wifercize wednesday: hormones and hand sanders

Andrew has been such a dear in keeping up with his hormone-flooded wife.  The downsides have included fits of frustration (generally nesting related or sleep deprivation related) followed by a gush of tears.

A few months ago I decided to tidy the first floor of our house.  AND I HAD TO DO IT RIGHT.  NOW. Coming across a few pairs of Andrew's shoes in the hallway, I asked him if he would like me to put them in the front closet or upstairs in the bedroom.  He told me to hold on one moment, as he was busy paying a bill online.

I waited a moment.  I waited a moment more.  Still answerless, I abandoned the shoes and stormed off to complete some other equally-as-pressing task until Andrew tracked me down and asked me if I was OK (the banging of objects tipped him off).

"Yes.  I'm fine."  (I wasn't.)
"Reeally?  You don't seem fine.  Are you mad?"
"No.  I'm not."  (I was.)
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know."  (I didn't.)

About 10 minutes after this futile discussion Andrew was back on the couch and I furtively joined him.  I sat as close as I could manage with my bulky abdomen, put my head on his shoulder, and started crying.

"Are you crying?  What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry."  (I was.)
"That's OK.  For what?"
"I don't know."  (I still didn't.)

Andrew has been wonderful at decoding (or, rather, lovingly disregarding) many of my extreme ups and downs and for this I am grateful.  The truth is that, most of the time, I truly don't know why I'm upset.  In the past week alone, the answers to "Are you crying?  What's wrong?" have included "I'm tired.  And you're nice." to "This movie is too sad."  Both legitimate answers.  To me.  At the time.

Another behavioural development has been a slightly unhinged desire to refinish furniture, as mentioned on Monday.  The first of which was a stool.

I spotted the stool on the side of the road the day Andrew and I were parking near St. Joe's hospital for an ultrasound appointment.  It was a painted (chipping), white (yellowing), wooden stool with a slab of the seat broken off.  I thought it was marvelous.

After my dad reattached the broken seat with carpenter's glue, it looked a little something like this:

After a generous sanding with my handy Black & Decker GelMax Mouse Sander and Polisher with Touch Zone Technology, it looked like this:

And after two coats of black CIL semi-gloss latex interior paint (primer included!) it looked exactly the way I wanted it to:

You might remember that I've been working on this little plot of the house ever since I designed my own wire hooks to display decorative French cheese plates on the wall:

Since it's completion, I am happy to report that it is the first DIY project that Oberon approves of.  In fact, he approves of it so much he almost exclusively owns property rights to it.

"How handy," he told me when I placed the finished stool in the kitchen.  "You've finally given me the throne I so rightfully deserve.  From here I shall survey my kingdom and all that transpires throughout."

wifercize wednesday: volatile soup

Women, you're going to get a lot out of this: especially if you aren't familiar with why you operate the way you operate. Men, don't tune out: this information might one day save your life.

First: men and women are different. You might recall this image, forwarded internationally in LOL-postscripted emails:

Second: a quote I originally read on my husband's blog (before he was my husband...but after I wanted him to be), which I love:

But women are built like nuclear reactors. We're constantly marinating in a volatile soup of hormones that's poised and ready to form a new, living, breathing human in nine months flat. Think about having that kind of power under your hood. It's awesome, and it sucks.

I was speaking with a male coworker who was outlining some of the differences between his girlfriend and himself, namely spending habits, budgeting habits, decorative preferences, and desire for shiny things. He also mentioned that her cleaning habits were odd, and ran like clockwork. "Her apartment will be a disaster for almost an entire month and then, over two days, she'll go on a cleaning frenzy. Everything. The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom. I figure I might as well have her over to my apartment during those two days..."

What he is unknowingly describing is a phenomenon that many men are only vaguely aware of and, sadly, women are only a little less vaguely aware of. I found this helpful chart on a website called The Venus Week (don't worry, it's not half as new age as you might think). Dr. Rebecca Booth, the author of the website and book by the same name, explains that women experience what she describes as "The Venus Week" which is, essentially, ovulation. Women look and feel great because their bodies are casually hinting HEY, IT'S TIME FOR ME TO MAKE A BABY. Happens every month.

The interesting part about the constantly rotating (I prefer "rotating" over "raging") hormones in our systems is that they casually hint other things. All the time. And we're, more or less, quite subservient to their demands. Such as HEY, IT'S TIME TO NEST WHICH MEANS THAT ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING IN YOUR IMMEDIATE SURROUNDING MUST BE TIDY AND CLEAN. Happens every month.

These pages (click on each hormone to learn more about them) were vastly helpful as I began to research the hormones that rotated (see?) through my system on a monthly basis. And guys, if you're still reading, keep the eye-rolling to a minimum. If you think the lady in your life is irrational now just wait until oxytocin hormone joins the "volatile soup" in the weeks leading up to birth. I'll leave you with this quote from The New York Times on the subject:

With hammers pounding and drills whining in the background, Ms. Kinsey, speaking by phone, said she is having her kitchen “completely gutted” to make way for new cabinetry, flooring, appliances and countertops. Next, she wants to repave the driveway, finish landscaping the yard and enlarge some windows to let in more light. “I got up at 4:30 in the morning the other day and looked at the windows and thought they were too small,” said Ms. Kinsey, 36, whose baby is due in May. “Is that nuts or what?”