I shoulda just asked for jewelry

"For Mother's Day," I say to Man, "I just want you to clean my car. It's so gross."

It is February.

I believe in planning ahead.

Man has known me too long to flinch at the peculiarity of my demands or of their time and place. At least outwardly. I cannot actually vouch for what happens inside his brain. Still, he appears legitimately relieved not to have to come up with an idea for a present himself.

Me, too.

Ahem:

Christmas 2007

And ahem:

Birthday, 2006

So. Anyway. Just so we are on the same page, I repeat: "That's ALL I want. You to clean my car."

"Alrighty," says Man, using the tone most people reserve for annoying people who repeat things. I know the only reason he isn't snapping at me is that he is battling conflicting emotions: annoyance, yes, but also pride at his having married one of those women who doesn't need expensive things.

As tempted as I am to let him think something nice of me (after 15 years of marriage, one needs as many check marks in the nice column as possible), I feel honesty is the best policy here: "No, no, no," I say. "I'm repeating to make sure you don't forget. I want you to clean my car. It is soooo bad, that it will be a big undertaking. And I want it so badly that that's all I want."

"Fine," he huffs and rolls his eyes.

Fast forward to earlier this week.

"I have an appointment to get your car detailed Friday," Man tells me proudly.

"Oh," I manage. This is not what I asked for. Detailing involves taking my car somewhere else. Which means I will first have to empty it of assorted lacrosse, baseball and tennis equipment, my emergency knitting, the phone and phone book, the library books, the winter coats, hats, gloves, the umbrellas, granola bar wrappers from dinner Tuesday (and Wednesday)...

Which means I could just clean the car myself.

"Hm..." I say, stalling and trying very, very hard to be nice and all "thought that counts-y."

Two fingernails suffer an early demise in my attempts to keep my mouth shut. A back molar takes a severe grinding that I'm sure my dentist is going to want to discuss with me later. All I wanted was for you to vacuum out last summer's sand and throw away the candy wrappers in the back seat, I want to explain, but not in a nice way. You know... with tone. But I manage to stay quiet. Three more fingernails die nasty deaths.

Finally I eke out an "OK..." and content myself with rolling my eyes behind his back.

"But I'm going to the Sox Thursday," Man adds, "so you'll have to empty your car."

I cock my head, way, way, WAY over, so that my ear almost touches my shoulder, and arch an eyebrow, in that universal sign language for "Are you freaking on CRACK?!" "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you clearly..."

Man repeats his situation.

I just smile and walk away, which I take to be the universal gesture for "I don't think so" (but is interchangeable with "Bite Me") and he interprets as the universal symbol for "OK." (Interchangeable with "OK.")

Fast forward a little further, to 6:30 this morning, where man is swearing grumbling audibly in the driveway, trying to avoid getting his suit trashed by a rain-soaked SUV while he leans in to drag out lacrosse, baseball, tennis equipment, assorted umbrellas, and my knitting. (As an aside, there is something a bit fun about seeing a cranky grown man in a suit carefully rewinding your bright purple Noro sock yarn and tucking it gently into the passenger seat of the other car.)

I watch all this from my laundry room window, where I am busy cleaning other things, winter coats that need to be put away and game day uniforms that the kids need for today, but finally take pity and decide to go help.

In my bright pink pyjamas. With some crazy patterned rain boots. (I figured at least the neighbors could have a little fun.)

Cranky Pants Man is still cursing grumbling as I arrive to help, and full of directives for how I can spend the rest of my day: "Tell those kids I'm going to kill them for trashing this car" and "You better not let them do this to mine today," and the one that really, really hurt, "You better not blog about this."

So, yeah. Happy Mother's Day to me.

Still, though, I'm going to try to look on that bright side. Unless something very bad happens, I'll have myself a clean car at the end of the day.

And I didn't have to do (much) of it myself.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone! May they all be a little less like... every other day.

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And go say hi to all the mothers over at the new blog in town, The Mouthy Housewives!