Frustration rant

Simple dinner plans this evening: twice-baked potatoes, pan-fried pork chops, canned lima beans for The Man, and brussel sprouts a la Orangette for me. So where does the frustration come in?

I get up by 6 AM every weekday. I putter around, check emails, etc., until The Man gets out of my way by going to work. Then I shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, make the bed, straighten up whatever's out of place throughout the house, scoop cat litter, do dishes when necessary, make myself a travel cup of chai tea, prepare lunch for myself, make up my face and curl my hair; added to today's schedule was taking out the stinky garbage and unpacking my groceries. Oh, and blogging. Because I don't have enough to do in the morning.

Then I go to work as an executive assistant to the highest-ranking officer of our company. I stress for 9 to 10 hours, depending on my workload.

Then I come home. Spend an hour making dinner. Give us a half hour to eat. Depending on what was served, anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour to get the dishes done (no dishwasher, remember?). So figure me finally getting to truly relax for the first time all day at about 8:00 PM.

So I catch up on reading my favorite blogs, snatch a few chapters of whatever book I am reading, snuggle with my boys, or whatever for an hour or two before I go to bed to prepare for the start of the very same cycle the next day.

Same shit, different day.

My frustration comes in when I wonder why I get no help around here. Tonight I mentioned at about 7:30 that I supposed that I should get up and do the damn dishes - looked straight at The Man. Evidently, as is the case every night for the last 6 months or so (or longer if I don't choose to delude myself), the TV was more important. Ferris Bueller was on, you know. So I spent 35 minutes in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner that he helped eat and he's sound asleep on the couch.

Rant over.