The Light Bulb Thing

I have a lot of light bulbs.  When I tell people that, I think they assume I have a few extra packs so that I'm never caught in the dark without one.  That's because most people are sane.  I'm probably not.  My light bulb stash is in the thousands.   Yeah, yeah... I'm one of those incandescent stockpiling crazy people.  I'm okay with that.

Incandescent bulbs are warm and inviting.  The glow feels like happy.  So, it's my mission (one of them, anyway) to never run out.  Every time I go to the store, I buy a pack.  They're only a dollar or so, so I don't even notice, and like I said, I've gained quite a stash.  I really wanted to post a picture of it, but they're in my attic (the part without people in it) and I'm afraid of my attic.  My husband has been cool about the light bulbs, but not cool enough to go take pictures of them.  Boo.  Instead, enjoy my (lack of) paint skills!

 Feels like happy!

I hate the CFL bulbs, I really do.  I tried to give them a chance, thinking if I put one in an out of the way place long enough I'd get used to it, but I didn't.  I couldn't even stand the harsh, unloving light in a closet, how could I possibly go through daily life like that?

 I really, really do.

On top of that, I'm clumsy.  When, not if, I break them I need a hazmat team to clean them up?  No, thanks.  Of course, my brother and I routinely broke open thermometers as children and played with the mercury, and we seem okay.  Then again, I'm probably not the best example.  We'll stick with no.

I know they're cheaper in the long run.  I don't care.  Everyone wastes money.  One of the people who has pointed this out to me admits to having over 60 purses.  I don't own a purse.  I could point out the substantial savings that has brought me, but instead I'll figure we've all got our thing and mine is pleasant lighting conditions.  If and when we're that pressed for cash, perhaps I'll reconsider.  It would have to be pretty bad, though.

 

 I don't care.

I also know they're greener.  I still don't care.  I turn the lights off when I'm not in the room.  I walk a lot.  I shut the water off when I brush my teeth.  I'm not changing my lighting and if the world ends sooner because of it, I'm okay with that.

I still don't care.

Most of all, I don't care that I'm known in some (small and unimportant) circles as the crazy light bulb lady.  It's okay.  I feel confident that I will never run out and if in 2014, if I'm still writing here, you can rest assured I'll be doing it in the loving hug of incandescent light.

Sugar Packet Questions

When I was a kid, we ate out a lot.  By "a lot" I mean almost every night.  My mom is a super cook, so I'm not really sure why we ate out so much, but who am I to complain?  Brown Derby was my dad's favorite, plus they had a salad bar, so that's where we usually went, but sometimes we went to TGI Friday's.

To my nine year old self, Friday's was pretty much the most awesome place in the world.  I think it was the flair and cool hats.  Some kids want to be doctors or lawyers--for the entirety of 1991, I aspired to work at Friday's.  I'd rock that hat and have the best flair out of everyone and it would be the most spectacular thing ever.  Eventually, I turned ten and abandoned that dream for something else, but I actually did end up working at TGI Friday's.  And that part really has very little to do with the rest of this, but I thought it was a neat little back story.  I won't even bitch (too much) that they had gotten rid of the flair before I worked there.

Anyway, I haven't been in a Friday's since mine closed a couple years ago, but when I worked there the sugar packets on the tables had funny little questions on them.  Some were trivia (who's face is on the dime) but some were just odd, random questions.  One very boring day, we went through all of them.  Then we were bored again.  I can't handle boredom.  There are too many ways to entertain myself to ever tolerate being bored.  (Yes, I know that's in direct conflict with my screen name.)  So, I took it upon myself to write new questions.  Every now and then, someone else would come up with one, but mine were always the best.  I'm not being conceited, they really were.  That's not a good thing, anyway--the only reason mine were the best is because there's something wrong with me.  And one day that became super extra mega clear.  I came up with the question of all questions:

If everyone who worked here was stranded on a deserted island and you had to eat someone to survive, who would you eat first?

It was the question to end all questions and we spent weeks working on it.  That person had a lot of meat, but they also had some very useful outdoor skills, so eating them might be shooting ourselves in the foot.  This one was annoying as fuck, but might have some medical knowledge.  And so on.  There was talk of choosing the worst two and creating a factory farm of sorts.  We even worked it down to the last five survivors.  I was one of them, which strikes me as odd.  Truth be told, if I were stuck on an island with someone who thinks up that level of disturbing shit, they'd be first to go.  Actually, I'm glad no one else considered that.  It really would have sucked to be the first to bite it in my own mind blowing scenario.

