Just put me out of my misery now, please

My husband is on vacation this week.

We're not really going anywhere, just puttering around the house, taking a few day trips, doing some minor home improvements. He's taking this opportunity to catch up on time missed with Chicky Baby. He's connecting with our child in ways he hasn't been able to do as a full time-plus working man. He reads her books and plays roll-the-ball with her. Now that she's a full-fledged walker, he takes her on walks (actually, I should call them "toddles") up and down our street. In return, she's reaching for him more and more. She brings her favorite toy to him instead of always bring it to me. It is truly a wonderful and glorious thing to behold - the relationship between father and daughter.

But even though he's spending much more time with her, he's still the same guy that wants to get accomplish as much as humanly possible in the short time he has away from work. He wants to clear out the spare room and make it into a third bedroom (for guests. no, I'm not pregnant) instead of a 9 x 11 trash heap of long forgotten books, old tax returns and paperwork, an older Bowflex machine that we like to call "The Clothes Rack", linens we haven't used in a dog's age, and cat hair. Mountains and mountains of cat hair. He wants to weed the yard, clean the garage, and keep our pool sparkling clean so we can swim in it (twice, we've swum - swam? - in it twice since Friday, all that chlorine and electricity to run the filter for naught). He also wants to spend time with me, sans child, as well as quality time together as a family and he wants to visit relatives and old friends.

And he's driving me insane.

Remember, I said he had 10 days off from work. Ten days is not enough time to do all the things he wants to get done without needing to take another ten days off to recover from exhaustion. And just so he doesn't read this ('cause I know you're reading this right now, Mr. C) and misunderstand, I am thrilled that he wants to do all those things and more. I just need him to understand that, though this is a vacation from work for him, this is every day for me. With another body thrown in to screw up my routine.

My routine. My precious, oh-so-necessary routine. My life-saving, sanity-saving routine.

In the mornings after getting Chicky out of her crib we usually go downstairs to the kitchen where I make breakfast for her. A few mornings this week Mr. C took care of this and I got to sleep in an extra half an hour. But even after waking up, fresh from that extra 30 minutes of slumber, we still follow a routine. Feed kid. Feed dogs. Let dogs out and make sure they go to their "spot" to do their thing so they won't piss on our new lawn, leaving large, circular burn marks in our otherwise luxurious, green grass. Make coffee. Drum fingers on counter while coffee is brewing because It's. Not. Brewing. Fast. Enough. Resist the urge to pull the pot of coffee out from the machine and inserting head under the stream of hot java to expedite the process. Play with kid. Change poopy diaper (you could set your watch by my kid's bowel movements. Uh, too much information?). Sit and read paper, online, and start in on my daily blog reading....

And that's where the problems start.

My husband, though he does occasionally read some of your blogs - especially is you leave interesting comments - is not a blog reader. He is not a blog writer. He doesn't understand the time it takes to read, comment, write, re-write, work out writer's block, write again, read and comment some more. He finishes reading the Boston Globe or ESPN and he's done and ready to move on to the first big task of the day. I, however, like to read blogs while drinking my coffee and eating my I've-convinced-myself-it's-healthy cereal. And I'll finish when I'm good and damn ready, thank you very much. Let's just say this is not going over very well with my dear husband, the Task Master. Honey, that spare bedroom has looked like a Super-Fund site for at least a year and a half, it can stand to not be completely spruced up in two days time. Martha Stewart is not coming to visit anytime soon.

So, for the rest of the week my reading, commenting and writing will be sporadic at best. It's good timing, I suppose, because there's this stupid, little conference going on this weekend and a lot of the bloggers I read will be at it probably having a horrible time in climate controlled hotel conference rooms.

Was that convincing? Hell, I didn't even convince myself. I'd give my third toe on my left foot to go to Blogher. What? You didn't think I was going to say 'right arm', did you? Its just a conference, people. A conference where fantastic women are knocking back martinis and wine while comparing notes on all us losers that aren't going. Who am I kidding. They'll be too busy luxuriating in their own fabulousness to even notice we're not there.

Oh, the jealousy though, it is oozing from my pores.

I've got to get a grip. After all, I've got my husband all to myself for the rest of the week. The rest of the week. Oy.

That's if we both make it that long. If he gets on my nerve I can always bury him under that huge mound of cat hair I have yet to vacuum up.