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.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
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.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Finally, someone with fewer phone skills than me!
"What's your name?"
"Kendra."
"What?"
"Ken-dra..."
"Oh! Like on TV?"
What? What the hell was this guy talking about. My fingers frantically Googled, and--Oh!--there is indeed some name stealing bitch and apparently she's on TV.
"Um, sure. But I'm fat and have brown hair."
"You didn't have to tell me that."
"Probably not, but I enjoy shattering the hopes of others. Besides, why on Earth would you think that's an appropriate question to ask?"
"I don't know. So are you interested in the magazines or not?"
"I'll be honest here--I have no intention of buying anything from you. Sorry. We can still chat, if you'd like."
"Oh."
Click. I'm terrible on the phone.
"Kendra."
"What?"
"Ken-dra..."
"Oh! Like on TV?"
What? What the hell was this guy talking about. My fingers frantically Googled, and--Oh!--there is indeed some name stealing bitch and apparently she's on TV.
"Um, sure. But I'm fat and have brown hair."
"You didn't have to tell me that."
"Probably not, but I enjoy shattering the hopes of others. Besides, why on Earth would you think that's an appropriate question to ask?"
"I don't know. So are you interested in the magazines or not?"
"I'll be honest here--I have no intention of buying anything from you. Sorry. We can still chat, if you'd like."
"Oh."
Click. I'm terrible on the phone.
Evening Highlights
Today was really strange, even by my standards.
It's almost 2 and I should really be sleeping, but I feel compelled to update first. If for no one else, then for my awesome commenter, Jenn. Plus, my power is back and after spending the better part of the evening with only coloring books and a Disney Princess flashlight, I really feel I should have a quick date with the love of my life. (In case you're thinking that's my husband or spawn, it's not. I'm talking, of course, about my computer.)
My house is old. I don't mean before I was born old, I mean before anyone who could possibly read this was born old. 1894 old. And it kind of sucks, but it was a hell of a deal and I guess it (usually) beats homelessness, so I'll consider my blessings here. Anyway, my shitty old house has shitty old electrical wiring. And fuses! Somehow, after all the years we've lived here, I still forget that I can't run the microwave and CD player at the same time. This proved truly tragic tonight when the fuse box delivered its swift and painful reminder that it will not, in fact, allow me to belt out "A Little Priest" while anticipating my first bite of Salisbury steak. In what I can only describe as one of life's more heartbreaking moments, I found myself in the dark with neither music, nor sufficiently heated processed meat product.
This would be a good time to talk about my basement, which in all fairness really deserves a whole post of its own. There's only word to describe my basement with any accuracy, and that word is dungeon. If I were to torture someone (which, and I should probably keep this to myself, is one of my life's ambitions) I'd do it in my basement. There's even a secret room! Like I said, it really deserves a whole topic of its own. For now, I'll keep it simple--I do not enter my basement. I think I've been down there maybe half a dozen times in all the years we've owned the house, none of them alone and never as far back as the fuse boxes.
It's not that I'm inherently afraid of basements, but I am the dictionary definition of arachnophobic. Once, as a kid, I even ended up in the hospital over a spider bite. Not because it was poisonous or anything, but because of the complete mental breakdown I suffered from the abject terror of it all. True story. Anyway, being the brightest crayon in the box, this arachnophobic thought it wise to buy a hundred and something year old home on the water. This should be read as, "We have a spider problem." Due to my copious use of both poison and natural deterrents, this problem is mostly confined to the basement, but one look around that crypt and there's no denying the problem exists. There are spiders that died cannibalizing other dead spiders. It's really bad. The first time I saw my basement, I wondered if it had been cleaned once since 1894. Turns out, it probably had. The manly men in my life (meaning my husband, father, and brother) rid my infested torture chamber of all its eight legged evils bi-annually, but they always come back. My husband says it's because our house is so old and the water and vegetation don't help, but he's lying to both of us. I know they're plotting, and I know I am the target of said plot. I'm not angry about my husband's lies, though. I know he's just trying to protect me. Shit, I'm on a tangent, aren't I?
