"What's your name?"
"Kendra."
"What?"
"Ken-dra..."
"Oh! Like on TV?"
What? What the hell was this guy talking about. My fingers frantically Googled, and--Oh!--there is indeed some name stealing bitch and apparently she's on TV.
"Um, sure. But I'm fat and have brown hair."
"You didn't have to tell me that."
"Probably not, but I enjoy shattering the hopes of others. Besides, why on Earth would you think that's an appropriate question to ask?"
"I don't know. So are you interested in the magazines or not?"
"I'll be honest here--I have no intention of buying anything from you. Sorry. We can still chat, if you'd like."
"Oh."
Click. I'm terrible on the phone.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Evening Highlights
Today was really strange, even by my standards.
It's almost 2 and I should really be sleeping, but I feel compelled to update first. If for no one else, then for my awesome commenter, Jenn. Plus, my power is back and after spending the better part of the evening with only coloring books and a Disney Princess flashlight, I really feel I should have a quick date with the love of my life. (In case you're thinking that's my husband or spawn, it's not. I'm talking, of course, about my computer.)
My house is old. I don't mean before I was born old, I mean before anyone who could possibly read this was born old. 1894 old. And it kind of sucks, but it was a hell of a deal and I guess it (usually) beats homelessness, so I'll consider my blessings here. Anyway, my shitty old house has shitty old electrical wiring. And fuses! Somehow, after all the years we've lived here, I still forget that I can't run the microwave and CD player at the same time. This proved truly tragic tonight when the fuse box delivered its swift and painful reminder that it will not, in fact, allow me to belt out "A Little Priest" while anticipating my first bite of Salisbury steak. In what I can only describe as one of life's more heartbreaking moments, I found myself in the dark with neither music, nor sufficiently heated processed meat product.
This would be a good time to talk about my basement, which in all fairness really deserves a whole post of its own. There's only word to describe my basement with any accuracy, and that word is dungeon. If I were to torture someone (which, and I should probably keep this to myself, is one of my life's ambitions) I'd do it in my basement. There's even a secret room! Like I said, it really deserves a whole topic of its own. For now, I'll keep it simple--I do not enter my basement. I think I've been down there maybe half a dozen times in all the years we've owned the house, none of them alone and never as far back as the fuse boxes.
It's not that I'm inherently afraid of basements, but I am the dictionary definition of arachnophobic. Once, as a kid, I even ended up in the hospital over a spider bite. Not because it was poisonous or anything, but because of the complete mental breakdown I suffered from the abject terror of it all. True story. Anyway, being the brightest crayon in the box, this arachnophobic thought it wise to buy a hundred and something year old home on the water. This should be read as, "We have a spider problem." Due to my copious use of both poison and natural deterrents, this problem is mostly confined to the basement, but one look around that crypt and there's no denying the problem exists. There are spiders that died cannibalizing other dead spiders. It's really bad. The first time I saw my basement, I wondered if it had been cleaned once since 1894. Turns out, it probably had. The manly men in my life (meaning my husband, father, and brother) rid my infested torture chamber of all its eight legged evils bi-annually, but they always come back. My husband says it's because our house is so old and the water and vegetation don't help, but he's lying to both of us. I know they're plotting, and I know I am the target of said plot. I'm not angry about my husband's lies, though. I know he's just trying to protect me. Shit, I'm on a tangent, aren't I?
So, the fuse is blown. Normally, this isn't a huge issue. I have a whole tupperware container full of those tricky little bastards. All I have to do is summon my knight in shining armor and the lights are back on in minutes! However, for all the bothersome staying at home he's done this week, he's chosen this particular evening to vacate the premises. Fuck! This has happened twice before, but each time I was resourceful enough to find someone else to save my ass from a night of no electricity. Unfortunately, about a month and a half ago, my child made off with my phone and I haven't seen that son of a bitch since. The friend my husband is visiting only lives three blocks away, so I briefly consider just walking over there to let him know he's needed at home. But the child--sick and sleeping--kills that idea.
On top of being terrified of my basement, there is no one in the world less prepared for personal emergencies than me. I have two flashlights that are out of batteries. In fact, second flashlight was my dad's, which he left here because he was frustrated that I never had a working flashlight. I can't really use candles anymore per order of the husband. He's not being controlling, it's just his perfectly logical fear of my irresponsibility someday burning down our home. I keep pointing out that the insurance would cover more than the house is worth, but he insists his fears have more to do with personal safety. Anyway, since I can't use them, I don't really buy candles anymore.
I spend about 15 minutes just sitting there, pondering the complete fuckaroo I've dug for myself and wondering when it started getting dark so early. My husband won't be home 'til late. This really pisses me off because it's pretty rare that the child is sleeping and the husband is gone for that many hours at a stretch and I was really looking forward to this. Then I remember something!