Anyway, the question game sort of died after that.  I made a few half assed attempts, but that question just could not be topped.  And despite my question-god status, it sort of made me sad, at least until I came up with the gnome game with was almost as awesome. 

Then my time at Friday's died.  Even though I was beyond ready, that was sort of sad, too.  During that time, I learned so much about myself, and I met some of the most interesting people I have ever know.  The disturbing thing is that I was in the most fucked up place I've ever been in my whole life.  It's cool though, because I walked away having met two of coolest people I have ever known and I'm luck to be friends with both of them.  Even if we are real adults now.  Sort of.

The question itself, though?  That will never die.  It's been years, but every time I become a part of a group--any group--I find myself considering it.  Who would I eat first...?

And They Lived Happily Ever After

I clicked publish, then closed the laptop.  I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to convince myself everything was okay and I just needed to hold out until next weekend.  Suddenly, the room's air turned acrid.  I looked up to see Pie standing there, wet hair stuck to her face.  Wet clothes, too.  And that smell!  What was that smell?

"What. Did. You. Do?"  Each word pronounced so deliberately as I clawed desperately to hold onto whatever scrap of sanity I had left.  I didn't really need to ask--it was clear what happened, and chasing her from the room confirmed it.  There, in the middle of the hallway, was a huge puddle and a (now empty) gallon of white vinegar, the kind I use for cleaning, so that when the three year old gets into my cleaning supplies, it only sucks for me.  I grabbed the container as I passed it, storming into the living room, all color drained from my face.

"Fifteen minutes!  I asked you to watch her for fifteen minutes.  You couldn't even do that." 

He started talking, although looking back I have no idea what he said.  I was concentrating on the increasing tightness in my chest.  I forced myself to breathe.  My vision blurred a bit and my face flushed red and hot.  And wet?  Why was my face wet?

"Bean, I'll take care of it.  Why are you crying?" 

I'm not a crier, so this new turn of things thoroughly freaked him out.  The dam exploded and I was unable to stop.  Weeks of frustration from too much togetherness tumbled out, with me helpless to stop it.  Tears.  Hot.  Breathe.  Think.  Focus.  STOP!  I couldn't even answer him, I just stood there and cried and gasped for breath.  He was absolutely horrified.  I have no clue how long this lasted, but once I was able to speak again, it felt like a really long time had passed.

"I can't... get..  fifteen minutes... away.."  I didn't care if it hurt his feelings, I only sobbed harder.  "You.. don't get it.  You hate being alone.  If I don't get to be alone soon... it's going to.. kill me."  I'd managed to pull myself together enough to speak coherently, even if I was still being overdramatic.  I couldn't stop crying, which irritated the hell out of me, but more importantly, it scared my husband.  It scared him into action!

"Okay," he said.  "Okay, you just sit there." 

As he ushered Pie out of the room, I could hear him whisper, "Mumma's okay, she's tired.  Like you get tired. Just... just be real quiet and we'll go do something."

I felt a bit guilty at this, but then didn't he sort of get what was coming for not taking me seriously?  Also, any guilt was overshadowed by the nagging annoyance of the tears that still would not stop.  Moments later, he returned with a cup of coffee.  It was old and stale from the microwave, and it burned my mouth, but it was the best cup of coffee I've had all year.  He got the child in the bath, then I could hear him mopping up the vinegar in the hallway.

He popped back in to check on me twice, both of us relieved that I had managed to compose myself, and asked for my phone once, but otherwise left me alone.  I could hear him in the bathroom--he called... someone, but I couldn't quite make it all out through Pie's excited splashing.  I did catch the words "going to have" and "nervous breakdown" and "or something" and was about to fly into some sort of rage where I kicked him mercilessly and blamed him for every evil in the world, when he reappeared. 

"Okay," he said.  "I'm taking Pie outside.  Your mom's going to get her before I leave for work.  I don't know how to pack for her, you need to do that, but we'll stay out of your hair."

I stared back at him dumbly, all of a sudden feeling like an overgrown toddler right after an unnecessary tantrum.  Except, I reminded myself, it obviously was necessary.  Been trying to tell him this was coming for weeks.  Whatever.  I still felt like an asshole. 