So, the fuse is blown. Normally, this isn't a huge issue. I have a whole tupperware container full of those tricky little bastards. All I have to do is summon my knight in shining armor and the lights are back on in minutes! However, for all the bothersome staying at home he's done this week, he's chosen this particular evening to vacate the premises. Fuck! This has happened twice before, but each time I was resourceful enough to find someone else to save my ass from a night of no electricity. Unfortunately, about a month and a half ago, my child made off with my phone and I haven't seen that son of a bitch since. The friend my husband is visiting only lives three blocks away, so I briefly consider just walking over there to let him know he's needed at home. But the child--sick and sleeping--kills that idea.
On top of being terrified of my basement, there is no one in the world less prepared for personal emergencies than me. I have two flashlights that are out of batteries. In fact, second flashlight was my dad's, which he left here because he was frustrated that I never had a working flashlight. I can't really use candles anymore per order of the husband. He's not being controlling, it's just his perfectly logical fear of my irresponsibility someday burning down our home. I keep pointing out that the insurance would cover more than the house is worth, but he insists his fears have more to do with personal safety. Anyway, since I can't use them, I don't really buy candles anymore.
I spend about 15 minutes just sitting there, pondering the complete fuckaroo I've dug for myself and wondering when it started getting dark so early. My husband won't be home 'til late. This really pisses me off because it's pretty rare that the child is sleeping and the husband is gone for that many hours at a stretch and I was really looking forward to this. Then I remember something!
About a month ago, my parents bought my daughter a princess camping set. It's really cute. Too much pink for me, but still really cute. Anyway, it came with a tent, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a flashlight! I frown at the realization that my three year old is at least four items more prepared than I am in the event of a catastrophe, but the frown can't last long--I have a flashlight to find! Her room is pitch black, so before I can do anything in there, I have to dig out one of my husband's lighters. It's not too hard, since he constantly loses them in recesses of his computer recliner. I burn myself while scavenging Princess Pie's room for that flashlight, but it's minor and I actually have burn cream and even more shocking, I know where it is and once I have the flashlight, I can easily get it! In another surprising turn, the flashlight isn't too hard to find. Sadly, things are going a little too well for me. though--it isn't until I try to turn the flashlight on, that I remember I took a battery out of it a few weeks ago. I either needed it for my vibrator or my computer mouse, I can't really remember which. In any case, I know where the computer mouse is and I'm one battery away from light!
It's not the brightest flashlight I've ever used, but it's something and it doesn't burn me like the lighter did. I tend to my wound, and take a few guesses at what time it is. I don't have any battery operated clocks. This is a shame because I love clocks, and I wonder why I don't have any. I mean, I do--we have three computers, a time display on the range and the microwave, and at least one phone at any given time--but none of those things work in this electrical void. Meaning I'm clueless about how long it will be until my husband returns. That sucks.
I can't sleep, so I spend my time creating little stories in my mind. They're mostly awesome, but then my mind settles on a topic that is simply so overwhelming to me that I freak myself out. There's really nothing off limits here, but I don't feel like trying to deal with any of that again, so I'll leave you in the dark on that for now. Don't be too upset, everything in its own time. I need something calming and mindless. Hey! I just pilfered a bunch coloring books from the kid! I know, I know--that makes me a shitty mother, but in my defense, she prefers coloring on construction paper anyway. Plus, I think it was really stupid of my husband to spend $15 on four coloring books for a kid who is just as happy with the ones I buy three for $1 from the discount store. I'm the one who can tell the difference between the generic characters and the named, licensed ones. So, that's what I did until my husband came home. I just colored. I even put my best work on the fridge with my little letter magnets. Tomorrow I'll take pictures! If you're lucky, maybe I'll take pics of my burn, too!
The huzz finally returns. He doesn't ask why I'm sitting in the dark, he simply walks to the cupboard, retrieves the tupperware container and heads for the basement. He takes care of this before hugging me or anything because he's awesome and his priorities are always in the right order. I'm not even being sarcastic here, he knows how I feel about the fuses. In that moment, no matter how annoying he's been the past few days, I am filled with awe and love and all feelings warm and squishy. Once the house is finally flooded with light and everything is the way it should be, I even snuggle up with him to watch one of his boring shows on Netflix. We chat a bit. I remember the Salisbury steak and give him half in offering of thanks. Eventually he tires and tries talking me into going to bed. I tell him I'll just be fifteen minutes.