About a month ago, my parents bought my daughter a princess camping set. It's really cute. Too much pink for me, but still really cute. Anyway, it came with a tent, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a flashlight! I frown at the realization that my three year old is at least four items more prepared than I am in the event of a catastrophe, but the frown can't last long--I have a flashlight to find! Her room is pitch black, so before I can do anything in there, I have to dig out one of my husband's lighters. It's not too hard, since he constantly loses them in recesses of his computer recliner. I burn myself while scavenging Princess Pie's room for that flashlight, but it's minor and I actually have burn cream and even more shocking, I know where it is and once I have the flashlight, I can easily get it! In another surprising turn, the flashlight isn't too hard to find. Sadly, things are going a little too well for me. though--it isn't until I try to turn the flashlight on, that I remember I took a battery out of it a few weeks ago. I either needed it for my vibrator or my computer mouse, I can't really remember which. In any case, I know where the computer mouse is and I'm one battery away from light!
It's not the brightest flashlight I've ever used, but it's something and it doesn't burn me like the lighter did. I tend to my wound, and take a few guesses at what time it is. I don't have any battery operated clocks. This is a shame because I love clocks, and I wonder why I don't have any. I mean, I do--we have three computers, a time display on the range and the microwave, and at least one phone at any given time--but none of those things work in this electrical void. Meaning I'm clueless about how long it will be until my husband returns. That sucks.
I can't sleep, so I spend my time creating little stories in my mind. They're mostly awesome, but then my mind settles on a topic that is simply so overwhelming to me that I freak myself out. There's really nothing off limits here, but I don't feel like trying to deal with any of that again, so I'll leave you in the dark on that for now. Don't be too upset, everything in its own time. I need something calming and mindless. Hey! I just pilfered a bunch coloring books from the kid! I know, I know--that makes me a shitty mother, but in my defense, she prefers coloring on construction paper anyway. Plus, I think it was really stupid of my husband to spend $15 on four coloring books for a kid who is just as happy with the ones I buy three for $1 from the discount store. I'm the one who can tell the difference between the generic characters and the named, licensed ones. So, that's what I did until my husband came home. I just colored. I even put my best work on the fridge with my little letter magnets. Tomorrow I'll take pictures! If you're lucky, maybe I'll take pics of my burn, too!
The huzz finally returns. He doesn't ask why I'm sitting in the dark, he simply walks to the cupboard, retrieves the tupperware container and heads for the basement. He takes care of this before hugging me or anything because he's awesome and his priorities are always in the right order. I'm not even being sarcastic here, he knows how I feel about the fuses. In that moment, no matter how annoying he's been the past few days, I am filled with awe and love and all feelings warm and squishy. Once the house is finally flooded with light and everything is the way it should be, I even snuggle up with him to watch one of his boring shows on Netflix. We chat a bit. I remember the Salisbury steak and give him half in offering of thanks. Eventually he tires and tries talking me into going to bed. I tell him I'll just be fifteen minutes.
Before he heads to our room, he stops for a drink, and that's when he has a question for me: "Hey Bean? Did you steal Pie-ra's coloring books?" I can't tell if he's irritated or amused, so I just pretend I didn't hear him. Finally, he gives up and pads down the hallway, leaving me where I was when I started this.
It's almost 2 and I should really be sleeping, but I feel compelled to update first. If for no one else, then for my awesome commenter, Jenn. Plus, my power is back and after spending the better part of the evening with only coloring books and a Disney Princess flashlight, I really feel I should have a quick date with the love of my life. (In case you're thinking that's my husband or spawn, it's not. I'm talking, of course, about my computer.)
My house is old. I don't mean before I was born old, I mean before anyone who could possibly read this was born old. 1894 old. And it kind of sucks, but it was a hell of a deal and I guess it (usually) beats homelessness, so I'll consider my blessings here. Anyway, my shitty old house has shitty old electrical wiring. And fuses! Somehow, after all the years we've lived here, I still forget that I can't run the microwave and CD player at the same time. This proved truly tragic tonight when the fuse box delivered its swift and painful reminder that it will not, in fact, allow me to belt out "A Little Priest" while anticipating my first bite of Salisbury steak. In what I can only describe as one of life's more heartbreaking moments, I found myself in the dark with neither music, nor sufficiently heated processed meat product.
This would be a good time to talk about my basement, which in all fairness really deserves a whole post of its own. There's only word to describe my basement with any accuracy, and that word is dungeon. If I were to torture someone (which, and I should probably keep this to myself, is one of my life's ambitions) I'd do it in my basement. There's even a secret room! Like I said, it really deserves a whole topic of its own. For now, I'll keep it simple--I do not enter my basement. I think I've been down there maybe half a dozen times in all the years we've owned the house, none of them alone and never as far back as the fuse boxes.
It's not that I'm inherently afraid of basements, but I am the dictionary definition of arachnophobic. Once, as a kid, I even ended up in the hospital over a spider bite. Not because it was poisonous or anything, but because of the complete mental breakdown I suffered from the abject terror of it all. True story. Anyway, being the brightest crayon in the box, this arachnophobic thought it wise to buy a hundred and something year old home on the water. This should be read as, "We have a spider problem." Due to my copious use of both poison and natural deterrents, this problem is mostly confined to the basement, but one look around that crypt and there's no denying the problem exists. There are spiders that died cannibalizing other dead spiders. It's really bad. The first time I saw my basement, I wondered if it had been cleaned once since 1894. Turns out, it probably had. The manly men in my life (meaning my husband, father, and brother) rid my infested torture chamber of all its eight legged evils bi-annually, but they always come back. My husband says it's because our house is so old and the water and vegetation don't help, but he's lying to both of us. I know they're plotting, and I know I am the target of said plot. I'm not angry about my husband's lies, though. I know he's just trying to protect me. Shit, I'm on a tangent, aren't I?