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I do lo--"

"No, I'm sorry," he cut me off.  "I guess I was pretty shitty over vacation and I haven't really given you a break.  Me and your mom can take care of Pie until Monday."

Monday!?  What?  I really didn't need that long.  Perhaps I really had made too much of everything.

"You guys think I'm nuts."  I was still pouting, no matter how much better I felt.

"No," he corrected.  "I know you're nuts.  I still love you, though."

Twenty minutes later, I finished packing her bag.  I looked out the front room window and saw them.  He was pushing her up and down the sidewalk in the oversized snow shovel and it was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen.  For half a second, I considered joining them, but that would have just been lunacy.  I ran for my phone to snap a picture, but by the time I got back they'd moved on to something else.  For all the happiness of finally having some time to myself, I really picked a bad moment to miss.

I'm an unappreciative douche.

I've been grumpy this week.  And bitchy and mean and impatient.  I don't mean to be that way, it's just that I'm so itchy right now I would claw myself out of my skin for one day alone.  Thing about me is that I need a lot of time to myself.  I need it the way some people need alone time with their spouse or friends.  I need it the way I need air or water.  If I don't have enough time to myself, I don't process things and they keep bouncing around inside my skull until I'm half mad with them.  Think I'm exaggerating?  I'm not.  I never write this much.

I really am itchy, too.  I need some time alone so badly I can feel it and it makes me do stupid things like bite my nails and fingers and wrists.  I've tried subtle hints.  I've tried outright saying it.  But since no one around me (my husband and parents) understands what I'm going through, they just think I'm being weird and melodramatic again.  They love people and talking and being social.  I love quiet and thinking, and this lack of that is shutting me down.  My house is a disaster and it takes everything I have to so much as get in the shower.  Maybe if I quit showering I'd stink so badly that everyone would leave.  At this point, it's worth consideration.

In any case, between the husband's vacation and visiting family, I haven't had any significant time alone in my own home since before Christmas.  He's back to work now, but by the time he goes in, I have maybe an hour or so before I need to go to bed.  That or be exhausted and not really get what I need anyway.  Last night he and the kid went to bed reasonably early and I thought I'd get a few good hours in, but nope--he woke up.

"Let's watch a movie!"

I wish I had a picture of my face.  I thought about stabbing him, but I just went to bed, instead.

I can go out, but that's not really the same.  Going out means I'm surrounded by other people.  Sure, they're not talking to me, but they're there.  The only people I want to be around are the ones who live in my computer.  That's cool.  Face to face?  Not so much.  Also, going out means I need to limit myself to socially acceptable activities.  No talking to myself, no singing, no outbursts.  No fun.  No getting out everything I need to get out from the last month.

The final straw was that both my husband and my mother disappointed me this weekend.  The husband was supposed to the kid to the movies yesterday.  Cool.  Including travel time, popcorn line, and previews, I thought I was looking at a good two hours.  Maybe even two and a half.  Then he decided he didn't want to go because she's already seen all the kids' movies that are showing.  I pointed to the theater an hour away that was showing some My Little Pony extravaganza.  "She hasn't seen that!"  He definitely didn't take me up on that one.  "Take her to see Tangled again," I suggested, "You know she'll sit through that."  No luck.  Instead he showered me with the worst words possible.

"Why don't I give you the money and you can take her?"

You.  Asshole.  Seriously?  You really think that's what I'm saying?  Guess so, 'cause he didn't take her.  I ended up sitting at the supermarket for most of the day, alone, but not, and feeling very sorry for myself.  At least she was really bad for him.

Then there's today.  My mom was supposed to take her today, but now she's not.  No real reason, she just doesn't feel up to it.  Which in and of itself is fine--I know my mother (unlike my husband) owes me nothing in regards to watching my child, except that we've talked about it all week and she knew how excited I was.  Guess it doesn't matter anyway, because my husband is awake and expecting me to cook and of course the good computer is all his.

Being so angry and frustrated over this makes me feel like the shittiest person alive.  For one thing, it makes me distant.  I desperately seek out ever minute, every second that I can be by myself.  I avoid my family like they're lepers, ducking into the bathroom or kitchen or wherever I can.  Douchy as he's been, my poor husband is really concerned about the state of my bowels.  I can buy myself a good 15 minutes by pretending to poop.  I've been a shitty mother and an even shittier wife, but this could have all been fixed by now if he'd just taken her to see a fucking movie.

