Posted by Shoshana Lewin Fischer
I came across an article recently called “Do You Mommy Your Husband?”
Women find themselves mothering their husbands because of societal pressures to be the ultimate woman, says Pepper Schwartz, a sociology professor at the University of Washington in Seattle.
“We’ve been taught that the way to show love is to do for others,” she says. And, according to Schwartz, some women believe that the more they nurture, the better a woman they are.
I’d like to think I don’t do this – but I know I’d be fooling myself. I pick up after my husband, remind him to not forget his keys or that he should have something besides a salad for dinner. And don’t even get me started on how much I wish he hadn’t have bought the new Grand Theft Auto.
We see images on TV all the time of married couples where the husband leaves his stuff all over and begs his wife to do this or that for him. In the last week I saw examples of this on “According to Jim,” “Still Standing,” “Reba,” “The Golden Girls,” “The George Lopez Show” and Everybody Loves Raymond. (Since family sitcoms are practically nonexsistant these days, I had to use reruns).
Considering the previous article I found on women spending seven hours a week on average cleaning up after their husbands, this article doesn’t surprise me.
Although, it does sound better than the reverse article: “Do You Daddy Your Wife.”
Sound off ladies (and gents), do you mommy your husband?
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April 16, 2008 | 1:13 pm
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
Being as it is the week before Passover, I barely have time to get the house ready, let alone write a lot of posts on this blog. So in the spirit of that, today’s post will be a short homage to the newbees. Those who will be hosting seder at their home for the first time.
My husband and I are really looking forward to opening our home to friends and family. This year it is our seder, our rules. It’s awesome.
We’re having seven - of course, our dining room table can comfortably accommodate six for a meal. We figure some card chairs will allow everyone top enjoy the meal at one table â no âkids tableâ for us! Our kitchen table will double as a buffet and all guests were told to come casual. It is bad enough having to eat matzah for eight days—no one should have to wear heels or a suit all night if they don’t want to.
Yesterday, I went to the party store for throwaway plates and bowls and plastic tablecloths. Amazingly enough â Party City does NOT have a Passover aisle. Although, if I wanted to have a Hawaiian or Vegas-themed seder, I could have gone that route.
To keep it nice, we’re using real silverware and glasses (I figure we should get some use out of those beautiful wedding gifts I was finally able to put away).
We’ll have a stellar menu: salad, cold egg soup, brisket, potato kugel, pineapple kugel, veggies, macaroons, candied matzah and fruit. Plus a lot of wine, some fun songs and a seder plate with room for an orange.
I managed to spend more than $100 on Pesach food â and that didnât include the entrÃ©e that my grandmother is making. How can matzah be so expensive? It is flour and water. I can buy glue for under $1.
The cooking begins tonight. Provided all goes as planned, this evening our table will be set, our dessert will be ready and most of our lightbulbs will be replaced.
I donât expect too much from the evening. Just family and friends eating, talking and throwing around some plastic frogs. Sounds like a perfect night!
April 10, 2008 | 4:35 pm
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
There is a great truth about yours truly: I don’t get sick often, but when I do—watch out! My husband and I have been together for two and a half year and he had yet to see me ever become really ill. He got his chance last Sunday.
I woke up at 2 a.m. with an awful stomach ache, which by 10 a.m. had manifested itself into a full-blown stomach flu. My husband, half-awake when my aches and pains began, offered to go out and get me anything I wanted at 7-11. I was in such pain that I had to sign the letters C-V-S to him (it took him a few minutes to figure out that I wasn’t signing “I love you”).
So his first trip out he came back with Pepto-Bismol and a Sprite Zero. I took two sips of the Sprite and a swig of the Pepto, hoping it would help with the nausea. It didn’t.
He felt so helpless, as did I. I told him not to worry. He said it was his job. That I always took care of him and now he could take care of me.
I just don’t get sick. I’ve never broken a bone and the last time I was in the hospital I was 7. The worst that has happened to me were years of ear infections, which led to my parents deciding to put tubes in my ears.
I picked up my cell phone and handed it to my husband: “Call Dad.”
My father, 2,000 miles away always seemed to know what to do. My father was teaching Hebrew school that morning, so my husband left a message.
Then I said: “Call Bubbe.” The queen of taking care of people asked my husband what my temperature was—my husband, of course, put it palm up to my forehead. I looked at him and said: “Honey, other side.”
We didn’t have a thermometer—or if we did it would have taken months to find. My husband said he would go out and get one, but before he could leave, the phone rang again. Dad had called back.
“Are you achey?” he asked.
“I’ve never felt this bad in my life,” I told him.