So, the fuse is blown. Normally, this isn't a huge issue. I have a whole tupperware container full of those tricky little bastards. All I have to do is summon my knight in shining armor and the lights are back on in minutes! However, for all the bothersome staying at home he's done this week, he's chosen this particular evening to vacate the premises. Fuck! This has happened twice before, but each time I was resourceful enough to find someone else to save my ass from a night of no electricity. Unfortunately, about a month and a half ago, my child made off with my phone and I haven't seen that son of a bitch since. The friend my husband is visiting only lives three blocks away, so I briefly consider just walking over there to let him know he's needed at home. But the child--sick and sleeping--kills that idea.
On top of being terrified of my basement, there is no one in the world less prepared for personal emergencies than me. I have two flashlights that are out of batteries. In fact, second flashlight was my dad's, which he left here because he was frustrated that I never had a working flashlight. I can't really use candles anymore per order of the husband. He's not being controlling, it's just his perfectly logical fear of my irresponsibility someday burning down our home. I keep pointing out that the insurance would cover more than the house is worth, but he insists his fears have more to do with personal safety. Anyway, since I can't use them, I don't really buy candles anymore.
I spend about 15 minutes just sitting there, pondering the complete fuckaroo I've dug for myself and wondering when it started getting dark so early. My husband won't be home 'til late. This really pisses me off because it's pretty rare that the child is sleeping and the husband is gone for that many hours at a stretch and I was really looking forward to this. Then I remember something!
About a month ago, my parents bought my daughter a princess camping set. It's really cute. Too much pink for me, but still really cute. Anyway, it came with a tent, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a flashlight! I frown at the realization that my three year old is at least four items more prepared than I am in the event of a catastrophe, but the frown can't last long--I have a flashlight to find! Her room is pitch black, so before I can do anything in there, I have to dig out one of my husband's lighters. It's not too hard, since he constantly loses them in recesses of his computer recliner. I burn myself while scavenging Princess Pie's room for that flashlight, but it's minor and I actually have burn cream and even more shocking, I know where it is and once I have the flashlight, I can easily get it! In another surprising turn, the flashlight isn't too hard to find. Sadly, things are going a little too well for me. though--it isn't until I try to turn the flashlight on, that I remember I took a battery out of it a few weeks ago. I either needed it for my vibrator or my computer mouse, I can't really remember which. In any case, I know where the computer mouse is and I'm one battery away from light!
It's not the brightest flashlight I've ever used, but it's something and it doesn't burn me like the lighter did. I tend to my wound, and take a few guesses at what time it is. I don't have any battery operated clocks. This is a shame because I love clocks, and I wonder why I don't have any. I mean, I do--we have three computers, a time display on the range and the microwave, and at least one phone at any given time--but none of those things work in this electrical void. Meaning I'm clueless about how long it will be until my husband returns. That sucks.
I can't sleep, so I spend my time creating little stories in my mind. They're mostly awesome, but then my mind settles on a topic that is simply so overwhelming to me that I freak myself out. There's really nothing off limits here, but I don't feel like trying to deal with any of that again, so I'll leave you in the dark on that for now. Don't be too upset, everything in its own time. I need something calming and mindless. Hey! I just pilfered a bunch coloring books from the kid! I know, I know--that makes me a shitty mother, but in my defense, she prefers coloring on construction paper anyway. Plus, I think it was really stupid of my husband to spend $15 on four coloring books for a kid who is just as happy with the ones I buy three for $1 from the discount store. I'm the one who can tell the difference between the generic characters and the named, licensed ones. So, that's what I did until my husband came home. I just colored. I even put my best work on the fridge with my little letter magnets. Tomorrow I'll take pictures! If you're lucky, maybe I'll take pics of my burn, too!
The huzz finally returns. He doesn't ask why I'm sitting in the dark, he simply walks to the cupboard, retrieves the tupperware container and heads for the basement. He takes care of this before hugging me or anything because he's awesome and his priorities are always in the right order. I'm not even being sarcastic here, he knows how I feel about the fuses. In that moment, no matter how annoying he's been the past few days, I am filled with awe and love and all feelings warm and squishy. Once the house is finally flooded with light and everything is the way it should be, I even snuggle up with him to watch one of his boring shows on Netflix. We chat a bit. I remember the Salisbury steak and give him half in offering of thanks. Eventually he tires and tries talking me into going to bed. I tell him I'll just be fifteen minutes.
Before he heads to our room, he stops for a drink, and that's when he has a question for me: "Hey Bean? Did you steal Pie-ra's coloring books?" I can't tell if he's irritated or amused, so I just pretend I didn't hear him. Finally, he gives up and pads down the hallway, leaving me where I was when I started this.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
A Day Off!
