Could not write haiku.
Could not find the asshole kids.
Mega fail. Sorry.
:D
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Good Day
Good things happened today. For one thing, I got an adequate amount of sleep. That alone works wonders for my outlook in life.
That wasn't the best thing, though. My new phone came. This is good because I scared my phone away like a month and a half ago and haven't seen it since. Seriously, one moment I was talking on it, the next it was gone. I have a feeling the minime hid it somewhere, but I've yet to discover where. So, now I have a new one and I can talk to people and avoid calls from my mom again. However, this still isn't the best part.
My husband finally disposed of the spider carcass that's been under a glass on my floor since around Halloween. I know how wrong that sounds, so I guess I'll try to explain it. A week of so before Halloween, I noticed a large and particularly menacing spider running across my livingroom floor. I didn't have anything flammable to counterattack it with, but I'm pretty resourceful and quickly came up with an alternative plan: I got my child to top it with a glass, so my husband could deal with it later. Except he kept forgetting to deal with it. Eventually, I sort of scooted the whole glass into a corner so I could just clean my floors around it. And there it stayed until today, when my husband finally decided to pay attention to me and deal with it. Okay, I guess that really didn't make it sound any better, but there's no sense in using the backspace key now. I wonder how long it stayed alive under there. I sort of feel bad about causing something such a horrific end, but I'm also pretty sure it was a scout trying to gather information for their plot to destroy me. Knowing that makes me feel completely justified. Anyway, the body removal was almost the best part of my day, but not quite.
The best thing? I found the world's biggest box of frozen blueberry waffles! There's 40 of them! That should last me the better part of the week! I had two for dinner (still frozen) and I'm thinking that in the morning I may toast a couple for my favorite sandwich. This involves two toasted blueberry waffles, a slice of provolone and three slices of extra crispy thick cut bacon. It's pretty much an orgasm for your mouth.
A few other notably awesome things happened today, too.
--I took the child to the grocery store childcare, but I did not shop. Instead I drank coffee and hogged a Hershey's with almonds bar all to myself. I spent a lot of time on a new idea I had, which may or may not grow legs and appear here in the future. Depends if I can get the appropriate software and how much I want to embarrass myself.
--The child asked her father why he's not as handsome as Flynn Rider. The husband proceeded to get all butt hurt and insecure about it. I'm torn between pointing out that it's a somewhat valid question and reassuring him that he is the more handsome. His anxiety over this is really amusing, so I suppose I'll just keep quiet altogether and let him sweat about it.
--I got every last stitch of laundry in the house done. That's not too big of a deal, but it's also put away! That never happens. Seriously, the only dirty clothes in my house are the ones on our bodies. That makes me so happy I could pee my pants. But then I'd have to wash them.
--I baked a pie. Apple. It's good and very aesthetically pleasing.
Given that it's only quarter to eight, I probably shouldn't jinx myself, but nothing bad has happened today. It's been a very needed good day. I have steaks thawing for morning dinner and I'll have extra time to myself tonight. Perhaps I'll even have time for a haiku later! On that note, I suppose I'll go catch up with my friends, play some video games, and prepare for tomorrow. Today can't happen twice in a row, and something tells me tomorrow will make up for it. That's just how my life works.
That wasn't the best thing, though. My new phone came. This is good because I scared my phone away like a month and a half ago and haven't seen it since. Seriously, one moment I was talking on it, the next it was gone. I have a feeling the minime hid it somewhere, but I've yet to discover where. So, now I have a new one and I can talk to people and avoid calls from my mom again. However, this still isn't the best part.
My husband finally disposed of the spider carcass that's been under a glass on my floor since around Halloween. I know how wrong that sounds, so I guess I'll try to explain it. A week of so before Halloween, I noticed a large and particularly menacing spider running across my livingroom floor. I didn't have anything flammable to counterattack it with, but I'm pretty resourceful and quickly came up with an alternative plan: I got my child to top it with a glass, so my husband could deal with it later. Except he kept forgetting to deal with it. Eventually, I sort of scooted the whole glass into a corner so I could just clean my floors around it. And there it stayed until today, when my husband finally decided to pay attention to me and deal with it. Okay, I guess that really didn't make it sound any better, but there's no sense in using the backspace key now. I wonder how long it stayed alive under there. I sort of feel bad about causing something such a horrific end, but I'm also pretty sure it was a scout trying to gather information for their plot to destroy me. Knowing that makes me feel completely justified. Anyway, the body removal was almost the best part of my day, but not quite.
The best thing? I found the world's biggest box of frozen blueberry waffles! There's 40 of them! That should last me the better part of the week! I had two for dinner (still frozen) and I'm thinking that in the morning I may toast a couple for my favorite sandwich. This involves two toasted blueberry waffles, a slice of provolone and three slices of extra crispy thick cut bacon. It's pretty much an orgasm for your mouth.
