My wrist hurts, but I'm typing anyway. I really AM that unselfish!
My wrist hurts, but my marriage is OK. So that's a good trade-off, I think.
John used to care about the environment. Like, really care. He was a member of the Sierra club, supported Al Gore, drove a fuel-efficient car, used canvas bags at the grocery store, and recycled. He also treated his body really well - exercised regularly and didn't drink soda or coffee.
And then I introduced him to my good friend, Starbucks.
It's all been downhill from there. His Sierra Club membership lapsed, he sold his car and bought a gas-guzzling 4WD truck (for the snow, he claims), and was spending a small fortune at Starbucks every week. I started making coffee at home just so we wouldn't be living in his truck in the parking lot of Starbucks. In good news, he's perfectly satisfied with the home-brewed coffee and we were able to have the phone service re-connected. (hee)
But with some sort of warped "I care about my body but not as much as I care about coffee but maybe it's not so bad if I put organic milk and unrefined sugar in it" logic, he asked me to start buying raw sugar. I bought a really big box of raw sugar packets from Sams and I store the box on the top shelf of the pantry with a handful of packets in a small bowl by the coffeemaker. I've become a fan of the sugar packets too - perfect sweetening every time! (Let's not talk about the packaging waste and the impact on the environment, 'kay?)
But somehow John always manages to take the last sugar packet out of the little bowl. I'm not even sure if he knows where the supply is kept - he certainly doesn't walk across the kitchen and use his extra height to easily reach the box, grab a handful and re-fill the little bowl. Oh no - he just trots off to work in his rumbling hulk of a truck with perfectly sweetened coffee while I am left staring at an empty sugar bowl and dreading what comes next.
Because I can barely reach the box, on my tippy-toes, so my wrist ends up scraping over the edge of the box as I blindly grope for more sugar packets. The box is sort of wedged in the upper corner, so lifting it down from the shelf to save my aching wrist is simply out of the question. And yes, I suppose I could drag the step-stool over to the pantry, but I never think to do so.
Instead I grumble about my husband and his callous disregard for others.
This morning I was up first, made the coffee, filled my mug, poured in the organic milk and then (picture a heavenly stream of sunlight with angels singing a harmonic melody) I noticed that there was ONE more packet of sugar in the little bowl!!!
I GOT IT! I got the last sugar packet! I actually did a little jig in the kitchen rather like Steve Martin in Parenthood when his kid catches the fly ball and wins the game.
And then my thoughts turned to evil, as I contemplated John reaching to the little bowl for sugar and finding it EMPTY! I pictured myself in the kitchen happily sipping my sweetened coffee as his confusion and panic mounted. "The magic refilling sugar bowl is . . . empty!" he would think to himself, trying to remember the other six signs of the Apocolypse.
I'd like to report that my daydream came true . . .but I can't. Because right after my evil little fantasy, I started worrying that having evil little fantasies about my husband's dismay was somehow not . .. good. Or something. Like maybe that's how marriages start to crumble - from the little stupid things like unequal chore distribution that builds up resentment until someone sticks a pencil in someone's ear while they're sleeping.
I re-filled the sugar bowl. His ear is safe. (For now)
And he'll probaby never know how much love that little act of wrist-aching kindness has symbolized.
Unless he reads my blog, of course.
So . . . yeah . . . the blog. I'm slipping again. There's probably, like, two people reading this. Everyone else has assumed that I've perished in a tragic "pencil in the ear" incident.
What I've actually been doing is preparing for Europe, traveling to Europe, spending two glorious weeks in Europe, returning from Europe, recovering from Europe, and landscaping.
The whole history of John's environmentalism ties in with the landscaping story, which I'm saving until next time.
RKQOTD (at Village Inn, while eating breakfast Karl: Mom, do you think the workers at Village Inn like their jobs? Me: Uh. Gosh. I'm really not sure, Karl. I'm sure some of them do. Maybe some of them are just working here temporarily while going to college . . . it's hard to say. Why do you ask? Karl: Because the backs of their tee-shirts say "I like my job!")