I started typing this sometime around 7AM, with full intention of bragging about my day off, bought about by the ill health of my poor child. Turns out, it couldn't be farther from a day off, hence my deletion of the whole three sentences I'd typed over five hours ago. Serves me right, I suppose.
There's nothing like family illness to bring out the annoying in my husband. He's been on vacation all week. For him, this is a much deserved break. For me, it's more cooking, more cleaning, more laundry. Awesome. With the kid being sick, he's at full panic. I like to think that if you cross bred a monkey and a rhino and raised it to be a crack addict, you'd know what my husband is like when he's been home too long and our kid is sick. In his world, it can just be a cough or a fever or a runny nose. No, nothing common and every day at all. Clearly, she's suffering from the plague.
On one hand, this has been of great benefit to both the child and myself. Right now, he's will to make as many trips to Super Walmart Center as necessary to ensure her continued breathing and/or happiness. This is how I got an economy sized box of frozen waffles, plus it's gotten him out of the house for several hours. Those hours were broken up in to approximately 20 minute increments, but this is stupendous, none the less. I keep planting little "needs" in her mind. I'm a horrible person.
On the other hand, he's being really irritating. I just took her temperature. You want to know if it's changed a fraction of a degree? Take it again yourself! Yes, she's had her fluids, yes, she's had her medicine. Stop barking orders at me from the living room and come in here if you need something. And make your own fucking corndog.
Then there's the child, herself. I really do feel bad for her. It sucks seeing her sick, and she's already so tiny and frail, but she keeps forgetting she's sick. The wonders that are Tylenol and Motrin have knocked nearly all the symptoms out of her. And this is good, except for the fact that since she's feeling pretty okay, it's nearly impossible to get her to rest. Once the medication starts wearing off she turns into a nightmare. This morning, I'd totally envisioned a lovely day of lounging at the computer while she watched an endless stream of DVD's and quietly rested. My experience has been nothing like that. Instead, my whole day has been spent trying to keep her in one spot, cooking, and cleaning. Sort of like every other day only with an extra heap of annoyance.
On top of this, I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with whatever she has. I can hardly even taste my frozen waffles. I'm on very limited sleep, so my thoughts are angry and tired and mostly incoherent. I'm also aware of some rather unpleasant smell. I think it's me.
And my mom keeps calling. My mom is pissed off at me for blowing her off on Christmas. Apparently all holidays happen for her. Neat-o. We've tried ignoring the calls, but my mom is one of those people who completely disregards unanswered phones. Her mind remains convinced that I really am here and I really do want to talk to her. The end result is about 45 minutes worth of consecutive calls, each with its own unique and eventually hostile voice mail. I should really consider turning these into audio clips and posting them whenever someone pisses me off.
So that's where we're at today. No day off, just a big day full of fuck you. But I promised to write daily, and I'm not prepared to give that up yet. I know that random whining is no way to impress my audience (and again, thank you to everyone who continues reading!) so, here's a quick story:
I'm at the craptop googling things that very likely should never be googled. She, for a fleeting moment is completely engrossed in a movie, and I'm going to enjoy that moment in every way it can possibly be enjoyed. I'm not really paying her much attention, so it comes as a complete shock when she looks up and speaks.
"Those kids are assholes!"
I know I should reprimand her inappropriate language, but I'm simply too bewildered. "What kids?"
"Those ones," she points to the movie. "Buncha assholes!"
This time, I try to correct her, but there's so much passion behind her accusation that all I can do is laugh. When I can finally breathe again, I gasp, "Why do you think that?"
"Just because." The conversation is left there, as she returns to her movie and I return to the computer. So far, this has been the high point of my day.
Perhaps later, I'll compose a haiku about it.
There's nothing like family illness to bring out the annoying in my husband. He's been on vacation all week. For him, this is a much deserved break. For me, it's more cooking, more cleaning, more laundry. Awesome. With the kid being sick, he's at full panic. I like to think that if you cross bred a monkey and a rhino and raised it to be a crack addict, you'd know what my husband is like when he's been home too long and our kid is sick. In his world, it can just be a cough or a fever or a runny nose. No, nothing common and every day at all. Clearly, she's suffering from the plague.
On one hand, this has been of great benefit to both the child and myself. Right now, he's will to make as many trips to Super Walmart Center as necessary to ensure her continued breathing and/or happiness. This is how I got an economy sized box of frozen waffles, plus it's gotten him out of the house for several hours. Those hours were broken up in to approximately 20 minute increments, but this is stupendous, none the less. I keep planting little "needs" in her mind. I'm a horrible person.
On the other hand, he's being really irritating. I just took her temperature. You want to know if it's changed a fraction of a degree? Take it again yourself! Yes, she's had her fluids, yes, she's had her medicine. Stop barking orders at me from the living room and come in here if you need something. And make your own fucking corndog.
