To all regular readers here at Momisodes that have been around for past Christmases, I have some alarming news.

If you have not read some of my previous infamous Christmas gift stories, click here to get up to speed.

Actually, who am I kidding?  You’re not going to click on the link.  That’s cool.  I understand.  I don’t exactly have riveting prose here.  So allow me to make this easier. Here is a short excerpt just for you.

Originally posted: November 9th, 2007

I’m married, to a guy. One raised on an island inhabited by an isolated species of humans all missing a section of gray matter from their brains; a section directly responsible for the intuitiveness of gift giving. Strangely enough, the island’s population is predominantly men. But clearly, my husband reigns supreme in this land of inconsideration.

Yesterday was my 30th birthday. Perhaps not as commemorative as a 1st, 15th or 21st birthday, but it was at least a milestone. And in today’s aftermath, I have absolutely no gift from a certain mister to speak of. Please don’t think of me as a spoiled little brat. There is more to this post, I promise. But seriously,… nothing?

This lack of acknowledgment uprooted a past incident that left me spitting venom for weeks. Last Christmas, we had just finished moving from California to Massachusetts. In only a few short weeks, I braved the new bitterly cold and unfamiliar surroundings with a toddler to find a thoughtful gift for my husband. So it was to my dismay when I opened my stocking to find this…

Yes boys and girls. That is exactly what you think it is… it’s A TIRE PRESSURE GAUGE! Because nothing gives us ladies the warm fuzzies like a $5 trinket from the local gas station…for CHRISTMAS!…

Many of us who live on the east coast are well aware of the intense snowstorms that came through recently.  And if you did not have to dig your way out of your house or dig to find your car, well, just pretend to be sympathetic here.

Anyhow, the winter storm was due to reach Boston late Saturday night. Thank goodness Dadisodes was able to put on our snow tires before it arrived.

Only problem was, soon after switching out the tires, he swung open the front door and announced, “The tire pressure gauge is broken!”

Dood. You know what this means?

As if it doesn’t already suck that I completely lost my voice from laryngitis, or that can barely walk because of sciatic back pain, or that I pee a little every time I cough (have I mentioned how awesomely glam pregnancy is?).  There stands a good chance I may be receiving a damn car accessory again this year.

I swear, I will fah-reak if I unwrap anything with “P-S-I” on it.  Or, if he thinks that a fancy digital version of a tire pressure gauge is better…

Fah-reak.

Seriously, because there is no need to continue the tradition of bogus-gift-itis.  A card would be better.  No writing necessary. No lie.

It would be a real shame though. Dadisodes has been amazing this year, not only with me, but also with his business and our daughter.  So I spent a lot of time thinking about, scheming, and hiding his gift.

I think I have the receipt somewhere.

Perhaps I should invest in a brown Snuggie for him from Walgreens and give the gift of looking just like a monk.

He can practice looking zen with his new found celibacy.

The drawer sticks. It does not close very well.  And I am still unsure if it is sturdy enough to handle anything inside

But… I’m not saying a word, at least not anymore.

Dadisodes and I finally talked.  Actually, I probably spoke a little louder.  And as usual, his selective amnesia for all things handy miraculously resolved immediately.  However, I’ve been down this road before.

I raise a stink; he suddenly volunteers to do laundry and fix things he’s left untouched for 9 months.

It never lasts.  Not for any longer than a day.

However, after speaking (loudly), he surprising admitted to just not being able to complete most of the projects around the house.  So we decided that if and when we can, we should hire contractors rather than waiting around for him to piece meal the dozen or so unfinished projects around the house over the next ten years.

And I have resolved that this will take time.

However, until then….

No. new. projects.

I guess sometimes when you light a fire, you should let it smolder before you burn down the house.

PLUS, he’s agreed to buy a “real“ lawn mower. Just in case.  Because I have strange premonition I will continue to be the one doing that chore.

The rain has not let up here in Boston.  For weeks, it seems it has rained every day.  Thick, overcast skies blanket the city leaving me guessing whether or not the sun is coming or going.  I never know anymore.

I don’t mind rain much.  In fact, the heaviness in the air often reminds me of being in love.   Reminds me of times when I’d take cover in a tiny apartment alone, my body wistfully perched along a windowsill, gazing through a haze of water droplets. Trickles of rain would carry my thoughts to wherever my lover was.  Hopeful, that somewhere, his mind was flooded with wants of me too.

Over the years, I’ve discovered I am a firm believer that love is blind.  That while drunk on all of the euphoric hope and endless affections that love brings, one may not see things as clearly as they would have otherwise.

I am no exception to the rule.

I have an unfortunate habit of overlooking many, obvious personality flaws once I find just a few redeeming qualities.  And even if I consciously recognize them, I fool myself into believing that with time, and love, they will change.  Especially if the other person aspires to do so.

But it rarely happens.  The changing part, I mean.  At least, usually not in the way I had hoped.

In my life, I spent a fair amount of time dating.  It took many years and several relationships, to learn that those who abuse usually don’t stop.  Those who cheat will often cheat again. And most recently, those who promise change…may not follow through.

At least, these are the realities I’ve come to learn so far.

Nearly two years ago, Dadisodes and I purchased our current home.  This is not the first home we have owned.  Back in California, we bought a run-down townhouse and remodeled it ourselves.  From the landscaping to interior load-bearing walls, we completely gutted it out on our own.  Dadisodes proclaimed himself to be a fast learner and a handy guy, so with that, we did it.  Through blood (plenty of it), sweat, and tears, we transformed the place.  But it took time.  A long time.  Long enough that by the time we had to sell and move, Dadisodes was driving in the last screw for the under-cabinet lighting I had dreamed about for years, 2 hours before we boarded a plane to move to Boston.