Before he heads to our room, he stops for a drink, and that's when he has a question for me: "Hey Bean? Did you steal Pie-ra's coloring books?" I can't tell if he's irritated or amused, so I just pretend I didn't hear him. Finally, he gives up and pads down the hallway, leaving me where I was when I started this.
It's almost 2 and I should really be sleeping, but I feel compelled to update first. If for no one else, then for my awesome commenter, Jenn. Plus, my power is back and after spending the better part of the evening with only coloring books and a Disney Princess flashlight, I really feel I should have a quick date with the love of my life. (In case you're thinking that's my husband or spawn, it's not. I'm talking, of course, about my computer.)
My house is old. I don't mean before I was born old, I mean before anyone who could possibly read this was born old. 1894 old. And it kind of sucks, but it was a hell of a deal and I guess it (usually) beats homelessness, so I'll consider my blessings here. Anyway, my shitty old house has shitty old electrical wiring. And fuses! Somehow, after all the years we've lived here, I still forget that I can't run the microwave and CD player at the same time. This proved truly tragic tonight when the fuse box delivered its swift and painful reminder that it will not, in fact, allow me to belt out "A Little Priest" while anticipating my first bite of Salisbury steak. In what I can only describe as one of life's more heartbreaking moments, I found myself in the dark with neither music, nor sufficiently heated processed meat product.
This would be a good time to talk about my basement, which in all fairness really deserves a whole post of its own. There's only word to describe my basement with any accuracy, and that word is dungeon. If I were to torture someone (which, and I should probably keep this to myself, is one of my life's ambitions) I'd do it in my basement. There's even a secret room! Like I said, it really deserves a whole topic of its own. For now, I'll keep it simple--I do not enter my basement. I think I've been down there maybe half a dozen times in all the years we've owned the house, none of them alone and never as far back as the fuse boxes.
It's not that I'm inherently afraid of basements, but I am the dictionary definition of arachnophobic. Once, as a kid, I even ended up in the hospital over a spider bite. Not because it was poisonous or anything, but because of the complete mental breakdown I suffered from the abject terror of it all. True story. Anyway, being the brightest crayon in the box, this arachnophobic thought it wise to buy a hundred and something year old home on the water. This should be read as, "We have a spider problem." Due to my copious use of both poison and natural deterrents, this problem is mostly confined to the basement, but one look around that crypt and there's no denying the problem exists. There are spiders that died cannibalizing other dead spiders. It's really bad. The first time I saw my basement, I wondered if it had been cleaned once since 1894. Turns out, it probably had. The manly men in my life (meaning my husband, father, and brother) rid my infested torture chamber of all its eight legged evils bi-annually, but they always come back. My husband says it's because our house is so old and the water and vegetation don't help, but he's lying to both of us. I know they're plotting, and I know I am the target of said plot. I'm not angry about my husband's lies, though. I know he's just trying to protect me. Shit, I'm on a tangent, aren't I?
So, the fuse is blown. Normally, this isn't a huge issue. I have a whole tupperware container full of those tricky little bastards. All I have to do is summon my knight in shining armor and the lights are back on in minutes! However, for all the bothersome staying at home he's done this week, he's chosen this particular evening to vacate the premises. Fuck! This has happened twice before, but each time I was resourceful enough to find someone else to save my ass from a night of no electricity. Unfortunately, about a month and a half ago, my child made off with my phone and I haven't seen that son of a bitch since. The friend my husband is visiting only lives three blocks away, so I briefly consider just walking over there to let him know he's needed at home. But the child--sick and sleeping--kills that idea.