Then there's the child, herself. I really do feel bad for her. It sucks seeing her sick, and she's already so tiny and frail, but she keeps forgetting she's sick. The wonders that are Tylenol and Motrin have knocked nearly all the symptoms out of her. And this is good, except for the fact that since she's feeling pretty okay, it's nearly impossible to get her to rest. Once the medication starts wearing off she turns into a nightmare. This morning, I'd totally envisioned a lovely day of lounging at the computer while she watched an endless stream of DVD's and quietly rested. My experience has been nothing like that. Instead, my whole day has been spent trying to keep her in one spot, cooking, and cleaning. Sort of like every other day only with an extra heap of annoyance.
On top of this, I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with whatever she has. I can hardly even taste my frozen waffles. I'm on very limited sleep, so my thoughts are angry and tired and mostly incoherent. I'm also aware of some rather unpleasant smell. I think it's me.
And my mom keeps calling. My mom is pissed off at me for blowing her off on Christmas. Apparently all holidays happen for her. Neat-o. We've tried ignoring the calls, but my mom is one of those people who completely disregards unanswered phones. Her mind remains convinced that I really am here and I really do want to talk to her. The end result is about 45 minutes worth of consecutive calls, each with its own unique and eventually hostile voice mail. I should really consider turning these into audio clips and posting them whenever someone pisses me off.
So that's where we're at today. No day off, just a big day full of fuck you. But I promised to write daily, and I'm not prepared to give that up yet. I know that random whining is no way to impress my audience (and again, thank you to everyone who continues reading!) so, here's a quick story:
I'm at the craptop googling things that very likely should never be googled. She, for a fleeting moment is completely engrossed in a movie, and I'm going to enjoy that moment in every way it can possibly be enjoyed. I'm not really paying her much attention, so it comes as a complete shock when she looks up and speaks.
"Those kids are assholes!"
I know I should reprimand her inappropriate language, but I'm simply too bewildered. "What kids?"
"Those ones," she points to the movie. "Buncha assholes!"
This time, I try to correct her, but there's so much passion behind her accusation that all I can do is laugh. When I can finally breathe again, I gasp, "Why do you think that?"
"Just because." The conversation is left there, as she returns to her movie and I return to the computer. So far, this has been the high point of my day.
Perhaps later, I'll compose a haiku about it.
WTF?
First, I want to thank everyone who's been reading and commenting and following. Every one of you is awesome. Truly. Second, I meant to update last night, but fell asleep instead. This has proven most fruitful as it's why I have this little gem to share with you. I'll probably have deep regrets over this one in the morning, but at 3 something, posting it seems like a great idea. And let's be honest--we needed some funny.
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"Wha...? What's happening?" I wonder out loud, taking in my surroundings, trying to pull them close and hold them. The air is thick and tense and hazy. It's a color, but I can't really describe what that color is, somewhere between red and brown, something I have an overwhelming urge to describe as burnt. And there's a sound (loud! That's the sound of loud!) and a smell--
But before I can register what the smell is, understanding punches me in the face: I'm in a dream. Oh, fantastic! I love dreams! Even better, I have a distinct feeling that this dream is heading in a rather PG-13 direction! Alright!
In the distance, something beckons me (wake up!) and I fight against it with every fiber of my being, because I'm so warm and so comfortable and right now a PG-13 dream is just about the best thing I can imagine. My eyes flit about, searching through all the burnt, landing on something fuzzy, yet somehow determinedly male. Before I can process this, however, something shifts. Confusion presses in as some far off, semi-existent narrator hands me a name--
"Flynn Rider."
Wait!? What? No! My avidity for PG-13 action thins, at least half replaced with some dream world version of guilt and shame. I'm still alone, trapped in all that burnt, which suddenly loses its magic and simply becomes wrong, but I'm still alone and this triggers an argument.
Oh, just shut up and go with it, my internal dialogue rages. There are pleas from the real and rational me who knows that even the vaguest level of sexy with a cartoon character will leave me feeling dirty and uncomfortable in the morning, but as is almost always the case in the realm of my dreams, those pleas go ignored. I'm convinced that the licentious Ms. Go-with-it will win, but before she can, that ghastly narrative voice summons me again--
"Flynn Rider Doll!"
And that does it, 'cause while I can think of perfectly acceptable deviations concerning me and 12 inches of synthetic material, none of them involve tiny plastic features and suddenly this particular instance is nothing but obscenely wrong--even for me, which says a lot.
I claw for the surface, eyes popping open, sounds draining away, and all that godawful burnt dissipating into the black of my bedroom and when everything is finally clear, I am no longer alone. I register the tiny form hovering inches from my face and pull back with a sharp, jerking motion.
"Mumma, I'm askin' you where's my Flynn Rider doll?"
I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of this. "I have no idea."
We search the heaps of blankets on my king sized bed, and finally, I am the one who finds him. I gingerly pick up the doll and tuck him next to her, on the side my husband will lay next to, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.
On one hand, I'm annoyed. Her misplaced good night toy ruined what could have been the best dream I've had in months. On the other, I don't think I knew I was dreaming until she started prodding me for her toy. The sheer absurdity of all of this is too much and I laugh, loud and hard. From the living room, my husband asks if I'm okay. I respond that I am. I have one final thought on the matter, as I pull myself from my bed:
I really need to follow through on making her sleep in her own bed.
