Wifey Woes

I am such a major failure at being a wife.

I’m not being overly hard on myself; it’s true. I’m terrible. I recited my solemn wedding vow of “I promise to create a loving home” and then proceeded to take a giant dump on it. Don’t believe me? Ask the plumes of fruit flies that were swarming around our apartment last week because I completely forgot to use the sack of potatoes under our kitchen sink. If that doesn’t convince you, just try to walk across my kitchen floor in a brand new pair of white socks. I dare you.

Long ago, I came to terms with the fact that I'm somewhat lazy in the home up-keep department, and I've made peace with that. However, that lifestyle doesn’t fly anymore because now my home consists of more than just me and my stinky beagle. I have a husband. He deserves to be treated like a king. and he deserves to feel like he’s getting some kind of return investment on this honky diamond he put on my finger. I believe wholeheartedly that it’s my duty to take care of the home and fatten my man up, and I suck at it. Martha Stewart is NOT pleased.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to work at all. Clayton would make enough money so that I could stay at home and become the domestic diva I so long to be. My primary duties would be maintaining the home and becoming BFFs with Betty Crocker in the kitchen. Heck, I'd even attempt to make a door wreath out of twigs and berries. You want a snowman made out of doilies, honey? Bring. It. On. However, Clayton’s not Doogie Howser and didn’t become a doctor at 16. The reality is that we’re both fresh out of college and don’t have the luxury of being picky with jobs or negotiating salaries. My dreams of being Super Stay-At-Home Wifey will have to wait …

So at 5pm, after a long day of managing the needs of over a hundred clients, that last thing I want to do is clean. The last thing I want to do is cook. Poor Clayton eventually gives up and goes into the kitchen to de-thaw some chicken because his lazy craphead of a wife can’t be bothered to move from the couch. And Clayton works all day too! He works just as long, and with just as many annoying customers as I do. He comes home just as tired (but usually in a better mood).

This afternoon, as I sat at my desk closing out projects in our database system, my mind began to wander. I started thinking about all of things I make sure I have the time and energy for, no matter how strenuous of a day I’ve had. And you know what? All of them are selfish.

1.) I always make sure I get to the gym after work. I might be lazy sometimes, but I refuse to be FAT and lazy.

2.) I always make sure I have a free minute to drive across town to the library when I get notification that one of my book or cd requests has been fulfilled. You want dinner Clay? Well, sorry, I gotta go get the newest Jen Lancaster book first.

3.) Shopping. If I need to go pick something up (especially if I can wear it somewhere on my body or sling it over my shoulder) that will be top priority of my evening, never mind the mountains of laundry gathering in our closet.

4.) If I’m deep into a really good book, I’ll dismiss myself to our bedroom and not move until I’ve read the entire thing or my eyes hurt and I decide to take a nap.

5.) Beauty regime – well, I guess this one could be construed as both selfish and unselfish. If I’m feeling all America’s-Next-Top-Model-y, I’ll spend the evening tweezing, buffing, moisturizing, and shaving until I feel more like Barbie and less like Bigfoot. I do this for me, but also for Clayton. I want to be beautiful for him. I might be lazy, but I refuse to be FAT, UGLY, and lazy.

6.) Heaven help anyone else in the room if Glee, The Real Housewives or any form of the Kardashian’s is on TV. We always watch it and we only talk during commercial breaks ... or, if you hate the sound of uppity snobs screaming at each other about who's fashion line is better, you may excuse yourself to the bedroom and watch the tiny TV.

Clay, I’m sorry. You deserve better. I'm sorry I let my stress overshadow your needs. You know I love to cook, and I know you like to eat what I cook. I know that’s important to you. I’m sorry that I’m such a diva and continue to wait for a personal chef to materialize in the kitchen. I want to make you a special dinner this week, just like I used to … if I can make it to the grocery store.

Wanna order a pizza?