star Wars DVD in my face and eventually I took them and hid them in the closet. Well that caused a meltdown and--"

"Dude, what's up?" Tom cut in.


Did he just call me...DUDE?

Then I realized he was talking to someone else.

In the middle of my RANT.

"Did you hear me?" I snapped.


"I was telling you about my day and you cut me off," I said.

"Yeah I heard," Tom said, sounding as though I had just been telling him an everyday story. He just doesn't understand. He doesn't get how difficult it is staying home all day. He gets to escape. Yes he's going to work but he gets to leave the house. And the noise.

He always tell me, "Yeah but you get breaks during the day. I don't."

HAH. I know on some security posts that he just sits in a cruiser and does nothing.

He's TOLD me this.

I know plenty of cops smuggle in portable DVD players, portable game systems and play during the job.

And yet, he doesn't get any breaks.

Yes Tommy may nap. Tommy may watch TV. But usually I have to clean when he's doing that. And he's attention is never fully on the TV, he asks me questions during it and wants me to play games.

You might be thinking, "Then get a job, you irritating git, and then you get to escape."

Do you know, if I got a job I'd still be expected to clean??

And cook??

Where would I get the energy for that??

Because Tom would say, "Yeah well I work longer hours.."


I hung up the phone with Tom soon after that.

Then I got to cleaning.

I was cleaning when Tom came home.

Thankfully he got to cleaning those darn calcium deposits and the limescale in the tub.

After I cleaned I went to the shoppette because I just had to have Shockers.

You know, shockers? Those sour candies?

I'm still on my sour kick and those darn Sour Patch things that I got are NOT sour at all.

I hate when products claim to be sour and they aren't at all.

Don't LIE.

Don't upset the pregnant ladies who are expecting to get a shock of sour and are met with a simple fruity taste.

Shockers, they're sour for three seconds.

Then it's just candy.

But still, at least it's something.

So I walk to the shoppette and go to where the Shockers are.

Or used to be.

Because the spot where they were, two days ago, was EMPTY.

A slight panic went through me.

Where were the Shockers?

Who ate my Shockers?

Who had the audacity to take the last one and not replace it?

As though Shockers were only made for me.

The older guy who works there, the friendly one, probably the only pleasant person in the whole store saw me looking confused. I just stood there in the candy aisle, staring, as though I expected the Shockers to suddenly morph in front of me shouting, "Here we are! Haha. Funny joke, wasn't it?"

(And I would have grumbled, "No you stupid idiotic candies, it was NOT funny. You do not TOY with a pregnant woman's emotions. Didn't you learn that?")

"What's wrong with my favorite customer?" the guy asked cheerfully as he stocked some bread.

(And no, he doesn't flirt with me, the man is old enough to be my father. I probably remind him of his daughter or something.)

"I just...where are the Shockers?" I asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.

He looked confused. "Shockers? Shockers, shockers.." he muttered the word, as though trying to place them.

I pointed at the blank spot on the shelf. "You know, those sour things..." I trailed off.

He peered at the spot I was pointing. "Oh right. Well, we sold out. We should be getting a shipment tomorrow. Maybe. You just never know here."

Tomorrow. MAYBE?

And you know what?

I almost CRIED.


I admit, prior to pregnancy, I did get hysterical over silly things.

But never over candy.

For goodness sakes it's just candy.

But Waffle (fetus) wanted shockers.

Therefore I wanted shockers.

But there were no shockers to be had.

"Thank you," I muttered to the guy, because he was beginning to look a little nervous.

You know the whole male freaking out over tears thing.

I ended up getting some gummy sour spaghetti thingies.

Which weren't sour at all.

When I got home I went over to Tom and said, "They had no Shockers."

But he didn't understand.


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