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"Wha...? What's happening?" I wonder out loud, taking in my surroundings, trying to pull them close and hold them. The air is thick and tense and hazy. It's a color, but I can't really describe what that color is, somewhere between red and brown, something I have an overwhelming urge to describe as burnt. And there's a sound (loud! That's the sound of loud!) and a smell--
But before I can register what the smell is, understanding punches me in the face: I'm in a dream. Oh, fantastic! I love dreams! Even better, I have a distinct feeling that this dream is heading in a rather PG-13 direction! Alright!
In the distance, something beckons me (wake up!) and I fight against it with every fiber of my being, because I'm so warm and so comfortable and right now a PG-13 dream is just about the best thing I can imagine. My eyes flit about, searching through all the burnt, landing on something fuzzy, yet somehow determinedly male. Before I can process this, however, something shifts. Confusion presses in as some far off, semi-existent narrator hands me a name--
"Flynn Rider."
Wait!? What? No! My avidity for PG-13 action thins, at least half replaced with some dream world version of guilt and shame. I'm still alone, trapped in all that burnt, which suddenly loses its magic and simply becomes wrong, but I'm still alone and this triggers an argument.
Oh, just shut up and go with it, my internal dialogue rages. There are pleas from the real and rational me who knows that even the vaguest level of sexy with a cartoon character will leave me feeling dirty and uncomfortable in the morning, but as is almost always the case in the realm of my dreams, those pleas go ignored. I'm convinced that the licentious Ms. Go-with-it will win, but before she can, that ghastly narrative voice summons me again--
"Flynn Rider Doll!"
And that does it, 'cause while I can think of perfectly acceptable deviations concerning me and 12 inches of synthetic material, none of them involve tiny plastic features and suddenly this particular instance is nothing but obscenely wrong--even for me, which says a lot.
I claw for the surface, eyes popping open, sounds draining away, and all that godawful burnt dissipating into the black of my bedroom and when everything is finally clear, I am no longer alone. I register the tiny form hovering inches from my face and pull back with a sharp, jerking motion.
"Mumma, I'm askin' you where's my Flynn Rider doll?"
I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of this. "I have no idea."
We search the heaps of blankets on my king sized bed, and finally, I am the one who finds him. I gingerly pick up the doll and tuck him next to her, on the side my husband will lay next to, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.
On one hand, I'm annoyed. Her misplaced good night toy ruined what could have been the best dream I've had in months. On the other, I don't think I knew I was dreaming until she started prodding me for her toy. The sheer absurdity of all of this is too much and I laugh, loud and hard. From the living room, my husband asks if I'm okay. I respond that I am. I have one final thought on the matter, as I pull myself from my bed:
I really need to follow through on making her sleep in her own bed.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Only Me
It's been a long day. A fantastic day, filled with all my favorite things, but a long day. I had a story in mind, but then I thought it might be more fun to vaguely post some of the day's happenings instead. There are blanks. Fill them in however you wish.
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Part One
"Hey, Bean! You think you can wash me some clothes before you go?"
I eyeball the clock--I was supposed to leave five minutes ago. Again, I enjoy my newly discovered half raised eyebrow. "You know how to use the washer."
"Yeah, but they're from your parents. I don't want to screw up and break them."
It takes every ounce of power I have to push the raging irritation from my voice, "I'm already running late, dear." I mostly fail, and this comes out too thick and syrupy and he must know how badly I want to punch him in the face right now.
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Part Two
The girl in the booth--Linda, according to her name tag--narrows her eyes. "How old is she again?"
"Oh, almost three," I nervously lie. I am a terrible liar. Underneath my side of the counter, my hands pinch and pull frantically at one another and tiny sweat beads pop up on my forehead. I'm irrationally certain that she can see them.
Linda knows she's prying, but presses further. "Oh, when's her birthday?" She pretends this is purely conversational.
"February 17th," I lie again, this time more annoyed than anything. I shoot her a smile that isn't really so much of a smile as it is a challenge. Prove it isn't, my wordless mouth dares her.
She can't.
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Part Three
"Mother fucker!" I don't mean to yell, but I'm trying to drive and I really don't have time to deal with this.
"Mumma, whatsa matter?" I'm immediately enveloped in guilt for subjecting the child to such an outburst. Maybe not the word, so much, but the fact that it was unexpected and to a three year old, probably scary.
"Sorry, love. I'm okay," I promise, quickly scooping as much of the evidence off of the seat and into an old peanut brittle box. I momentarily consider why the box is there in the first place, why we can't be like normal people who throw things away when they're no longer needed.
At the next red light, I finish the task, and when I'm sure that all the tangible remnants of our covert adventure are safely tucked away into that blessed piece of trash, I let out a relieved sigh and return to the pressing matter of belting out lyrics that have no business passing from my lips.
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Part Four
"I love how all of your stories start out, 'This one time, when I was going through some things.'"
And she is frighteningly accurate.
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Part Five
"I'm a gnome!"
"How are you a gnome?"
"I have no idea. It's like... I don't know. But apparently, I'm a gnome."
"Do these people even have any idea what a gnome is?"