On top of being terrified of my basement, there is no one in the world less prepared for personal emergencies than me. I have two flashlights that are out of batteries. In fact, second flashlight was my dad's, which he left here because he was frustrated that I never had a working flashlight. I can't really use candles anymore per order of the husband. He's not being controlling, it's just his perfectly logical fear of my irresponsibility someday burning down our home. I keep pointing out that the insurance would cover more than the house is worth, but he insists his fears have more to do with personal safety. Anyway, since I can't use them, I don't really buy candles anymore.
I spend about 15 minutes just sitting there, pondering the complete fuckaroo I've dug for myself and wondering when it started getting dark so early. My husband won't be home 'til late. This really pisses me off because it's pretty rare that the child is sleeping and the husband is gone for that many hours at a stretch and I was really looking forward to this. Then I remember something!
About a month ago, my parents bought my daughter a princess camping set. It's really cute. Too much pink for me, but still really cute. Anyway, it came with a tent, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a flashlight! I frown at the realization that my three year old is at least four items more prepared than I am in the event of a catastrophe, but the frown can't last long--I have a flashlight to find! Her room is pitch black, so before I can do anything in there, I have to dig out one of my husband's lighters. It's not too hard, since he constantly loses them in recesses of his computer recliner. I burn myself while scavenging Princess Pie's room for that flashlight, but it's minor and I actually have burn cream and even more shocking, I know where it is and once I have the flashlight, I can easily get it! In another surprising turn, the flashlight isn't too hard to find. Sadly, things are going a little too well for me. though--it isn't until I try to turn the flashlight on, that I remember I took a battery out of it a few weeks ago. I either needed it for my vibrator or my computer mouse, I can't really remember which. In any case, I know where the computer mouse is and I'm one battery away from light!
It's not the brightest flashlight I've ever used, but it's something and it doesn't burn me like the lighter did. I tend to my wound, and take a few guesses at what time it is. I don't have any battery operated clocks. This is a shame because I love clocks, and I wonder why I don't have any. I mean, I do--we have three computers, a time display on the range and the microwave, and at least one phone at any given time--but none of those things work in this electrical void. Meaning I'm clueless about how long it will be until my husband returns. That sucks.
I can't sleep, so I spend my time creating little stories in my mind. They're mostly awesome, but then my mind settles on a topic that is simply so overwhelming to me that I freak myself out. There's really nothing off limits here, but I don't feel like trying to deal with any of that again, so I'll leave you in the dark on that for now. Don't be too upset, everything in its own time. I need something calming and mindless. Hey! I just pilfered a bunch coloring books from the kid! I know, I know--that makes me a shitty mother, but in my defense, she prefers coloring on construction paper anyway. Plus, I think it was really stupid of my husband to spend $15 on four coloring books for a kid who is just as happy with the ones I buy three for $1 from the discount store. I'm the one who can tell the difference between the generic characters and the named, licensed ones. So, that's what I did until my husband came home. I just colored. I even put my best work on the fridge with my little letter magnets. Tomorrow I'll take pictures! If you're lucky, maybe I'll take pics of my burn, too!
The huzz finally returns. He doesn't ask why I'm sitting in the dark, he simply walks to the cupboard, retrieves the tupperware container and heads for the basement. He takes care of this before hugging me or anything because he's awesome and his priorities are always in the right order. I'm not even being sarcastic here, he knows how I feel about the fuses. In that moment, no matter how annoying he's been the past few days, I am filled with awe and love and all feelings warm and squishy. Once the house is finally flooded with light and everything is the way it should be, I even snuggle up with him to watch one of his boring shows on Netflix. We chat a bit. I remember the Salisbury steak and give him half in offering of thanks. Eventually he tires and tries talking me into going to bed. I tell him I'll just be fifteen minutes.
Before he heads to our room, he stops for a drink, and that's when he has a question for me: "Hey Bean? Did you steal Pie-ra's coloring books?" I can't tell if he's irritated or amused, so I just pretend I didn't hear him. Finally, he gives up and pads down the hallway, leaving me where I was when I started this.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
A Day Off!
I started typing this sometime around 7AM, with full intention of bragging about my day off, bought about by the ill health of my poor child. Turns out, it couldn't be farther from a day off, hence my deletion of the whole three sentences I'd typed over five hours ago. Serves me right, I suppose.