A few other notably awesome things happened today, too.
--I took the child to the grocery store childcare, but I did not shop. Instead I drank coffee and hogged a Hershey's with almonds bar all to myself. I spent a lot of time on a new idea I had, which may or may not grow legs and appear here in the future. Depends if I can get the appropriate software and how much I want to embarrass myself.
--The child asked her father why he's not as handsome as Flynn Rider. The husband proceeded to get all butt hurt and insecure about it. I'm torn between pointing out that it's a somewhat valid question and reassuring him that he is the more handsome. His anxiety over this is really amusing, so I suppose I'll just keep quiet altogether and let him sweat about it.
--I got every last stitch of laundry in the house done. That's not too big of a deal, but it's also put away! That never happens. Seriously, the only dirty clothes in my house are the ones on our bodies. That makes me so happy I could pee my pants. But then I'd have to wash them.
--I baked a pie. Apple. It's good and very aesthetically pleasing.
Given that it's only quarter to eight, I probably shouldn't jinx myself, but nothing bad has happened today. It's been a very needed good day. I have steaks thawing for morning dinner and I'll have extra time to myself tonight. Perhaps I'll even have time for a haiku later! On that note, I suppose I'll go catch up with my friends, play some video games, and prepare for tomorrow. Today can't happen twice in a row, and something tells me tomorrow will make up for it. That's just how my life works.
Our First Ten Minutes (My Perspective)
Wow. I slept like the dead last night, and now I'm ready to go. After the last two days, I guess I'm due for something fun, huh? Okay.
She blinked twice, looking from the plate of food before her, to the man across from her, then back to the food, trying mostly in vain to clear any hint of confusion from her face. His eyes were focused intently on her and it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. And now he was saying something.
She fiddled with her napkin. "I'm sorry, what?"
If he noticed her discomfort at this rather random turn of events, he didn't show it. "I tweaked the recipe a bit," he repeated. "I hope you like it."
Super! The girl forced her eyes not to roll, and glanced back up at the recipe tweaking stranger before her. He wasn't particularly attractive. He wasn't ugly or anything either, just not someone she'd have looked back at. The thing that really caught her eye was his bright orange hair. This interested her. Shooing those thoughts aside, she ran through a mental checklist again.
Work? No. School? Um...no. Church...? He seemed to know her, seemed to know her well enough to sit down uninvited and stare at her chest at least, but she could not figure out who he was. She teeters back and forth trying to decide if it's more rude to admit she has no idea who he is or to just go on pretending she knows. And again she catches herself paying no attention to what he's saying.
She's also unable to eat. Years of food issues have rendered it difficult to eat in front of others and impossible to eat in front of some stranger. If anyone was rude, it was him. Who just sits down with someone they don't even know when she's trying to eat? But, he seems to know you, she reminded herself, completely puzzled and starting to become irritated and--
Oh shit, he just asked her another question. She had no idea what it was and decided to just go ahead and ask him who the hell he is. But before she could, he realized something was wrong.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just tired and--"
"Well, I really gotta get back there, I just wanted to see how you've been. Maybe I'll call you this week."
"Um, okay?" She is thoroughly puzzled as the fact that he has her phone number sinks in. She doesn't even answer her phone, much less give out the number, so how does he have it? As he headed back to work, she shook her head and made a mental note to avoid this restaurant until she could remember who this guy is and why he has her phone number. She finally lifted her fork to eat her now cold food, absolutely no idea that in less than a year she and this orange haired, nosy, recipe tweaking, semi-annoying master of confusion would share a home.
She blinked twice, looking from the plate of food before her, to the man across from her, then back to the food, trying mostly in vain to clear any hint of confusion from her face. His eyes were focused intently on her and it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. And now he was saying something.
She fiddled with her napkin. "I'm sorry, what?"
If he noticed her discomfort at this rather random turn of events, he didn't show it. "I tweaked the recipe a bit," he repeated. "I hope you like it."
Super! The girl forced her eyes not to roll, and glanced back up at the recipe tweaking stranger before her. He wasn't particularly attractive. He wasn't ugly or anything either, just not someone she'd have looked back at. The thing that really caught her eye was his bright orange hair. This interested her. Shooing those thoughts aside, she ran through a mental checklist again.
Work? No. School? Um...no. Church...? He seemed to know her, seemed to know her well enough to sit down uninvited and stare at her chest at least, but she could not figure out who he was. She teeters back and forth trying to decide if it's more rude to admit she has no idea who he is or to just go on pretending she knows. And again she catches herself paying no attention to what he's saying.