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Epilogue
I stand at the sink for a moment, torn between making a second pot of coffee, taking a shower, and going to bed. The day has been good, but long. Bed. But a quick shower first, I decide, content with that decision. In a move that is so perfectly me, I drink a cup of coffee in the shower. As the water begins turning cold, I have one final, fleeting thought:
Was my husband wearing clean clothes when I got home?
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There you go. All of this is completely true. Except the part where I go to bed. I really did decide that, but it didn't happen that way. Anyway, take it all wherever you'd like. Also, prize for anyone who can save me the trouble of googling the difference between a buffalo and a bison.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part One
"Hey, Bean! You think you can wash me some clothes before you go?"
I eyeball the clock--I was supposed to leave five minutes ago. Again, I enjoy my newly discovered half raised eyebrow. "You know how to use the washer."
"Yeah, but they're from your parents. I don't want to screw up and break them."
It takes every ounce of power I have to push the raging irritation from my voice, "I'm already running late, dear." I mostly fail, and this comes out too thick and syrupy and he must know how badly I want to punch him in the face right now.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part Two
The girl in the booth--Linda, according to her name tag--narrows her eyes. "How old is she again?"
"Oh, almost three," I nervously lie. I am a terrible liar. Underneath my side of the counter, my hands pinch and pull frantically at one another and tiny sweat beads pop up on my forehead. I'm irrationally certain that she can see them.
Linda knows she's prying, but presses further. "Oh, when's her birthday?" She pretends this is purely conversational.
"February 17th," I lie again, this time more annoyed than anything. I shoot her a smile that isn't really so much of a smile as it is a challenge. Prove it isn't, my wordless mouth dares her.
She can't.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part Three
"Mother fucker!" I don't mean to yell, but I'm trying to drive and I really don't have time to deal with this.
"Mumma, whatsa matter?" I'm immediately enveloped in guilt for subjecting the child to such an outburst. Maybe not the word, so much, but the fact that it was unexpected and to a three year old, probably scary.
"Sorry, love. I'm okay," I promise, quickly scooping as much of the evidence off of the seat and into an old peanut brittle box. I momentarily consider why the box is there in the first place, why we can't be like normal people who throw things away when they're no longer needed.
At the next red light, I finish the task, and when I'm sure that all the tangible remnants of our covert adventure are safely tucked away into that blessed piece of trash, I let out a relieved sigh and return to the pressing matter of belting out lyrics that have no business passing from my lips.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part Four
"I love how all of your stories start out, 'This one time, when I was going through some things.'"
And she is frighteningly accurate.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part Five
"I'm a gnome!"
"How are you a gnome?"
"I have no idea. It's like... I don't know. But apparently, I'm a gnome."
"Do these people even have any idea what a gnome is?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue
I stand at the sink for a moment, torn between making a second pot of coffee, taking a shower, and going to bed. The day has been good, but long. Bed. But a quick shower first, I decide, content with that decision. In a move that is so perfectly me, I drink a cup of coffee in the shower. As the water begins turning cold, I have one final, fleeting thought:
Was my husband wearing clean clothes when I got home?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There you go. All of this is completely true. Except the part where I go to bed. I really did decide that, but it didn't happen that way. Anyway, take it all wherever you'd like. Also, prize for anyone who can save me the trouble of googling the difference between a buffalo and a bison.
Good Morning
Her eyes snap open and she thirstily gasps in the cold air, as she takes in her surroundings, trying to convince herself it really is just her bedroom. Smuggling deeper into the warmth of the sheets, she gently nudges away the tiny body that has wrapped itself around her and tries to drift back to sleep, but the moment her eyes close she feels them. Those legs--all eight of them--are on her again.
She sits up, scratches her head and shudders. Hands shaking, heart pounding, she again, fumbles around in the darkness. Her whole night had been a blur of fitful, broken sleep. Thoughts that wouldn't turn off--
Oh! And this could be interesting to post. Or maybe some old work stories. Or there's that thing about my husband.
--unsure if the source was too much coffee or some long walled creative dam finally bursting and spilling out, a million drops overwhelming her at once. When the screaming in her head subsided, when sleep was finally found, there were dreams. So many dreams, dirty and horrible and amazing and so full of color that being dragged from them was physically painful. And with the most recent, the night was over.
Guess I'm getting up, she thinks.
Fully awake and vaguely aware of exactly how cold the house is, she grabs a blanket. The thoughts start again.
Update!
I could--
That phone call!
Or--
Maybe...
Her mind races as she tries to settle on one thing, the one thing that this morning will bring. Her mind doesn't wander, it charges. It charges from one idea to the next. But as she pees, it slows and pulls back. As she brushes her teeth, it retreats a little more. She approaches the computer.
Ah, fuck it. I think I'll have a bowl of cereal.
She sits up, scratches her head and shudders. Hands shaking, heart pounding, she again, fumbles around in the darkness. Her whole night had been a blur of fitful, broken sleep. Thoughts that wouldn't turn off--
Oh! And this could be interesting to post. Or maybe some old work stories. Or there's that thing about my husband.