“You should take some Motrin,” he told me.
Here’s the problem. I don’t take pills. I can’t take pills. When I was younger, I would hide the yucky chalk-covered pills needed to help my ear infections. When we moved, there were seven under the couch. Any kind of medicine I take needs to be in liquid form—and flavor is important, too.
So my husband left the house one more time (as I tried—and failed—to get back to sleep) and returned with a digital thermometer and some children’s Motrin (grape flavored).
Turns out I had a slight fever. It wasn’t bad—but it was enough to give me hot flashes over the next few hours.
I looked on the side of the package of the Motrin and it said “better if taken with food.” So, my husband brought me some applesauce—and ordered me to take my medicine. It wasn’t that bad—I just had to double the dosage.
By the end of the night, and after sleeping on and off for the next six hours and being able to keep down the oatmeal my husband brought to me on a TV tray, I felt so much better.
At one point I managed to walk to the living room and saw my him collapsed on the couch—face down—with the TV on. I decided not to wake him. I must be a harder patient to care for than I thought.
I might not get sick very often, but I know that when I do, the sweetest nurse in the world will be there to help me—with help from Dr. Dad and Dr. Bubbe.
April 7, 2008 | 6:20 pm
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
How much time do I waste a week cleaning up after my adorable but messy husband? Reuters says seven:
“For married women who can’t figure out why they always have so much housework researchers may have the answer—husbands.
A new study from the shows that having a husband creates an extra seven hours of extra housework a week for women. But a wife saves her husband from an hour of chores around the house each week.”
I’m pretty sure the story isn’t that far off. Several times this weekend I came into the living room and found a plate or bag and would ask my husband: Is this going to walk itself into the garbage? He would then tell me: I was about to throw it out.
About â in guy speak â can mean anywhere from one minute to seven hours.
Granted, I have my messy moments, too—but they are far less frequent (probably because of that whole female nesting thing).
So, how much of your week is spent cleaning up after each other?
April 4, 2008 | 3:27 pm
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
This will be a short post today â Iâm in the middle of taxes.
I canât stand tax time!
Not a big shock. Most people equate doing taxes with getting a root canal.
This is the first year my husband and I are filing jointly. It will also be the first time he will be filing online (Iâve been using that method for years, it makes life so much easier).
We have all the needed paperwork â so I canât imagine it will take longer than an hour or two â it is just the idea of it. Taxes. The word even sounds painful.
At least the government can make it enjoyable: OK, I owe X amount. Iâd like to put it all toward keeping arts education in public schools.
Or for everyone who turns in their taxes on time, you get tickets to the movies or a Starbucks card.
My idea: Since everything money wise is connected by our Social Security numbers, I donât understand why the IRS and the Social Security Administration canât get their spreadsheets and link them together. That way, they would know what everyoneâs taxes were.
I suggest the government do what the cruise ships do: At the end of your trip you get a statement, and if you donât agree with it, you can go to the purserâs desk. If you donât agree with what you owe â or what the government owes you â go can submit your taxes, otherwise, you donât have to.
Some people might find this a bit too âbig brother.â
Apparently, some people also have fun at the dentist.
March 31, 2008 | 12:24 pm
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
Iâm not a runner, but I did experience a sense of euphoria as I crossed a finish line this weekend: I finally put away all of our wedding gifts. I morphed from a newlywed into Shoshana: Queen of the Household.
Yes, it took more than five months, but, at last, the behemoth that had taken over our dining room and part of one of our bedroom is gone. All that remains is one box of china which, due to a lack of cabinet space â and based on how often we will actually be using it â will likely remain covered up in that box.
I hit my stride earlier this week. We have our new hutch and buffet (which looked very empty), so I decided it was time to fill it with something. I looked at the stack of Crate and Barrel and Bed, Bath and Beyond boxes and thought: One box. If I can take care of one box, Iâll be happy.
One box turned into two, which turned into 10 and, suddenly, all of the beautiful pieces we had registered for were in our cabinet and not on the floor.
My father helped me break down boxes and take them to recycle, and he moved around some items in our kitchen that were beyond my height without the use of a stepladder.
This weekend, while my husband worked on a midterm for a certification class he is taking, I scrutinized the last of the boxes â the ones I knew would be the most time-consuming: The flatware, the spice rack and the five boxes of dishware.
I started with the dishes. I unpacked each box until the dining room table was covered with plates and bowls and mugs and shipping goods. I forgot how pretty that set was. I opened the door on the buffet and managed to â nicely â put every piece away.
