About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
If you answer yes to the last question I'll hog-tie ya with your bathrobe cord
Chuck and I have the house to ourselves. My mother took Junior for the night and Diddly, at six weeks of age, doesn’t really count because all he does is cry, eat, sleep, and cry some more. Sure he’s a time suck but not in the way that a three-year-old who's crying “Play with me, Mommy! Come watch my trains!” is.
Chuck’s enjoying the down time by lounging in his pajamas and watching television. I’m enjoying the down time by gunning down his leisure time with questions.
Questions like “What should we do? Should we move boxes to the place in Mulletville Lite? Should we vacuum? Dust? Paint? What do you want to do? Should we go out? Should I go to the grocery store? How about our taxes? Have we done our taxes? Shouldn’t we do something?”
I might sound like a pain in the ass, but I’m realizing something about myself, which is that I cannot function without productivity. I just can’t. Worse, if I don’t have a productive day, I feel guilty. When I wake up in the morning I say, “What should we do today?” Chuck says, “Shut up and get back in bed.”
His attitude? Makes me crazy. My attitude? He thinks that my inability to have an unproductive day without feeling guilty is a psychosis. (Myah, now you know: my poor cooking is actually a cloaked attempt to kill my husband).
At least I’m not alone. My friend Sandy confessed that if she’s going to watch garbage on television, she’ll actually make a pile of books and magazines in front of her to make her feel as if she’s reading—which we all know, as a past time, pacifies the productivity gods (in case you’re wondering, chronic masturbation does not pacify the productivity gods, so you’d better get your hands out of your pants).
I think her strategy is brilliant. She’s so mired in productivity she needs to give herself the illusion of it while enjoying mindless tasks. I get it. For the record, Chuck thinks her strategy can also be classified as a psychosis.
All of this leads me to yet another Carrie Bradshaw moment. My and Sandy’s upbringings weren’t driven by militant scheduling. We didn’t have Tiger Moms (sorry, couldn’t help the nauseating reference). And as adults we understand there are no bonus points or slaps on the wrist for how balls to the wall our days were. Simply, there’s no judgment. So why are we so hard on ourselves?
I ask you, dear Mulletheads: Where do you stand? Do you live in your jammies guilt free or do you have a mental clip board with which you start your day?
And really, are we psychotic?