Thor's Day

I just googled the word Thursday. Yes, I am lame. Trying to find a decent title for this totally scattered blog post I'm about to throw your way, I resorted to googling a day of the week. And this is why I love the internet, because Thursday is actually fascinating. Thursday's entry pops up on Wikipedia with a large painting of a muscley blonde god, Thunor or Thor for you Nordic readers, wielding a friggin hammer and sporting a very fashionable wide gold belt, that I'm pretty sure Michelle Obama has worn to a state dinner. Yes! Go, Thor's day. So after procrastinating, I mean reading, the entire Wikipedia entry for Thursday, I'm now forcing myself to just dive into this Thor's Day blog post. Some blog posts write themselves, and some are like trying to dig a small rock out of your little brother's nose: difficult, frustrating and mildly funny. This is a rock in the nose kind of post.

Today was a crazy busy day at work. Lots of projects, deadlines, client phone calls, class work deadlines and did I mention deadlines? Throw on all those little urgent requests that constantly pop up throughout the day, and I felt spent by 5:00 pm. I need to find a way to get more control over all those fires that eat up the day so that I can actually get my arms around significant projects.  But I tackled it. I treated myself to a mocha frosted brownie for lunch. You know, 'cause I deserved it. And I finished the biggest portion of my direct mail fundraising class homework assignment. These fundraising classes are better than I expected and the fact that I can actually apply them to my work immediately makes them worth the tuiton. I'm really proud of the finished assignment actually. I think it's a compelling letter, and it looks good too. You might see it in your mail box in just a few weeks. But we won't know whether it's really a success until the money starts rolling in. Fingers crossed. I'm sure my client's saying the same thing.  

After work I headed over to my lovely friend Tara's house to do a little dress shopping. Our friend Caroline invited Joe and I to the Spofford Home Butterfly Gala and Auction tomorrow night and I'm tired of everything I own, and not willing to spend a couple of hundred dollars on a dress for one night.  Plus Tara has a wardrobe that looks like you walked into a slightly messy Nordstroms, the girl likes clothes. And she's generous enough to share. I stopped by, chatted with Tara and her husband Mike, giggled with baby Madeline and checked out her two new teeth, scooped up a few dresses to try on later and headed home. Except my car was dead. Dead and parked so that it perfectly blocked both of their cars. Mike kindly pulled his car up on the lawn, turned around, popped the hood, whipped out his brand new jumper cables and juiced my battery back up.  This is one of the benefits of marrying well and having friends who've married well, nice guys that are actually happy to help. I know Joe would have done the same. Plus Mike got to break in those new cables. And crisis averted. Thanks again, guys! Car running and finally time to get home.

After a quick dinner with Joe, it's party dress fashion show time. Normally I love trying to figure out what to wear to events. It's fun, I like accessories and dressing up on occasion and feeling pretty. And I have a slew of potential favorite new dresses just waiting to be zipped up. Except I don't feel pretty, I feel tired. My makeup has vanished, and my hair is flat and I am not looking like "party time." But since I've waited until the night before the event I kind of have to figure out the outfit now.  I have to admit my brain is fried by this point in the evening. So the following choices were poor and based on minor levels of exhaustion and ridiculous feminine stereotypical behaviors that I'm slightly ashamed about. I pulled Joe into it.  No, I did. The pain I put Joe through for the next hour was quite selfish and cruel. No husband should have to sit through six dress and accessory changes and be forced to give his opinion. And then have his idiot wife demand his honest opinion, no really be honest, and then when he is honest, give him a pissy response. Really? Isn't this some kind of Rita Rudner comedy routine? Have I just cast myself as the shrewish wife asking her husband if she looks fat in that dress? Yes, I have.  And what did I end up deciding? To wear one of my own damn dresses. And just to make myself even crazier and to torture Joe just a bit more, what was he doing for me while I made him give me fashion advice? Editing my homework assignment.

I stand there in front of him, one dress after another, and every time I come out of the bedroom to show him the next option, I see more edits all over my precious letter. I asked for this. I wanted him to edit the hell out of it. It needed it. I've been staring at that letter for way too long and it needed a fresh set of eyes. But it still kills me to watch him find all the little things I should have noticed and fixed myself. I am a ridiculous defensive perfectionist. He's a great editor. He knows what I'm trying to say, but can clearly tell me why it's not coming across that way in writing. He's gentle, but persistent. He has strong suggestions and let's me try to argue my way out of them, even let's me win sometimes. And it drives me insane, because it's exactly what I need. He's exactly what I need. So I set myself up for this dreadful vulnerability tonight. Exposed myself to the party dress critique (and all it's attendant body issue/self confidence damaging lady head games) and even more distressful, exposed my writing to his brutal accurate pen. He took it in stride. I'm sure he wouldn't even call it torture. Just part of the whole package of being married to a neurotic, slightly dramatic, overly analytical writer.  But I do make a mean mocha brownie.