There's nothing like family illness to bring out the annoying in my husband. He's been on vacation all week. For him, this is a much deserved break. For me, it's more cooking, more cleaning, more laundry. Awesome. With the kid being sick, he's at full panic. I like to think that if you cross bred a monkey and a rhino and raised it to be a crack addict, you'd know what my husband is like when he's been home too long and our kid is sick. In his world, it can just be a cough or a fever or a runny nose. No, nothing common and every day at all. Clearly, she's suffering from the plague.
On one hand, this has been of great benefit to both the child and myself. Right now, he's will to make as many trips to Super Walmart Center as necessary to ensure her continued breathing and/or happiness. This is how I got an economy sized box of frozen waffles, plus it's gotten him out of the house for several hours. Those hours were broken up in to approximately 20 minute increments, but this is stupendous, none the less. I keep planting little "needs" in her mind. I'm a horrible person.
On the other hand, he's being really irritating. I just took her temperature. You want to know if it's changed a fraction of a degree? Take it again yourself! Yes, she's had her fluids, yes, she's had her medicine. Stop barking orders at me from the living room and come in here if you need something. And make your own fucking corndog.
Then there's the child, herself. I really do feel bad for her. It sucks seeing her sick, and she's already so tiny and frail, but she keeps forgetting she's sick. The wonders that are Tylenol and Motrin have knocked nearly all the symptoms out of her. And this is good, except for the fact that since she's feeling pretty okay, it's nearly impossible to get her to rest. Once the medication starts wearing off she turns into a nightmare. This morning, I'd totally envisioned a lovely day of lounging at the computer while she watched an endless stream of DVD's and quietly rested. My experience has been nothing like that. Instead, my whole day has been spent trying to keep her in one spot, cooking, and cleaning. Sort of like every other day only with an extra heap of annoyance.
On top of this, I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with whatever she has. I can hardly even taste my frozen waffles. I'm on very limited sleep, so my thoughts are angry and tired and mostly incoherent. I'm also aware of some rather unpleasant smell. I think it's me.
And my mom keeps calling. My mom is pissed off at me for blowing her off on Christmas. Apparently all holidays happen for her. Neat-o. We've tried ignoring the calls, but my mom is one of those people who completely disregards unanswered phones. Her mind remains convinced that I really am here and I really do want to talk to her. The end result is about 45 minutes worth of consecutive calls, each with its own unique and eventually hostile voice mail. I should really consider turning these into audio clips and posting them whenever someone pisses me off.
So that's where we're at today. No day off, just a big day full of fuck you. But I promised to write daily, and I'm not prepared to give that up yet. I know that random whining is no way to impress my audience (and again, thank you to everyone who continues reading!) so, here's a quick story:
I'm at the craptop googling things that very likely should never be googled. She, for a fleeting moment is completely engrossed in a movie, and I'm going to enjoy that moment in every way it can possibly be enjoyed. I'm not really paying her much attention, so it comes as a complete shock when she looks up and speaks.
"Those kids are assholes!"
I know I should reprimand her inappropriate language, but I'm simply too bewildered. "What kids?"
"Those ones," she points to the movie. "Buncha assholes!"
This time, I try to correct her, but there's so much passion behind her accusation that all I can do is laugh. When I can finally breathe again, I gasp, "Why do you think that?"
"Just because." The conversation is left there, as she returns to her movie and I return to the computer. So far, this has been the high point of my day.
Perhaps later, I'll compose a haiku about it.
There's nothing like family illness to bring out the annoying in my husband. He's been on vacation all week. For him, this is a much deserved break. For me, it's more cooking, more cleaning, more laundry. Awesome. With the kid being sick, he's at full panic. I like to think that if you cross bred a monkey and a rhino and raised it to be a crack addict, you'd know what my husband is like when he's been home too long and our kid is sick. In his world, it can just be a cough or a fever or a runny nose. No, nothing common and every day at all. Clearly, she's suffering from the plague.