The other thing is that I know there are so many people out there who miss their spouses or are lonely or would otherwise love to have my problem.  And it makes me feel heartless and unappreciative.  I really do love my family.  I really do love having them around.  But I really, really need some time to let everything inside of me out.  Then I question if I really have a problem or if I'm just making something out of nothing.  If I should just be happy to be surrounded by people who love me.  The problem isn't them, it's me.  Okay, fine, but the problem is there.  If it wasn't, my ears wouldn't burn and sting every time I hear my name and my skin wouldn't crawl every time someone touches me.  So yeah, selfish as it is, it is a problem.  I wish I could be one of those people who loves being around others, but I'm 28 and it's never been that way.  Instead, I'll just bitch here and hold out hope for next weekend.  With any luck, I won't have exploded by then.

I'm a terrible housekeeper!

I have a problem.

Really, I have a lot of problems, but I also have a time limit at the moment, plus over analyzing freaks me out.  One thing at a time.  So, right now I have one problem.

It's always been there, but only recently, has it been given a name.  When I was a kid, my room was always a disaster.  I developed unhealthy bonds with inanimate objects, and those things, my lovely little treasure, my favorite friends, piled up around me.  Every toy had it's own personality, even if I was the only one who could see it.  Eating was a huge struggle, too.  I'd look at my food and picture it crying out, "Don't eat me!  Don't!"  Of course, once I got to eating it, I always cleaned my plate--I just couldn't handle the thought of eating half of it, while the rest missed it's companions from the depths of the kitchen trashcan.  Snack time at Pee Wee's Playhouse always made me especially uncomfortable.

My mom wrote me off as weird and lazy.  My dad wrote me off as truly being his offspring.  And lazy.  To some extent, I am lazy.  No point in denying it.  But that wasn't what was going on.  I really needed those things.  Once in a while, my mom would threaten to clean my room.  I pick up enough to pacify her.  She'd be happy for a week, storm in, dump everything in the middle of the floor, then demand that I clean it.  I wanted to, I really did, but I didn't know how.  I'd putter around all day, picking through this and that, trying to make sense of it, only infuriating her more.  Most of the time it ended with both of us in tears, while I watched her heap my beloved things into an oversized trashbag.

It spilled over into school, too.  My homework was seldom done, and even when it was, I couldn't turn it in because it was mine and I wanted to keep it.  Forever.  In the 4th grade, my desk was dumped out and taped shut over my inability to keep it clean.  That teacher was a bitch who thoroughly enjoyed bullying me, mind you, but I highly doubt she was the first one I frustrated so badly.

(SIDE BAR: This is the teacher that tries to talk to me in the locker room at the pool.  If there's anybody I want to see naked less than her, I haven't met them.  Having a childhood tormentor approach you like you're friends is bad.  Having them laugh at the torture they put you through when you were only nine is worse.  Having all this happen while they're stark naked is some special level of hell.  If there's a more what the fuck moment, I haven't experienced it.  This isn't really relevant, but it seemed necessary, just the same.)

So, where was I?  Oh, okay.  In my teens, I started to realize there was something wrong with me.  My friends' rooms looked nothing like me.  Neither did their lockers, or eventually, cars.  Sure, some were messier than others, but not like mine, and not because every paper was a crucial memory or every tiny alien figure from the bubble machine was something special.  The things piled up.  When I met my first serious boyfriend, I cleaned, furiously stashing my prizes and making the room as normal looking as possible.  It was still insanely cluttered, but the chaos was a little more organized.  By organized, I mean packed into boxes and stashed as out of sight as I could make it.  I kept it up for a bit, not wanting him to see how awful I really was.  Then my parents started getting nervous and banned him from my room.  That was actually pretty dumb on their parts--there really wasn't anything going on and having him there forced me to at least contain all my little collections.  Things went back to normal.

A few years later, I met and moved in with the man I'm married to.  Because of the circumstances, he had no idea what he was getting into until he was already madly in love with me.  I moved out on a whim, taking only what was absolutely necessary and could fit into two trash bags.  Since my parents didn't speak to me for months after I moved, I was unable to get the rest.  I think I sorted through it two years later.  In any case, we were pretty poor, so I really couldn't start much in the way of new collections.  I was still sort of messy, but so was he, so this was largely unnoticed.  I should also add that I am messy, not dirty.  I wash my dishes and scrub my toilets, I just leave an endless trail of junk behind me.  And I know it's junk, but it's my junk.  My special junk.