I may be a self-proclaimed girly girl sometimes, but when hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake, I am willing to swing a hammer.  And I did.  So much so that both the staff at Home Depot and the staff E.R. knew us as regulars.  I was more than willing to help, but I really have little knowledge on most things “handy.”

So when we arrived in Boston, I wanted a house that was mostly livable. Mostly. No more washing dishes in a bathtub.  No more eating and living with a constant layer of drywall dust. I wanted to avoid it, at least for a little while.

When we purchased our home, we knew it could use some upgrades, but maybe after 5-7 years.  We never anticipated that the grass would not grow, the ceiling would mold, or the solid oak kitchen cabinets would fall apart. Thankfully, none of it has been major (yet, knock on wood).

But over time, things here and there have begun to pile up and grow worse.  The backyard is full of weeds, the bathtub glaze is peeling, there is carpet that needs to go,  and the basement is uninhabitable…The list goes on and on.  Dadisodes has also started about ten other separate projects around the house and has yet finished one.  Although he makes frequent promises of following through on all of them.  I mentioned his condition here before, over a year ago: A Half-Assed Disorder.  Or as BusyDad artistically calls it, “Demi-asserie.”

Everyday, I sit in my house like veal.  These walls are often times the only ones my daughter and I see all day long.  Everyday, they remind me that the to-do list grows longer and longer with no end in sight.  And this past weekend, it all came to a head.

The question of whether or not we should continue trying to conceive was brought to the table.  Despite the risks of doing so, Dadisodes clearly wants to continue, perhaps with the help of Clomid again.  But with all of my underlying medical issues, and after over a year on this emotional roller coaster, I do not know if I can.  Besides, it is not as if Dadisodes plays a huge role in our household.  The entire first year of Babisodes’ life, he refused to bathe her.  And after nearly a year, I am still cooking in a kitchen with a gaping hole where a drawer once broke.   A simple drawer needing to be fixed is apparently too large of a task for a man with an entire basement full of expensive tools,  a man who once rebuilt the interior of an entire home.

I am the sole person in this house, and in every home we’ve lived in, who cooks meals, wields a cleaning tool, looks after our child, and plans and manages schedules for everyone.  Everyone.  Not to mention, I also did this as a full-time working mom.  I often wonder if perhaps his lack of participation has sent my ovaries into dormancy.

This home is where I live and work.  And sometimes, I really feel as if I am working alone.  If one of Dadisodes’ employees consistently turned in incomplete work that amounted to nothing but more clutter, he would fire him.

Sometimes I wish I could fire Dadisodes.  Serve him partially cooked pork.  Or just wash half of his underwear and never put them into the dryer.

But I can’t.   Like this house, this relationship is always a work in progress.  And right now there is not nearly enough rain falling from the sky to drown away my frustrations and leave me dreaming about love.

There is only enough rain to help the new grass seed that landscapers put in our yard to grow.  And thank goodness for that, because heaven knows someone would probably just turn on the hose and not use it.

Perhaps holding a small flame below his demi-assierie would be a nice reminder.

It’s just that…well…um…uh…how should I put this?

He’s a geek.

The really intelligent kind who can whip out all sorts of random information at the drop of a hat, solve a Rubik’s Cube in minutes, or calculate the tip at meals like nobody’s business.

But there is one major downfall to having all of that hard drive space upstairs crammed and busy processing information.

There leaves little room for common sense.

You know, common knowledge for things such as an empty toilet paper roll translating to needing a new roll of toilet paper.

Or, when the trashcan lid can no longer close, that means there is too much garbage in the bag, so it needs to be taken out, and wedging just 5 more pieces of junk mail into it is not going to make it any better.

Or, when it’s your wife’s 30th birthday, don’t get her nothing.  Or better yet, don’t give her a tire pressure gauge to make up for it on Christmas either.

Things like this have been going on for years.   And over time, I’ve just rolled with the punches (minus the tire pressure gauge. I’m taking that one to the grave).  I’ve found that just doing it myself saves me a ton of grief, and if I want something done, I need to be specific.

It’s all about being specific.

As in, “Honey, please take the trash bag out.  Not just outside of the door so the smell isn’t in the kitchen anymore, but all the way to the trashcan outside beside the house. K?”

Anyhow, a few months ago he left for a business trip and I gave him a no-stuffed-animal gift request for our daughter.  Because seriously.   She has enough to donate two, maybe three, stuffed animals to every child in China.

But It didn’t work.  It was my fault.  I forgot to remind him while he was away via phone, and consequently he arrived home with the most hideous stuffed animal.

So last week, when he left for another business trip, I made sure to call him and kindly remind him every.single.day.

And it worked!

Sort of.

He came home with this lovely package for our daughter.

Apparently, I need to revamp the degree of specificity.

No animals, including bugs. Live or stuffed.

Subcategory: No MAGGOTS!

*shudders*

Oh, and he bought me a little sumthin’-sumthin’ this time, too.

Did I mention I gave up chocolate for lent?

*le sigh*

Gives me $5 car accessories for Christmas.

Doesn’t hesitate to point out my neck wrinkles.

Proposed to me with probably the smallest diamond in. the. world.

And…

I never let him forget it.

Ever.

Especially here.

But, every once in while.  When I least expect it.

In his own peculiar way, he reminds me.

Reminds me why there was ever a second date.

Even after he gave me an awkward HANDSHAKE at the end of our first date.

Why I knew he was the one.

Why he always will be.

Even if his displays of affection are strange bizarre weird different.

Wishing you a Happy Valentine’s Day!

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