Next stop: The flatware. Our buffet came with holders for all the pieces, which made things so much easier. But as I was in the middle of that, it occurred to me that we received nice serving, pieces, too. Which meant I had to straighten our silverware drawer, which was right next to the gadget drawer, which was right above the bigger gadget drawer. All of that, of course, meant that I had to take a 15-minute detour (but it was well worth it). I finished the flatware and counted: we have dishes for 12, but flatware for eight. Looks like a field trip to Crate and Barrel. Good thing we received a gift card.
A few hours later, we were back home and I had my set of 12.
The last box was the most interesting to assemble: jars, caps and spices needed to come together. Somehow we had two oreganos and were missing a basil â but otherwise it worked perfectly.
I then went back into my problem solving brain â which was so helpful while trying to seat all of our guests at the wedding:
- I had a large space to fill on the third shelf of the cabinet.
- I wanted the spice rack to be on the counter
- I had to move something that would fit
Solution: I put the canisters on the right; moved the cookbooks to the left and then had room for the spice rack in the corner.
My husband took a break from his midterm and I gave him a tour of our dining room and kitchen. He hi-fived me, hugged me, kissed me and said how proud he was.
Now it really felt like home, sweet home. Itâs good to be the queen.
March 27, 2008 | 2:31 pm
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
Such is the dilemma of many brides-to-be.
As I peruse magazines and online articles (type in “wedding trends” on Google and you will find nearly 95,000 entries) on the latest and greatest in the world of weddings (a world I can now enjoy as spectator), I canât help but wonder who is pulling the strings here?
I came across this story that aired on WCIA in Champaign, Ill.:
Check out the irony in this quote from a wedding planner:
“The first question that most brides ask… What can I do to make my wedding different. What’s the newest trend and what will make people remember my wedding.”
If you are doing the same thing that everyone else is, how in the world is that going to make your wedding different?
“And even classic dresses have a new twist. Gone are the days of the puffy white gown. Now people are even adding color.
‘You may see a bride walk down the aisle in a champagne or a pale pink.. and color or a sash in a color.’”
I was married in a classic white gown—the kind that never goes out of style. Again, if all the other brides are wearing color â your idea of adding a pink sash is not as original.
Why not be really original â go back to tradition? Itâs a big stretch, I know, but sometimes a traditional wedding with a personal touch can be more unique than anything found on the pages of Brides.
Remember: One brideâs trend is anotherâs trash.
March 24, 2008 | 11:53 am
Posted by Mrs. Shoshana F
Of course, replacing it isnât as simple as screwing in a new lightbulb. There is a process:
1) Open garage door â carefully avoiding crickets, spiders and other creepy crawies â to obtain step ladder
2) Get a screwdriver to unscrew the cover â no, not that screwdriver, the one that looks like a plus sign.
3) Unscrew the cover â damn, too short â¦ tip-toe time
4) Unscrew lightbulb â dropped it, crap!
5) Clean up broken lightbulb
6) Replace lightbulb.
7) Replace cover
8) Turn on light. Um, turn on light. Damn! Bad lightbulb.
Being the craft, thrifty, creative newlywed I am, I figure I should buy some solar lights to stick in the ground and aim at the front door, so when the front light burns out, weâll have a back up. It made perfect sense.
Of course, no good deed goes unpunished and, it turns out, the area directly in front of our door gets no direct sun, thanks to a really terribly positioned bush.
So, I think about it: Iâll put it a little down the driveway so it lights up the driveway and the door. It was brilliant! Of course, as I was adjusting the head of the light the base broke. No problem! The light still worked â¦ so I just leaned it on its side. Perfect!
This morning as I was getting ready to head to work, I get a call from my husband â who was already on his way down the freeway.
âHoney. When you drove my car last night, did you turn the wheel?â
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I said, âWell, I had to, to get into the driveway. Why?â
âBecause as I pulled out this morning, I think I ran over the light.â
I covered my forehead with my hands and said: âHow did you manage that, youâd have to pull out at a 45 degree angle.â
âI didnât realize how far out I was. Iâll come back and clean it up. I donât want you to cut yourself.â
âHoney, thatâs crazy,â I told him. âIâm capable of cleaning up a light.â
âI want to buy some more lights,â he tells me.
âWe have two more in the closet,â I say.
âNo,â he says. âI want them to line the driveway. It’ll brighten everything.â
âOK dear,â I say, âweâll go to the store this week and get more.â
I hang up with him and go outside. I see the light. Not only is it in many plastic pieces â it is embedded into our lawn. The good news is I was able to pry it up, the bad news is, there is now a small hole in front of our house.
Of course, it is the perfect size for a light.