--unsure if the source was too much coffee or some long walled creative dam finally bursting and spilling out, a million drops overwhelming her at once. When the screaming in her head subsided, when sleep was finally found, there were dreams. So many dreams, dirty and horrible and amazing and so full of color that being dragged from them was physically painful. And with the most recent, the night was over.
Guess I'm getting up, she thinks.
Fully awake and vaguely aware of exactly how cold the house is, she grabs a blanket. The thoughts start again.
Update!
I could--
That phone call!
Or--
Maybe...
Her mind races as she tries to settle on one thing, the one thing that this morning will bring. Her mind doesn't wander, it charges. It charges from one idea to the next. But as she pees, it slows and pulls back. As she brushes her teeth, it retreats a little more. She approaches the computer.
Ah, fuck it. I think I'll have a bowl of cereal.
Once Upon a Time
I used to write. I used to write all the time, usually sitting in one dingy all night restaurant or another, my lungs screaming from my second (or was it my third?) pack of cigarettes, head pounding, no less than a gallon of coffee coursing my bloodstream. My boyfriend thought I was nuts. I'd stumble to work the next day with my own special brand of a hangover. And it was awesome.
Then things happened. I quit smoking, not that it mattered as it's now banned in restaurants, anyway. I began watching my caffeine intake. I got married and had a child. I guess I grew up more than I had planned.
Mostly, that's good. I'm a homemaker, which I absolutely love. I guess I absolutely loved the things I did in my former life as well, but honestly, this is the first time I really feel fulfillment from what I'm doing. My child is the most fascinating person I've ever met. If I could have one wish it would be to understand exactly how her little mind works. My husband... If a perfect person exists, I'm certain it's him. How he puts up with all the shit the child and I throw at him, I will never know. I cook and bake and craft my heart out, which thrills me in a way most would describe as disturbing. I'm a mediocre housekeeper, but you can't 'em all, right? If there's a way to make my life better, it's yet to be discovered.
Still, something's missing. Wait. Don't go. I swear, I'm not going to prattle on about how I've become a wife and mom and lost myself. Losing myself isn't even possible--trust me, I've tried. But there's still something. And it hit me.
I'm the kind of person who practices conversations before they happen. I don't know why, because the minute they start, all those preparations go right out the window, but I still do it every time. Not when I write, though. I just sort of type whatever I'm thinking and watch for the red line that says I've misspelled something. Otherwise, that's the end of my editing. The next morning often finds me filled with shame and regret, but again, I still do it that way. Shame and regret aside, it's somehow exhilarating. Just to say whatever is on my mind! And my mind is its own little world. Seriously. When things get boring or sucky, that's my retreat.
So, I've decided to start writing again. And drinking coffee in the middle of the night. We'll probably leave out the smoking, though. In any case, this holds a multitude of benefits for me, but that's not important. What's important is what benefits it holds for my audience. Most of what I plan to write are little tidbits of my day, repackaged in a (hopefully) more interesting way. You'll get to experience my little retreat. And, I promise, it's an amazing experience. Or maybe that's just me. Guess you'll have to stick around and decide.
Okay! Now that the boring introductory stuff is out of the way, I guess I need to come up with some stuff!
Then things happened. I quit smoking, not that it mattered as it's now banned in restaurants, anyway. I began watching my caffeine intake. I got married and had a child. I guess I grew up more than I had planned.
Mostly, that's good. I'm a homemaker, which I absolutely love. I guess I absolutely loved the things I did in my former life as well, but honestly, this is the first time I really feel fulfillment from what I'm doing. My child is the most fascinating person I've ever met. If I could have one wish it would be to understand exactly how her little mind works. My husband... If a perfect person exists, I'm certain it's him. How he puts up with all the shit the child and I throw at him, I will never know. I cook and bake and craft my heart out, which thrills me in a way most would describe as disturbing. I'm a mediocre housekeeper, but you can't 'em all, right? If there's a way to make my life better, it's yet to be discovered.
Still, something's missing. Wait. Don't go. I swear, I'm not going to prattle on about how I've become a wife and mom and lost myself. Losing myself isn't even possible--trust me, I've tried. But there's still something. And it hit me.
I'm the kind of person who practices conversations before they happen. I don't know why, because the minute they start, all those preparations go right out the window, but I still do it every time. Not when I write, though. I just sort of type whatever I'm thinking and watch for the red line that says I've misspelled something. Otherwise, that's the end of my editing. The next morning often finds me filled with shame and regret, but again, I still do it that way. Shame and regret aside, it's somehow exhilarating. Just to say whatever is on my mind! And my mind is its own little world. Seriously. When things get boring or sucky, that's my retreat.
So, I've decided to start writing again. And drinking coffee in the middle of the night. We'll probably leave out the smoking, though. In any case, this holds a multitude of benefits for me, but that's not important. What's important is what benefits it holds for my audience. Most of what I plan to write are little tidbits of my day, repackaged in a (hopefully) more interesting way. You'll get to experience my little retreat. And, I promise, it's an amazing experience. Or maybe that's just me. Guess you'll have to stick around and decide.
Okay! Now that the boring introductory stuff is out of the way, I guess I need to come up with some stuff!
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