I tried to change when we bought our house.  I did better, but only marginally.  I had to change when the child was born.  It was a struggle--still is--but I have improved by at least 1000%. 

Sometime last year, my mom called me.

"I know what's wrong with you!"

"Hey, Mom!  Howyabeen?  Fantastic!  Me too.  Yeah, I jus--"

"No, really.  I know what's wrong with you.  With all your clutter and stuff.  I was watching this show yesterday and you're a hoarder!"  She was really proud of herself.  She kept babbling about this, but I don't remember what else she said.  I was too busy letting this word--hoarder--sink in.

Later that evening, I googled it.  She was right.  All this time we just thought it was more of me being strange, but it really, truly wasn't just me.  Other people do this too!  I had a swelling sense of elation at the fact that I wasn't (at least in this case) just a complete failure at life.  I may have even teared up.

Then my balloon my popped.  I realized what this disorder meant for so many other people who have it.  Oh no!  Visions of divorce and abandonment and having my adult child hate me danced before my eyes.  I looked around the room.  It was tidy, impressively so, but without even trying, I could still spot at least ten things a normal person would throw away.  I flew into a rage, going through the house filling four bags of garbage.  In retrospect, I shouldn't have done that.  I should have talked to my husband first.  Instead I woke up in a sea of regret.  I still regret the loss of some of those irreplaceable items, and to be honest, I don't know if it's because I'm me or because I really shouldn't have thrown them out.  Or if there's really even a difference.

It needs to be said:  I'm not a hoarder like you see on the show Hoarders.  I think part of this is because I'm pretty sure they pick the worst of the worst.  My mostly neat house just doesn't make for a good TV experience, regardless of the eyebrow raisingly interesting personification of my belongings.  The other thing is that I'm only 28 and I do make as much effort as possible for my family.  Yeah, there have been some young hoarders featured, but I've really only had eight years to collect, plus my husband would (rightfully) kick my ass.  And I give myself some credit--I try really hard.  So, it's nothing like that.  Most of my struggle with this is internal.

In any case, I do my best.  I wish I could hire a professional organizer.  I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the meaning of that word.  Organized.  Sometimes I say it over and over again in my mind, thinking that if I say it just right I'll be able to reach out and grab it and make it mine.  I love the thought of being organized.  The thought of getting organized fills me with so much cold fear that I can feel it on my skin.

My house is, for the most part, tidy.  I've found that if I keep up on it, cleaning one thing before we move on to the next, it's much easier and more manageable.  If my first thought in a rational frame of mind is to throw something away, I do it.  If I hold on and think about it, I never will.  I don't throw anything out when I'm upset.  I've found that doing that makes me agitated and neurotic even when it was the right decision.  I have to stay on top of things.  If I miss cleaning for a day or two, it turns into a week and by the time I get back to it, I drown.  I get so completely overwhelmed that I can't even find a place to start, and instead I chase myself in circles, trying to make sense of it.  If I clean the living room before I head into the kitchen, I'm okay.  Every three months, I go through the house and force myself to throw away everything I don't use or don't need.  I still have heaps more odds and ends than a normal person, but I throw away a lot of things.  It also helps that my problem was finally given a name.

I am absolutely terrified over what this potentially means for my child.  The way she acts with her toys, stuffed animals in particular, scares me.  So, I do the only thing I know how to do.  I make jokes about it.  That's how I deal with things.  I cleaned her room last week.  It literally took me all week, partly because I'm me and partly because she has so much shit.  I hauled off three bags of toys.  She broke into one yesterday and cried for hours.  Her room is still full of toys, so many that for every new one, she'll literally have to make space for it by getting rid of something else.  I'll continue picking things off when she's not looking.  I think my husband does that to me. 

So yeah, there's one of my deep dark secrets, out there for all of the internet to know.  I grew up feeling bad and dirty and wrong.  Now I know that it just is what it is and I do the best I can with it.  I think I've got things pretty well figured out, at least as far as the house is concerned.  My mind, though...  Wanna see a freakshow?  My mind is what my house would look like if I never ever threw anything away.  But that's mine and it's awesome.  Besides, isn't this sort of like throwing things out?  Just a thought.

