I always get the raw pancake.

Charlie is the master of breakfast...usually.  This morning was Pancake Sunday, which we normally don't have, but since a certain person (*cough*ME*cough*) overslept on Pancake Friday, Charlie called a do-over.  I  came downstairs with the wee one and sat at the kitchen table, telling everyone about my insane dream (my mom shacked up with a crazy dogsitter and a 20-year-old Rasta boyfriend, doing cocaine.  WTF?!) while the Hubs handled bacon and flapjack duty.

Something must have been a bit off with him, because first, he burnt the bacon.  That never, and I mean NEVER, happens.  Chubby rednecks do not let pork fat burn.  It's like a Country Commandment -- "THOU AIN'T GWONE WASTE NO FATBACK" carved into the hood of a Monte Carlo and propped up in front of Cracker Barrel.  I said nothing, just sipped my coffee and talked to the baby.  Baby's pancake came first, beautifully round, golden-brown, like something off an IHOP menu.  Of course, it was promptly hacked to pieces and then gummed to death in between bites of banana.  Like a three year old, I thought, "OOOOOOH! ME NEXT, ME NEXT!"

I was handed a plate with two not-so-perfect cakes, cooked well past golden-brown.  More like the skin of a teenage girl who got a little overzealous about tanning before Prom.  No worries, I thought, looks are not everything.  And sure enough, the first few buttery, syrupy bites were fantastic.  (I think heaven must be a never-ending stack of perfect pancakes.)  Then it happened:  cold, wet, gooey...batter.  Oozing out of my perfect pancake.  I said nothing, just scraped it away and tried to eat the outer ring of good stuff.  I can't bring myself to complain when Charlie does something as nice as cook breakfast for us (and clean up after himself).  I'm not THAT much of an ungrateful beyotch.  I have to say, though, that it kind of ruined the rest of my breakfast.

It got me to thinking about a conversation Charlie and I have on a regular basis, about how I usually get shafted on the little things.  Like at a restaurant, mine is always the order that gets f'ed up beyond belief -- not because I'm picky, mind you, but because that's just how it goes.  Maybe I clubbed baby seals in a past life?  Maybe I was John Wilkes Booth's BFF and sat around drinking with him, saying, "Do it, you should totally do it, man!"  Maybe I knocked over Gandhi trying to get a cab?  Could be anything.  All I know is, I get the shit end of the stick when it comes to basic retail/restaurant/customer service experiences.  Perfect example is my nightmare trip to BJ's Wholesale, where after shopping for two hours (with baby) I realized I didn't have my membership card.  The cashier spent fifteen minutes trying to look up my info in the computer, then told me it couldn't be found.  They'd "let me" use a guest pass for the day, but I'd have to pay in cash or with a credit card.  I had only checks.  I ended up getting treated horribly by the manager on duty, and left in a huff.  I wrote an email to customer service, but before I'd even finished firing off my rant, Charlie had already gotten on the phone and talked another manager into upgrading our membership for free.  No fuss, no fighting, just ... done.  It's like Jedi mind shit or something.  Or, alternate theory:  LIFE IS EASIER WHEN YOU HAVE A PENIS.

Any thoughts?  How do you deal with life's raw-in-the-middle pancakes?

ZOMG Day off!

I have been granted an official "DAY OFF." Holy crap!

Charlie is still off work, so I get to spend today picking up my new glasses and shopping for some new clothes. I have not made the bed; I have not gotten dressed. So far my day has consisted of reading blogs, drinking coffee, and eating a Twinkie. (Okay, two Twinkies.) I slept until almost 9 AM. And as I type, comfortably ensconced in a reclining leather sofa-seat, wrapped in a warm blanket, flanked by two pugs, I can hear my wonderful husband upstairs tickling Austin and making him laugh.

This, my friends, is a good day.

WHEW.

I'm almost two weeks out from my surgery, and things are finally getting back to normal.  It feels like it's been a month, so much has happened.  

The day after I got home from the hospital, we got hit with a stomach bug.  Charlie got it first, which meant I had to take care of the baby (even though I was supposed to be resting and not lifting anything heavier than 10 pounds).  He didn't seem too sick to me, at the time, so I got pissed.  I seem to always get the shitty end of the deal -- it was supposed to be my recovery time, time I'd planned to use on video projects, photo projects, reading, and oh yeah RECOVERING FROM SURGERY.  Instead, I was playing nurse to a whiny 35 year old baby.  The worst was when I came in from wiping down the windows outside, and saw Charlie running from the den with his hand over his mouth.  He threw up EVERYWHERE.  And when I say everywhere, I mean:  on the couch, on the floor, and ON THE GODDAMN BABY.  Austin was literally covered in vomit.  It was the most horrific thing I've ever seen.  I snatched him up, stripped him, gave him a bath, all while he was screaming and crying, all while Charlie kept barfing.  (Why he chose to barf in the kitchen sink, I have no idea.)  

