Spreadsheets

I've started a spreadsheet.

Let me 'splain.

Over the past several years, it's been a running non-joke between NoNick and me that he has some sort of Excel spreadsheet, on which he calculates how short I have been. Did I have a migraine headache one weekend and not help him with the kids? That went on the spreadsheet. Did I go to a Friends of Library meeting? That went on the spreadsheet.

I never actually got to see the spreadsheet, mind you; I only heard about things that were on it. I was busting my rear to keep up with the kids, the homeschooling, the house. . .we were both overworked and overstressed. To me, the concept was alien and offensive, a way of keeping score. Except we both were on the same team. Weren't we?

Obviously not.

But now, when we're really not on the same team. . .I've started keeping score.

I have to.

I know that in a few years, as soon as he can, he's going to ask for a reduction in the money he pays me. It is all about the money, isn't it? (I guess it is; it's a pretty good way of keeping score if one is into that sort of thing.) And when he does, he's going to whip out his spreadsheet to talk about all of the things that I've done.

And I have got to have a way to defend myself against him.

So now I have my own spreadsheet, and I'm keeping score of the times he's inappropriate in front of the children. (Like "Mommy must have taken the brooms"--no, Mommy spent her own money to buy more brooms. Or "Mommy has all of the hairbrushes"--no, Mommy has three. There are approximately 634 more hairbrushes somewhere in the house, because I've bought 637 in the past few years. Find one. I don't like hearing that kind of stuff, but have reacted neutrally in front of the kids.) The times he's late picking them up or returning them. The times he's uses the financial arrangements inappropriately. The times he doesn't show up or call to reschedule appointments we've made to go over things to get this resolved. (Like today.)

So far, I've been 100% within compliance. I have spent more time and energy trying to get my stuff out of his house than I have to get it put away in my own. (I was horribly embarrassed when the cavalry arrived yesterday. I was sick in the bed with a High Fever, and the cavalry brought chicken soup and ginger ale from Whole Foods. Yeah, you read that right, someone went out--unasked--and bought me soup that wasn't Campbells and ginger ale from some boutique bottler. As well as some beef barley soup, some cheese and crackers--not Ritz and Kraft, which is what I had. Anyway, I was so upset that there was a knock at the door when my house looked like 10 miles of bad road, I almost didn't answer. But then I saw there was food. I can stand a bit of humiliation for a good feed.)

And so now, I have a spreadsheet.