Nuclear Family: A Whole New Meaning

I'm at my parents' house.  Thing about my parents' house is that it's boring.  Really boring.  All they do is sit around, whine about nonexistent problems, and watch bad sitcoms on a really nice TV.  I bring my computer, but for some unknown reason that's rude.  I can't figure out the difference between the TV and the computer, but apparently it's that we can all watch the TV, while only I can use my computer.  Make sense?  Yeah, me neither.  But, my grandparents are here from Florida and the coffee here is better.

There's a fantastic reason my parents like bad sitcoms so much--I'm pretty sure they think they're part of one.  My mom nails the part of the overbearing, always right wife.  Likewise, my dad's version of the emotionally clueless husband is spot on.  They have little conversations that go like this:

Mom:  I told you to get lettuce.
Dad:  I did.  It's right there.  *points*
Mom:  That's not lettuce!  That's iceburg lettuce!
There's so much disdain in the word "iceburg" you'd think my father had handed her a cockroach or a dead rat, rather than a head of lettuce.
Dad:  I'm sorry.  You said lettuce.  I got lettuce.
Mom:  No,. I said Italian blend.  You got (and here it is again) iceburg!
Dad:  You want me to take it back?
Mom:  Well now dinner's almost ready.
Those are the words that fall from her mouth, but the meaning behind them is perfectly clear:  Thanks for ruining it.

Dad (in the confines of the garage, where he knows she can't hear him):  Just kidding.  I bought iceburg on purpose.  That other shit looks like I pulled it out of the yard.
*cue laugh track*

Then, my grandparents are here.  This is a mixed bag.  I'm my grandma's second favorite grandchild.  I was the favorite, until my daughter replaced me, and I guess I can live with that.  On the other hand, they turn said daughter into some sort of minion from hell.  No one else can wind her up like they do, and the results last hours after returning to the calm of our own home.  She shows off, they egg her on, she pushes harder, and so on.  By 3PM, I have a splitting headache and can't wait for her to go to bed.

I'm pretty sure my grandparents are drunk about 95% of the time they're awake.  You know how some people can't function until they've had their coffee?  My grandparents can't function until they've got a 72 ounce mug of Kentucky Gentleman and Pepsi 0.  I'm not even kidding.  I've known a lot of raging alcoholics in my lifetime, but never--never--have I seen anyone capable of consuming that much generic liquor that early in the morning.  Not even when I was a teenager.  I didn't know it was possible.  Anyway, my drunk grandma is spectacular.  Her drunk husband is sort of a douche.

For all that it matters, my drunk grandpa is my grandpa, but not biologically.  He and my grandma married the year before I was born, so he's always been one of my grandpas, but since my mom was already a married and pregnant adult (and again, he's kind of a douche) she's never considered him her step dad, just her mom's husband.  And he's really good to my grandma, which is cool.  He's sort of shitty to everyone else, though.

For example, when I was 14 and introduced them to my first boyfriend, he ran back and told the rest of the family he caught us doing it on the sofa and they should probably expect a bastard child within the next year.  I didn't even lose my virginity until I was 19, so that was just him being an asshole.  Apparently, he didn't give up hope for that child, though--at my wedding reception, he went around telling everyone we only got married because we had to.  Now he just nags me about my baby weight and how I'd better watch so my husband doesn't leave me.  Hey, asshole!  It's not baby weight when it was there before the baby.  Did you see me at my wedding?  I was fat there, too!  He still married me.  Really, if you're going to pick on me, pick on something I care about.  Dick.

Also, my dad has learned to lock his briefcase, check book, and any other financial documents in his safe.  Several times he's caught drunk grandpa rifling through them.  He's not looking to steal, he's just nosy and competitive.  Someone died and left him heaps of money, plus he's the cheapest motherfucker you'll ever meet so he's pretty much loaded.  And he will make sure everyone knows it.  Parents bought a new car?  Well, he paid cash for his!  I buy a house?  Too bad it's a dump, don't I want one in his neighborhood?  Never mind that he lives 22 hours away in a community I'm not even eligible to live in for over 25 more years, that is exactly what I want.  And, of course, he'd never buy a shitty $1 bag of iceburg lettuce!  It's best just to ignore him as he slowly drinks deeper and deeper into his stupor, but all that tongue biting really hurts!

