Somewhere between the last previous relationship and meeting Az the Husband, I decided that men could be sensitive or reliable, but never both. Until meeting Az, I had always fallen for the sensitive type. I liked men I felt some spiritual connection to, men who thought like I did. But after much trial and error, I discovered that the sensitive, spiritual type, though quite thrilling in the beginning, are only well-suited to women of extroardinary energy or discipline, women who don’t mind doing all the organizing. The dreamy spiritual men are suited to wives who take pride in managing their husbands.

I am not such a woman. I find that task exhausting.

So I went for reliable men instead. I met Az the Steady, a man whose hard-working, regular habits made my knees weak. The first seven years of marriage, before babies and irregular work schedules made it impractical, he woke me every morning without fail with a cup of coffee on the nightstand and a kiss on the forehead.

For three years we used the Natural Family Planning method of birth control, an option that worked for us only because Az could be depended upon to take my basal body temperature each morning before large muscle movements. He would get ready to leave for work and say, “Baby, it’s time to take your temperature.” I would groggily open my mouth, eyes still closed, and doze until he took the thermometer out again. It took absolutely no effort from me.

I tell you all this so you will understand the shock and (rather unfair) resentment I felt when I discovered the one area in which he is throroughly unreliable: washing dishes.

We both hate washing dishes. For the first seven years of marriage, we lived in an apartment without a dishwasher. Everything had to be done by hand. We did not even have a double sink, which made rinsing the dishes a creative skill. It was a constant topic of strain. He would promise to wash them, but not do it. They would continue to pile up under promises of “I’ll do them!” until every dish in the kitchen was dirty. Then he would wash only enough for the meal he was eating. The task usually fell to me out of necessity, and I held grudges.

This spring the ancient automatic dishwasher we have used and loved since buying the house finally died. We tried to live without it, but discovered Az’s unreliability and my resentment were all too easily revived. I concluded that an electric dishwasher was good for our marriage, and worth the investment. Theoretically, we could live without one, but I loved my husband a lot more with one.

Modern technology has continued to fail us. The dishwasher works great, but our microwave died two months ago. We decided it was foolish to buy a new one when we are planning to move in with my parents as soon as we sell the house. So we have been living a pre-1980s life and cooking and reheating the old-fashioned way. It has not been too bad. We have adapted well without it.

But then a pipe burst in the basement. It did not do any damage that we can tell, but it means the kitchen sink is leaking, possibly into the floor, so we cannot use the kitchen sink until it is fixed. Have you ever tried to use a kitchen without running water? There is no bathroom on our first floor, so for water we have to go to the basement or upstairs. I am suddenly back to a homestead kitchen, dragging my big pregnant self to the well to get water.

We have been delayed repeatedly by the plumbers we use. I would call someone else, except that it would take even longer to get someone else. The particular plumber who was supposed to fix it injured himself on another job, and wanted to delay our repair another week. I protested and asked for another plumber from the company to do the repair instead. The injured plumber doesn’t want to lose the job, so he says he will be here tomorrow to do it. I am skeptical. I think we may well end up with a job half-done and an overly ambitious, re-injured plumber heading for the hospital, while our kitchen lies dismantled on the floor.

And no amount of husbandly (or wifely) reliability can solve that.

1. Until about four years ago, I thought Warren Buffett and Jimmy Buffett were the same person. I would hear the financial news on the radio and think, “Wow. That guy from Margaritaville must be a lot smarter than he looks. People really listen when he talks about money.”

2. During my first master’s program, I learned to cook. My mother gave me some cookbooks and the basic necessary equipment and I learned by trial and error. I tried all sorts of things that I had never eaten in my parents’ house. One night, I decided to make a black bean soup. It was wonderful. I could not believe I had never tasted this before. We never ate beans in my family, except for the kind that come out of a can, preceded by “Pork ‘n.’” I liked the soup so much that I ate almost the whole potful, and promised myself I would make it again very soon.

The next night was one of my only dates during that master’s program. A very nice guy from my church had asked me to a classic movie at a newly renovated music hall. The company was pleasant, the theater was beautiful, but I can’t tell you if I enjoyed the movie because I could not sit in my seat for more than five minutes before I would have to race back to the bathroom. The most explosive intestinal distress of my life. Most of you would know to expect that after eating an entire potful of beans. I did not.

And no, we did not date much after that.

3. This man is not the Archbishop of Canterbury. I know that, but anytime I try to say the name of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Atkinson’s name comes out first.

But seriously, if he were, just how much worse off would the Anglican Communion be?

4. When I can’t find my car keys anywhere else, I look in the freezer. Sometimes I find them.

5. Once, in an educated discussion in college, I confused the Huguenots with the Argonauts. In case it is not obvious to you just how stupid that is, the Huguenots were the French Protestants massacred at the instigation of Catherine de Medici in 1572. The Argonauts were the mythical ancient Greek heroes who travelled on Jason’s ship, the Argo, to steal the golden fleece. Yep. Pretty much nothing left to do in that conversation except admit, “I am an idiot.”

I am not sure why the blogging urge revived just enough for me to poke fun at myself, but there it is. You may now quietly mock me, or reveal your own dumbness, too, as you like.

Reviving the blogging urge while pregnant is not going well, but I miss you all, so I thought I should post something. So here are a few updates.

No nibbles on the house. Only one showing has been scheduled, and they could not get into the house. Apparently the lockbox kept the door from shutting properly, in which case the lock sticks and cannot be unlocked. They said they wanted to reschedule, but so far they have not called again.

To make matters worse, a pipe in our basement has broken. The pipe that empties our kitchen sink needs to be replaced, which involves drilling a new hole through the kitchen floor. The water has not caused any damage, because the water is just running three feet across the unfinished cement floor into the basement drain. The repair will cost $1000.

Our money woes are getting bad, and unfortunately the last month or two our computer’s operating system has become too outdated to read some of your blogs. We cannot afford to spend money on something so optional. Even Bloglines left us behind when they updated. So if you don’t see me at your blog, it could simply be because I cannot read it. Some blogs load showing only half the post, and some blogs load showing only the template and no posts at all. So far we have not had much trouble with the basic templates of Blogger and Typepad, but that day is coming.

The pregnancy is going well, except for some nausea and depression (now why would I be depressed?). The baby’s heartbeat is strong, and we will have the first ultrasound on the 30th. I am excited to find out if it is a boy or a girl. I will let you know as soon as Az the Eager Daddy agrees to it.

We will host Thanksgiving for family this year. Az’s parents and brother and sister-in-law are coming up. We will also celebrate JellyBean’s third brithday. If I can find the energy, we will do a Beatrix Potter themed party. She has already requested a “hedgehog cake” from a picture in a cookbook. “Like Mrs. Tiggywinkle!“

We finished painting our study/guest room. If we cannot sell the house, it will be the nursery for the new baby. I will put up some pictures once all the clutter is put away. It feels likes my entire life right now is about keeping this house in order. It is not a satisfying purpose for existence.

That is all that I have been doing lately, except for watching all the clips of QI on YouTube and listening to more of Cherry Jones’s readings of the Little House series on audiobook (wonderful!).

Oh, yeah. I also voted.

Number of times awakened by coughing each night: 3

Number of house guests turned away because of risk of infecting them: 2

Number of weeks the dripping children have missed church: 2

Number of tissues wadded up beside my bed in the morning: 17

Number of maternity underpants changed each day due to coughing fits: 4

Number of hours it takes pants to dry when coughing fit strikes in middle of grocery store: 2

Number of days voice lost: 3

Number of recorded campaign phone calls disturbing the sick lady: 16

Number of sick husbands: 1 (but it feels like more)