On one hand, this has been of great benefit to both the child and myself. Right now, he's will to make as many trips to Super Walmart Center as necessary to ensure her continued breathing and/or happiness. This is how I got an economy sized box of frozen waffles, plus it's gotten him out of the house for several hours. Those hours were broken up in to approximately 20 minute increments, but this is stupendous, none the less. I keep planting little "needs" in her mind. I'm a horrible person.
On the other hand, he's being really irritating. I just took her temperature. You want to know if it's changed a fraction of a degree? Take it again yourself! Yes, she's had her fluids, yes, she's had her medicine. Stop barking orders at me from the living room and come in here if you need something. And make your own fucking corndog.
Then there's the child, herself. I really do feel bad for her. It sucks seeing her sick, and she's already so tiny and frail, but she keeps forgetting she's sick. The wonders that are Tylenol and Motrin have knocked nearly all the symptoms out of her. And this is good, except for the fact that since she's feeling pretty okay, it's nearly impossible to get her to rest. Once the medication starts wearing off she turns into a nightmare. This morning, I'd totally envisioned a lovely day of lounging at the computer while she watched an endless stream of DVD's and quietly rested. My experience has been nothing like that. Instead, my whole day has been spent trying to keep her in one spot, cooking, and cleaning. Sort of like every other day only with an extra heap of annoyance.
On top of this, I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with whatever she has. I can hardly even taste my frozen waffles. I'm on very limited sleep, so my thoughts are angry and tired and mostly incoherent. I'm also aware of some rather unpleasant smell. I think it's me.
And my mom keeps calling. My mom is pissed off at me for blowing her off on Christmas. Apparently all holidays happen for her. Neat-o. We've tried ignoring the calls, but my mom is one of those people who completely disregards unanswered phones. Her mind remains convinced that I really am here and I really do want to talk to her. The end result is about 45 minutes worth of consecutive calls, each with its own unique and eventually hostile voice mail. I should really consider turning these into audio clips and posting them whenever someone pisses me off.
So that's where we're at today. No day off, just a big day full of fuck you. But I promised to write daily, and I'm not prepared to give that up yet. I know that random whining is no way to impress my audience (and again, thank you to everyone who continues reading!) so, here's a quick story:
I'm at the craptop googling things that very likely should never be googled. She, for a fleeting moment is completely engrossed in a movie, and I'm going to enjoy that moment in every way it can possibly be enjoyed. I'm not really paying her much attention, so it comes as a complete shock when she looks up and speaks.
"Those kids are assholes!"
I know I should reprimand her inappropriate language, but I'm simply too bewildered. "What kids?"
"Those ones," she points to the movie. "Buncha assholes!"
This time, I try to correct her, but there's so much passion behind her accusation that all I can do is laugh. When I can finally breathe again, I gasp, "Why do you think that?"
"Just because." The conversation is left there, as she returns to her movie and I return to the computer. So far, this has been the high point of my day.
Perhaps later, I'll compose a haiku about it.
WTF?
First, I want to thank everyone who's been reading and commenting and following. Every one of you is awesome. Truly. Second, I meant to update last night, but fell asleep instead. This has proven most fruitful as it's why I have this little gem to share with you. I'll probably have deep regrets over this one in the morning, but at 3 something, posting it seems like a great idea. And let's be honest--we needed some funny.
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"Wha...? What's happening?" I wonder out loud, taking in my surroundings, trying to pull them close and hold them. The air is thick and tense and hazy. It's a color, but I can't really describe what that color is, somewhere between red and brown, something I have an overwhelming urge to describe as burnt. And there's a sound (loud! That's the sound of loud!) and a smell--
But before I can register what the smell is, understanding punches me in the face: I'm in a dream. Oh, fantastic! I love dreams! Even better, I have a distinct feeling that this dream is heading in a rather PG-13 direction! Alright!
In the distance, something beckons me (wake up!) and I fight against it with every fiber of my being, because I'm so warm and so comfortable and right now a PG-13 dream is just about the best thing I can imagine. My eyes flit about, searching through all the burnt, landing on something fuzzy, yet somehow determinedly male. Before I can process this, however, something shifts. Confusion presses in as some far off, semi-existent narrator hands me a name--
"Flynn Rider."