By this point, I'm ready to bomb the house and everyone in it.  Not with real bombs, of course, because deep down, I guess do love all these dysfunctional assholes, but maybe with bug bombs or something.  Enough to make them suffer as much as I have, but still get presents from them for my birthday.  And just when I know I can't take anymore, my brother and his girlfriend show up.

My brother is the second most awesome person I know.  Truly.  We have loads in common and he's a lot of fun.  His girlfriend or fiancee or whatever she is, is a whole other story.  Truth be told, I love the girl when it's just her.  She has a sense of humor that you just don't expect from someone as gorgeous as she is.  She was one of my bridesmaids and everything, and I hope she'll be in the family for a really long time.  But putting them together makes me want to tear my ears off with my bare hands.  I also wonder how they've stayed together for as long as they have.  One word comes to mind when the two of them share a room:  Nag.  She nags.  And nags.  Then when she's tired of nagging, she nags some more.  Or maybe I was just tired of it, who knows.

Today they were fighting.  Last night, she went back to their house.  My brother stayed at my parents.  Some time around the middle of the night, my brother's friend came by and wanted to go out.  My brother agreed to drive him, but did not call her as it was a time she'd be sleeping.  This morning, he made the mistake of telling her and all hell broke loose.  How dare he go out and do something when they weren't together and didn't have plans.  Why on Earth would he think he can have any kind of life?  Doesn't he know he has a girlfriend?  Their little show would have almost been amusing if my nerves weren't already shot.

I don't care enough about my brother's love life to make much of this, except when she's pissed at my brother, she moves on to criticizing my parenting skills.  It's cool that I've got eight years on her and the only children she's ever been around are her cousins, though.  She clearly knows best.  She has a strong disapproval of my (lack of, in her humblest opinion) career choice.  By financially depending on my husband instead of pursuing my own money, I'm setting my daughter up for failure.  Even worse, I indulge my daughter's Disney Princess phase.  Clearly, I'm an unfit parent and the child should be taken into protective custody.  I'm usually not bothered by this.  When I was 20, I knew everything, too.  Today, however, I'm just tired of hearing her talk.  She could praising me as the most awesome sauce covered thing that ever happened, and all I'd want is for her to shut her mouth for five fucking minutes.

Today, they've also brought their kids.  Their kids are two little Yorkshire Terrier dogs.  The female is all shades of adorable.  The male is a rotten little bitch.  He once bit my daughter hard enough to draw blood.  I'm not one of those parents who gets all bent because a dog looked at my child wrong after said child provoked the hell out of it all day, and had that been the case, I'd have looked at it as my fault.  That wasn't the case, though.  My then 18 month old has simply crossed the dog's path while ambling toward my mom.  Little shit just lashed out and bit her.  The dog is nasty, temperamental, and spoiled.  Coming from someone with a child that has similar qualities (?) that says a lot.  However, at least my child doesn't piss all over the floor or hop up on the table to snack from someone else's plate.  That's just wrong. 

So, yeah, that's been my day.  I really don't know where I'm going with this or even if any of it is even coherent.  And I really don't care.  It's time to eat.  After that, if I can make it through that, I get to go home.  Wish me luck!

Okay, I'm home and I did something I normally don't do.  I edited.  Just because right now my nerves are frayed and my brain is oatmeal and I wanted to make sure I'd at least put intelligible sentences together.  I guess I did.  This is not my finest work, and to be honest, I'm really just posting to post at this point--one of New Year's resolutions, which I still intend to make note of--but all things considered, this is still a win.

I Never Should Have Lived to Adulthood

Happy 2011 to all of you!  I meant to post something last night, but instead I fell asleep on the sofa.  That was a mixed bag.  I got a whole night of sleep with no one touching me, but now I can't move my head to the left.  That sucks.  Anyway, I had this whole idea about a New Years post that involves some of my favorite unknown and/or not really existent people.  I'm still going to do that later, but right now I have a compelling urge to talk about the death of Barbie instead.  Enjoy!

Most of my childhood toys were gender neutral.  My parents weren't really actively promoting anything, it was more about making the most out of their money and household space by nudging us toward things that would be enjoyed by both myself and my four years younger brother.  This didn't bother me--in fact, I don't think I realized how few "girl toys" I had until recently, and that's only because my own daughter has realized her affinity for pink and sparkles and glitter--it just was what it was.  We had a ton of really cool shit.  Besides, I did have one thing that was mine and mine alone.

