Luck Be a Lady

I hadn't really planned on writing a blog post this week. Then again, they say if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. Since Monday was Memorial Day, I wound up with a three day weekend but only four days of work week. In essence, I was already starting out the week a day behind.

However, as I sit here typing, my car is trapped inside our garage by a four foot-tall pile of dirt occupying our entire driveway. I am getting further behind by the minute, and yet everyone around me seems to think this is a normal situation. You see, "we" are having a little landscape project done. My frustration stems largely from the fact that whenever "we" do any sort of project around the house, I am the only one who truly feels the pain. Clint generally schedules these projects, then goes about his merry little way while I, Susie Homemaker, stay here and deal with the misery that inevitably ensues.

The landscape crew is doing a lot of digging (remember that dirt pile that's almost as tall as me?). We are having some kind of drainage improvements done. If it sounds fascinating and extremely glamorous, well, those are the kinds of things that are my life. They started around 9:00 this morning, and just after 10:00 had already very efficiently managed to cut the phone/cable/Internet line to our house. This would seem difficult since it was clearly marked, but kudos to these gentlemen for doing the near impossible. When I pointed out to them that my phone, cable, and Internet were out, they insisted it must be a coincidence. The repairman said otherwise when he finally showed up four hours later. And so goes another day here at Maison de Madness.

My point is that this is the type of fortuitous luck that I, as the lady of the house, seem to almost always encounter. Clint is probably working on his putting in his office hallway right now, and I am trapped like a rat until the people digging up my yard release me back into the wild. The windows are rattling, the walls are shaking,  the dog is barking, and my nerves are crawling. My version of a business lunch has been foraging our cabinets, which were emptied over the long weekend, for any scraps of food that could loosely be considered lunch. I would sing and dance for a Lean Cuisine at this point.

I called my mom, knowing that she has been in this very situation multiple times. She can relate. We swap stories about what it's like being the woman of the house, and how much easier the men have it. She adds that she and my dad went shopping Monday. Within a half an hour, my dad found a new bathing suit for their upcoming beach vacation. The hardest part of the decision was what color t-shirt to buy to coordinate with the new trunks. On the flip side, my mom is now asking us to just throw her in the pool with all her clothes on so that she won't have to endure swimsuit shopping. She says once she dries out, we can come over and pretend to surprise her by throwing her in again. And repeat. It seems like a serious stroke of luck that no man has ever had to endure things like string bikinis, Spanx swimwear, or the horridly dreadful swim dress. Do men even get cellulite? I have a feeling that if they did, it would suddenly be considered sexy. If the men of the world dealt with the things their girlfriends and wives have to, my hunch is that stretch marks would be the new black.

Before I can really enjoy the thought of any type of party or outing, I need to know what it is I am going to wear. Once the outfit piece of the puzzle has been secured, I am free to plan the rest of the fun and, barring a bad hair day, get on with living my life. This is not a problem for Clint, since the most grueling part of his wardrobe decisions are matters of khaki shorts or khaki pants, loafers or flip flops. I'm not saying men have it easy, but they have it ridiculously easy. And I'm not even going to tackle any heavy issues like glass ceilings or childbirth. If we can't have equal pay, I would superficially settle for equal pain. Be a good boy and pour some hot wax on that, would you?

Women are called the fairer sex, or, in some uninformed instances, the weaker sex. However, most days I think that if Clint and I switched to-do lists, he would be curled up in the fetal position, frightened and begging for mercy by early lunch time. At which point he would turn to me, wide-eyed, and ask, "What's for lunch?"

All that said, while under house arrest this afternoon, I made lemonade out of dirt-covered lemons by doing a little online shopping for the lady of the house. My new shoes and bangle bracelet will be here in five to seven business days. Hey, you can get a woman down, but counting her out? Good luck with that.

Please don't mistake what she's wearing for a dress. It's a cape.