First of all, I should tell you we don't call her hussy anymore.
She's now wifey.
Because she's such a wife. And because I'm such a guy.
I admit that I do tend to look pretty girly compared to guys. I think the heels, nail polish and lace generally tend to distinguish me. But put me near a domestic goddess and damn! I look pretty butch.
Wifey's got all sorts of domestic toys and tools. And they're really fun, I must say. I fear I may have a thing for Martha Stewart in short order.
Wifey's got every air freshener known to man. And get this! She even makes some of them!!
She's got candles in every room.
I mean every room.
There are utensils I swear I can't even imagine uses for. Not even sexual uses. And I'm pretty creative.
There are lotions and potions I'm scared to touch. And I have to keep asking her which are for using and which are for show. Some of them just seem too fancy to use. But then again, when your standard is CVS's after-holiday sale, everything seems kind of fancy.
My favorite domestic toy by far is the scrubber.
Having been a sponge person all my life, I never realized people used scrubbers to do dishes. I'm telling you, if you haven't tried a scrubber yet, you must. No ifs, ands or buts. You just must. The scrubber's the best. You'll look forward to doing dishes. Swear.
At first I thought the scrubber was just for special tasks. But no. There's no sponge at all. And I found out that wifey's down on sponges. Sponges are smelly and gross. And you know what? I believe her. She says it with confidence and a dismissive tone. Besides, those bristles on that long plastic stick seem so much more up to task. "Give us your hardened cheese and greasy pots!"
Wifey made sushi the other night.
I made Raisin Bran. With milk.
Is Martha Stewart in jail yet? I hope not.
I kind of feel sorry for Wifey, though. Even though I rarely see her.
She travels a lot for her work. And for her ridiculously crazy social life. Wifey's on the domestic goddess world tour.
Every week she says she'll be finished traveling after this trip and then she'll be home for a long time. The next thing I hear is a rundown of her next four trips. I just nod like an idiot. Luckily I watch a lot of Lifetime Television for Women. I know how to do the "yes, dear" smile and nod. You know. The one that says "I know what you're up to, but I understand and I'm perfectly happy staying behind while you flitter about living it up. Bring me some of those little fancy hotel soaps if you remember, okay?"
But I still feel sorry for Wifey because she's a little paranoid around me.
She keeps asking if I'm going to write about things she's doing.
I try to ease her fears.
"Of course not," I say, reassuringly. "Just relax..."
And that's ridiculous, of course. How could I live with someone and then tell the world all about them? That wouldn't be fair.
Would it be fair to tell the world about how she sprays the trash can with Lysol? For God sakes! Everyone would think she was crazy!
Or, worse, they'd think I was crazy for not knowing that I'm the only one in the world who doesn't do that and that it never even occurred to me.
Would it be nice to tell everyone that her greatest thrill is throwing laundry down the basement stairs? And that when she does she screams the names of people she hates?
Actually, she doesn't do that.
Well, she does throw the laundry down the basement stairs. And she really does derive a ridiculous amount of joy from that. And she actively encourages me to do so. But no, she doesn't scream names of people she hates.
And no, I haven't started throwing laundry down the steps.
For some reason, I'm just not a thrower.
Strange, though. My last roomie was a thrower too. Major thrower. And a dropper too. Take it off. Drop it.
I'm actually more of a thrower-upper. And I'm quite good at that. I've thrown up on some of America's nicest highways. And in some of the nicest cars you can imagine for that matter.
And I'm also quite good at picking-upping. I actually enjoy picking up after people. Especially people I love.
But I'm just not a thrower. I suppose there are other ways in which I release my immense amounts of aggression, tension and anxiety. At least I hope so.
But you know what Wifey definitely is?
Not that I'd analyze her and then write about her or anything...
That would so not be fair....
But you know what she is????
She's a mover.
She moves things.
You put something down. You come back a bit later. She's moved it.