So after cleaning up Austin, I had to come downstairs and clean up nine million gallons of barf.  I sent Charlie upstairs despite his protests (he was trying to clean up barf with paper towels and nothing else).  I think my exact words were, "Charlie, this is one of those times when you need to just shut up and do what I say."

Of course, he felt a million times better after barfing, and was on his way back to normal within the next twelve hours.  But who can guess what happened next?  That's right...sick baby.  Austin was throwing up the next day, and poo-sploding through his diapers, and not eating, and getting borderline-dehydrated.  He refused to drink anything, couldn't keep down formula, and had no interest in solid foods.  Can't say I blame him!  

Austin had been sick for about two days when I started to feel lousy myself.  And sure enough, I ended up barfing and pooping and not wanting to eat...I ran a fever for days; when it finally broke I sweated so badly I had to change pyjamas twice.  I'd like it noted for the record that none of my barf ended up anywhere except a trash can or the toilet.  I've also realized that I am officially a Mommy because I cleaned up after everyone without so much as gagging once.  Barf is now just another neutral bodily fluid.

Here we are on Friday, and everyone's well (knock wood), the house is getting back under control, and it's all starting to feel pretty normal again.  It's not really how I wanted to spend my first two weeks of recovery time, but oh well.

In the midst of all the sickness and poop, Charlie and I had a pretty wicked argument that involved a lot of yelling and crying on my part.  I was really upset by how little effort he was making to take care of me, despite the fact that I was taking REALLY good care of him.  I don't like to play the martyr, and I really don't do things for other people just so they'll do things for me, but it's nice when there's a balance.  And things have been very out of balance here for a while, not just during our week o' sick.  

It was my choice to stop working, and I knew full well the financial consequences we'd suffer as a result.  As I've said a thousand times, I am happy to sacrifice and scrimp and pinch to stay at home with Austin; I'm NOT willing to do it just so I can hand him over to a day care facility and go spend 40 hours a week at a soul-sucking job I hate.  I'm just to a point now where I feel like there's nothing else I can give up -- I haven't bought clothes for a year, I don't splurge on groceries (at my best I can get us all fed for about $100 a week), I don't insist on eating out or dates or movies, I don't ask for ANYTHING.  And yet Charlie often treats me like I sit on my ass all day thinking of ways to make us broke.  His behavior was making me think that he felt I didn't do any work.  During our argument, I explained to him how I felt, and how I needed him to understand that I actually work a lot.  To his credit, he seems to have taken the conversation to heart, so all I can do is hope that things get better from here.  I know there are things I need to work on, too, like being OCD about housework.  Charlie told me that he often just doesn't do stuff because he thinks I will criticize how he's done it.  Of course my first instinct is to say, "Well, if you would just do it my way, you'd be fine."  But that's not terribly productive, now is it?  I do feel like I should have the final say on housework, since I'm the one who does most of it and I'm the one who spends the most time at home, but I have to compromise.  Have to.  Don't want to, really, but have to.

In other news...Charlie's now sporting a buzz cut.  I found out that he's been spending $20 a month on haircuts.  It's not a lot, I know, but every dime helps these days.  So we picked up a set of clippers at Target, and I gave him a haircut myself.  I used to cut all my NAVY guy-friends hair, so it actually turned out pretty well.  I'm also hoping it will help him stay motivated to work out; it's a very "fit guy" haircut.  He has to cut his body fat percentage in half by August in order to get back into the military, and I am determined to do whatever I can to help.  We're supposed to be reorganizing the gym later today so there's actually room in there to work out.

I'll be spending the rest of the day doing indoor work, seeing as how we're back into drizzly March-grey weather.  Bleh.

Recovering

Well, yesterday was my big day: hernia repair.  Woo hoo!  Fortunately, my surgeon explained at my pre-op appointment that the repair would NOT prevent me from having more kids; I just have to wait a year before I can get pregnant again.  So I checked in yesterday with a light heart and really, no worries about surgery.  It was my first time getting general anesthetic, and only my second surgery ever (first was my c-section this time last year).  The nursing staff was fantastic, and so's my doc.  How can you not like a guy whose first name is "Basil"?

Anyway, everything went well.  Doc said the hole was about the size of a baseball, and he had to move my bladder out of the way for something (I can't really remember that part, as I was still coming out of the anesthetic).  They put in a pretty big piece of mesh to hold everything where it's supposed to be until my body grows tissue back to cover the hole.  I had the option to stay overnight, but I really wanted to come home, and I felt okay.  We left the hospital around 3PM, and I was home and comfy by 3:30.  My mom had been at our house all day taking care of Austin, so Charlie popped out and got Starbucks for us while he got my Rx filled (oh Percoset! How I love you so!).

This is probably not my most eloquent or coherent post, but I wanted to update so folks would know what's going on.  Everyone has been very helpful and loving, and I am feeling very blessed to have such wonderful friends and family.