She's also unable to eat. Years of food issues have rendered it difficult to eat in front of others and impossible to eat in front of some stranger. If anyone was rude, it was him. Who just sits down with someone they don't even know when she's trying to eat? But, he seems to know you, she reminded herself, completely puzzled and starting to become irritated and--
Oh shit, he just asked her another question. She had no idea what it was and decided to just go ahead and ask him who the hell he is. But before she could, he realized something was wrong.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just tired and--"
"Well, I really gotta get back there, I just wanted to see how you've been. Maybe I'll call you this week."
"Um, okay?" She is thoroughly puzzled as the fact that he has her phone number sinks in. She doesn't even answer her phone, much less give out the number, so how does he have it? As he headed back to work, she shook her head and made a mental note to avoid this restaurant until she could remember who this guy is and why he has her phone number. She finally lifted her fork to eat her now cold food, absolutely no idea that in less than a year she and this orange haired, nosy, recipe tweaking, semi-annoying master of confusion would share a home.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I'm tired.
Alright. I'm dead exhausted and possibly sick, and at least the exhaustion is entirely my fault. My other New Years resolution is to get better at my husband's video game than he is, so that's what I did last night. Until almost 7AM. On the bright side, my daughter also made the decision to stay up all night, so at least I got to sleep in. Yeah, I know that's a horribly irresponsible thing to allow, but you know what? Who cares? It was fun. Except not, because it meant I got to sleep from 6:45 to 8, then from 10 to noon and that's just plain kicking my ass. But, I did promise fifteen minutes at least once a day, so lets see what I can come up with.
I used to work in a restaurant. Working for tips throws your whole sense of money off. It's no longer a matter of "can I afford it?" or more importantly, "is that worth it?" Instead, everything becomes a matter of how many customers you need to make it back. That's it. It was the easiest money I ever made. Sure, my in-field office job was more fun and came with benefits and advancement opportunities, but restaurant work? What else could I do that brought home $200 in nearly tax free cash from one six hour shift? Leaving an 18 hour a week job for less money from a 40 hour a week job was really tough, no matter how good of a decision it was. And really, I just ended up knocked up later that year, anyway.
The other thing about working in a restaurant is that it literally drives you to drink. I had four friends at work. Really, we all mostly got along--or at least I did, as I wasn't sleeping with anyone there--but there were four people I was really friends with. We'd work. Then we'd drink. Then we'd go to breakfast. Even if one of us didn't work, we still made it to that cheap little dive bar almost every night. After breakfast, I'd end up feeling around in my pocket, wondering why I only had $50. Didn't I leave work with $200? How many guests would I have to serve to make that back? This was truly the low point of my irresponsibility.
There's not really a whole lot to this. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of stories, and they'll all have their day, but today is definitely not it. I all can think right now is, "I don't know how I did that!" I went almost every day for a year and a half on the amount of sleep I had today. Give or take, of course, but still--I just can't figure out how I did it. Today is just about killing me. Hell, I got more sleep when I had a newborn. So here I sit in dumbstruck awe of the person I was at 22.
Yeah, this is kind of a cop out post, but I promise things should slow down now and I'll have plenty more time for fun stories and self deprecation. In fact, I have about four super embarrassing ideas in queue right now. Yay! Yay, and goodnight!
I used to work in a restaurant. Working for tips throws your whole sense of money off. It's no longer a matter of "can I afford it?" or more importantly, "is that worth it?" Instead, everything becomes a matter of how many customers you need to make it back. That's it. It was the easiest money I ever made. Sure, my in-field office job was more fun and came with benefits and advancement opportunities, but restaurant work? What else could I do that brought home $200 in nearly tax free cash from one six hour shift? Leaving an 18 hour a week job for less money from a 40 hour a week job was really tough, no matter how good of a decision it was. And really, I just ended up knocked up later that year, anyway.
The other thing about working in a restaurant is that it literally drives you to drink. I had four friends at work. Really, we all mostly got along--or at least I did, as I wasn't sleeping with anyone there--but there were four people I was really friends with. We'd work. Then we'd drink. Then we'd go to breakfast. Even if one of us didn't work, we still made it to that cheap little dive bar almost every night. After breakfast, I'd end up feeling around in my pocket, wondering why I only had $50. Didn't I leave work with $200? How many guests would I have to serve to make that back? This was truly the low point of my irresponsibility.
There's not really a whole lot to this. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of stories, and they'll all have their day, but today is definitely not it. I all can think right now is, "I don't know how I did that!" I went almost every day for a year and a half on the amount of sleep I had today. Give or take, of course, but still--I just can't figure out how I did it. Today is just about killing me. Hell, I got more sleep when I had a newborn. So here I sit in dumbstruck awe of the person I was at 22.
Yeah, this is kind of a cop out post, but I promise things should slow down now and I'll have plenty more time for fun stories and self deprecation. In fact, I have about four super embarrassing ideas in queue right now. Yay! Yay, and goodnight!
Monday, January 3, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
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.
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.
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