It'll get you.

n.o.c. always makes the coffee. He readies the pot every evening, and the coffee is brewed and delicious by the time we straggle out of bed.

n.o.c. also makes the bed, folds the socks, and does any task that gives me the icks; I pack his lunch, buy the groceries, and keep track of our collective memory. We split the other boring f*cking minutia that becomes necessary when you're poor and anal retentive. This summer, however, the division of labor has been a little different, since n.o.c.'s been working a bizillion hours and I've been discovering the joys of internet television and growing my ass in preparation for the lean times ahead. (It's part of a plan, see?) Early on, I thought I might be able to say things like, "But it's my summer vacation! Why should I spend my time working?" Unfortunately, n.o.c. was busy losing fifteen pounds from stress and didn't have time to listen to my well-reasoned whines. So, I've been doing most of the house-holdy chores, and, though this may surprise you, I've done them with little complaint.

But because I am fundamentally a crotchety old bitch, I still expect n.o.c. to do his necessary. If he's dejectedly slumped in a corner typing away at a TPS report at 2am, then I might put down my most recent Dumas novel, haul my ass to the kitchen (thank goodness it still requires just one trip), and make the coffee, but generally he's still the brewmaster.

But last night, per my usual, I made the dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and crawled into bed to spend quality time with my kindle. n.o.c. made the coffee. This morning, per my usual, I somnambulated to the kitchen to have my cuppa and make n.o.c.'s lunch. Unfortunately, n.o.c. had forgotten to return the carafe to its proper place, so coffee and grounds had overflowed everyf*ckingwhere - in drawers, in cabinets, all over the floor, etc. I may have let loose an expletive or two. But then I cleaned up without complaint, because not only am I f*cking saint, but I am also someone who was gearing up for a day in which the most strenuous activity might be a gym visit, and I do have at least an ounce of perspective. n.o.c. felt pretty shitty about the whole thing, in fact, he mumbled something about feeling like a child who has messed his pants, but I still managed to send him off to earn that dollar in reasonably good spirits.

I tell you this rather mundane story becuase I think it has a moral: You can stick to your guns and require things of people who may be, for one reason or another, less able than you to perform them, but you must be prepared to accept imperfection. If we ever decide to breed, for example, I will have no compunction about little Pierce fixing mummy her martini, no matter how many glasses I might lose or how many times I'll have to remind him to simply wave the vermouth in my general direction. I will stick to my guns because I'm magnanimous, and I enjoy helping people feel needed. I'm also lazy, and at the end of the day, a bad martini is better than one you had to make for yourself.

Day One

Since I've been crazed for the last month, I decided to spend my first obligation-free day in any old lazy way I pleased. Let's see how I did:

6am: Make breakfast and pack a lunch for n.o.c. Linger over two cups of coffee and read the entire Times and all blog subscriptions. In my bathrobe. While others travel to places of employ. Eventually transition into sweatpants.

9am - 12pm: Read Perfume, taking frequent nappish pauses and drinking an entire pitcher of green tea. Decide that the book may have been better read in small doses, since by the end I am far more bothered by the feasibility of Grenouille's distillation techniques than by his callous slaughter of twenty-five virgins.

12pm: Deem the day too unpleasant to venture outside. Beat down feelings of smug superiority.

12pm - 1pm: Eat Italian tuna with kalamata olives, followed by a large bowl of cherries. Cruise internet in search of perfect graduate program to end PhD hiatus. Disappointing. Mostly impressed by the wide variety of bio photos - blurry cocktail-holding snapshots, meditative beach scenes, uncomfortably casual poses with too much chest hair, mugshots, etc.

1pm - 3pm: Begin to reread The Practice of Everyday Life. Feel disturbed by the extensive marginalia in my handwriting, since I remember nothing about the book.

3pm - 4pm: Vacuum and mop entire apartment, an unnecessary, though pleasurable, activity. Worry about becoming a sick person in the manner of my mother, the only woman I know who was thrilled by the receipt of her own personal carpet shampooer.

4pm - 5pm: Decide to shower. Remember, randomly, that a sweet woman named Mary once fixed me a heaping plate of saltines that had been pan-fried in butter. Imagine circumstances that would allow me to serve pan-fried crackers. Immediately plan to hold a New South party, replete with sausage balls, cheese straws, and aforementioned saltines.

6pm: Actually shower.

Tomorrow, I may try to leave the house. Or not.