It's pretty funny. You could put money on the fact that she'll move whatever you place down.
So far, nothing I've put down has stayed in its place.
I kind of like it. It's like everything gets extra attention. It's like a little love bite.
Without the marks.
And without the lesbianism.
And without the annoyance of personal interaction.
But I am, after all, a ponderer. A professional obsesser. So you know I have to ask the critical question:
What the hell's going on there?
I began my official analysis with a preliminary inquiry: who else is a mover?
Unfortunately, the only other mover I could think of was my mother. Not a good start. Sorry, wifey.
So then, hoping for a better foundation, I tried to determine the various categories of "ers"...
I'm a "leaver" most of the time. Most of the time I just leave things where they are. I assume that I - or the other person - may wish to revisit the thing. Be it a sandwich, bag of chips, bottle of water, book, section of newspaper, tissue, towel or scrap of paper.
And, sure enough, I do tend to use the things I leave. I'll partake of that sandwich, bag of chips and bottle of water....even after they've been left for a long time. I'll read last month's front page if I see it sitting in front of me. Nothing like old news.
But I guess not all "ers" are mutually exclusive.
My mother, a definite mover, was also a taker. "Are you finished?" was her way of encouraging me to let her take my stuff....my plate, my cup, my napkin, my towel.
I was never finished. And she was always wanting me to be finished.
Deep, eh? I knew I should have been a psychiatrist. Or maybe I just should have signed on with a psychiatrist.
To this day, I'm never finished.
Except, of course, for sometimes. When I am.
Anyway, this past summer, I enjoyed a pizza with some colleagues.
Well, I almost enjoyed a pizza with some colleagues.
We ordered a pizza for lunch. The pizza arrived and we all took a piece.
I didn't do the math, but I was fairly confident that my contribution entitled me to another piece or two. Either that or I had a fairly mediocre piece of ten dollar pizza.
Unfortunately, I'm a "leaver" and, as anyone who has eaten with me knows, a "food lingerer." I ate my piece of pizza and left the remainder of my entitlement in the box, assuming I could collect it whenever I wanted.
In a little bit, one of the pizza participants asked if everyone was finished so that we could donate the leftover pizza to someone who hadn't contributed.
Damn! I hate those situations!
My "leaver" personality screwed me over!
Had I been a "grabber" or a "rusher" or a "taker" or a "this is mine-er" or even just a good old pig, I would have been fine! But I'm a "leaver" and leavers sometimes get screwed.
Now, maybe I'm a leaver because my mother was a mover. Maybe I grew up in an environment where I was always being rushed to finish and so now I'm living a charmed life of relaxation and peace and indulgence where you can finish your sandwich whenever you want because it will always be there in front of you and it will never be taken away.
I guess the key to the analysis is to observe my brothers.
My older brother, who I have the luxury of spying on quite frequently, is definitely not a mover. And I'm guessing that my younger brother isn't either. And I'll take a stab that they both married leavers. I'd put money on that one.
But what makes a mover in the first place? How does the mover become a mover? Is the mover merely reacting to the influence of a leaver? Moving things in response to a perception that the leaver is lazy or neglectful or not caring?
Or, is the mover just following the example of another mover?
Or, is it a control issue? As everything is?
I asked Wifey where she learned to use a scrubber. I was just absolutely fascinated with the concept and wished I'd known about it sooner.
She told me her mom did it.
I asked wifey about spraying the trash can with Lysol. She told me her mom did it.
Is Wifey's mom a mover? I wonder. All I know about Wifey's mom is that she's a hoot. And pretty damn cool. And probably not a conformist. And that she loves email.
I've decided to pay attention to shows and magazines with household tips. I want to know about scrubbers and such.
I initially started with Queer Eye, but their standards are a little too high for me to achieve. I may just settle for some back issues of Martha Stewart Living.
If one mover and one scrubber have made such a significant difference in my life, god knows what one lifer can do.