Barbies.  I had a sickening number of Barbies.  Enough that if I'd been able to mix a life giving potion with our little science experiment kit, I'd have had my own Barbie army to take over the world.  That would have been stupendous.  So yeah, I had a lot of Barbies.  Along with all of those plastic haired dolls, I had boxes and boxes of clothes, several cars, and a few residential properties.  If they made it, I had it and if they didn't make it, one or both of my parents would fervently work to create it.  I loved Barbie.  There was nothing she couldn't do.

In addition to being spoiled, I was weird.  Really weird.  So, my Barbies did weird things.  "Whatcha doin'?" my mom would ask.  I'd explain Barbie's adventure of the day--every day was a new one--and my mom would give me a look that was a blend of irritation and confusion as to how she produced me.  I remember that look, because it's the same look I got when I insisted I needed to get married in the middle of the winter so my hair would be straight (driving conditions be damned!) or that I couldn't spend Christmas at her house because I had a whole day of doing nothing planned.  My mom's Barbies were boring and all they ever did was get married or participate in beauty contests.  My Barbies did those things too, but they could only do them so often before I needed more.  My Barbies had to get more creative than the depictions on their boxes.

So when my mom spied my eight year old self at the top of the stairs with my favorite brown haired Barbie, her Ferrari, and a few plastic trees spread down the steps, and asked her famous question, my answer, "Oh, she's just going to have a car accident," wasn't too shocking.  By that point, she was used to it.  She returned to whatever it was she was doing, none the wiser to what my answer actually entailed.

I knew I was about to do something bad, so I waited until I was positive I was completely out of her line of vision.  I tucked Barbie into the driver's seat, slowly pulling the car back from the edge of the stairs, then with one fast push, sent the whole thing careening down all seven of them.  I had one other item behind me, one that my mother had thankfully not noticed, and I grabbed that as I followed the car down the steps in two great leaps.  I hurt my ankle on the second landing, but I blocked it out because I had things to focus on.  I knelt beside the wreckage of car and doll and tiny accessories, and retrieved a small lighter from my pocket.  It was a mini-Bic, one my father had left lying carelessly.  I'd been holding it for weeks since finding it, waiting for him to realize I'd picked it up, but he never seemed to notice, and I finally felt safe about it.  From behind my back came an aerosol can of hairspray.  I pressed the little button on top, flicked the lighter, and--

Success!  

The wreckage of Barbie's car was engulfed in an explosion of flames.  Plastic melted, and the fibers of my parents incredibly expensive carpet charred and balled into one another.  I made sound effects, thoroughly enjoying my little masterpiece, before finally dousing the whole thing with a little plastic cup of kool-aid I'd placed on the side of the couch earlier.  My eyes were ablaze with triumph, and I let out a little gasp.  This had been more incredible than I'd imagined.  I sat back, surveying the remains of what would undoubtedly remain one of the greatest moments of my life.  That had to be the best Barbie car accident ever.  I was yanked from my amazement with a sharp yell.

"Kendra Lynn!  What did you do?"  My mom's voice quivered with anger and horror and an irresistible urge to hit me.  She screamed again, "What did you do?  What is wrong with you?  Get in your room before I do something I'll regret."

I knew I'd done something bad--I'd known that since before I did it--and I knew that you didn't fuck with her when her voice had that tone or her face had contorted that way.  I bolted back up the stairs before she could change her mind.

In the safety of my room, I pouted.  Yeah, I'd destroyed the whole living room carpet in under two minutes.  Sure, I'd put my whole family in at least some level of danger.  But how could she not see the awesomeness of my Barbie car accident for what it was?  I sat in my room for the remainder of the day.  I was ordered not to play, and for once I listened, more out of fear of repercussions than actual remorse for my actions.  When my dad got home, my mom raged at him for leaving the lighter within reach of the children, and then my dad raged at me for getting him trouble.

All of my wonderful Barbies and all of their marvelous little accessories were taken from my room and moved to the garage for the next two weeks.  I was heartbroken, but that wasn't the worst of it.  My parents had thrown out the melted doll, her car, and all other little pieces that were involved in the accident.

Damn.  For two weeks, I'd been planning her funeral.

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.

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.