Wait!? What? No! My avidity for PG-13 action thins, at least half replaced with some dream world version of guilt and shame. I'm still alone, trapped in all that burnt, which suddenly loses its magic and simply becomes wrong, but I'm still alone and this triggers an argument.
Oh, just shut up and go with it, my internal dialogue rages. There are pleas from the real and rational me who knows that even the vaguest level of sexy with a cartoon character will leave me feeling dirty and uncomfortable in the morning, but as is almost always the case in the realm of my dreams, those pleas go ignored. I'm convinced that the licentious Ms. Go-with-it will win, but before she can, that ghastly narrative voice summons me again--
"Flynn Rider Doll!"
And that does it, 'cause while I can think of perfectly acceptable deviations concerning me and 12 inches of synthetic material, none of them involve tiny plastic features and suddenly this particular instance is nothing but obscenely wrong--even for me, which says a lot.
I claw for the surface, eyes popping open, sounds draining away, and all that godawful burnt dissipating into the black of my bedroom and when everything is finally clear, I am no longer alone. I register the tiny form hovering inches from my face and pull back with a sharp, jerking motion.
"Mumma, I'm askin' you where's my Flynn Rider doll?"
I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of this. "I have no idea."
We search the heaps of blankets on my king sized bed, and finally, I am the one who finds him. I gingerly pick up the doll and tuck him next to her, on the side my husband will lay next to, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.
On one hand, I'm annoyed. Her misplaced good night toy ruined what could have been the best dream I've had in months. On the other, I don't think I knew I was dreaming until she started prodding me for her toy. The sheer absurdity of all of this is too much and I laugh, loud and hard. From the living room, my husband asks if I'm okay. I respond that I am. I have one final thought on the matter, as I pull myself from my bed:
I really need to follow through on making her sleep in her own bed.
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"Wha...? What's happening?" I wonder out loud, taking in my surroundings, trying to pull them close and hold them. The air is thick and tense and hazy. It's a color, but I can't really describe what that color is, somewhere between red and brown, something I have an overwhelming urge to describe as burnt. And there's a sound (loud! That's the sound of loud!) and a smell--
But before I can register what the smell is, understanding punches me in the face: I'm in a dream. Oh, fantastic! I love dreams! Even better, I have a distinct feeling that this dream is heading in a rather PG-13 direction! Alright!
In the distance, something beckons me (wake up!) and I fight against it with every fiber of my being, because I'm so warm and so comfortable and right now a PG-13 dream is just about the best thing I can imagine. My eyes flit about, searching through all the burnt, landing on something fuzzy, yet somehow determinedly male. Before I can process this, however, something shifts. Confusion presses in as some far off, semi-existent narrator hands me a name--
"Flynn Rider."
Wait!? What? No! My avidity for PG-13 action thins, at least half replaced with some dream world version of guilt and shame. I'm still alone, trapped in all that burnt, which suddenly loses its magic and simply becomes wrong, but I'm still alone and this triggers an argument.
Oh, just shut up and go with it, my internal dialogue rages. There are pleas from the real and rational me who knows that even the vaguest level of sexy with a cartoon character will leave me feeling dirty and uncomfortable in the morning, but as is almost always the case in the realm of my dreams, those pleas go ignored. I'm convinced that the licentious Ms. Go-with-it will win, but before she can, that ghastly narrative voice summons me again--
"Flynn Rider Doll!"
And that does it, 'cause while I can think of perfectly acceptable deviations concerning me and 12 inches of synthetic material, none of them involve tiny plastic features and suddenly this particular instance is nothing but obscenely wrong--even for me, which says a lot.
I claw for the surface, eyes popping open, sounds draining away, and all that godawful burnt dissipating into the black of my bedroom and when everything is finally clear, I am no longer alone. I register the tiny form hovering inches from my face and pull back with a sharp, jerking motion.
"Mumma, I'm askin' you where's my Flynn Rider doll?"
I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of this. "I have no idea."
We search the heaps of blankets on my king sized bed, and finally, I am the one who finds him. I gingerly pick up the doll and tuck him next to her, on the side my husband will lay next to, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.
On one hand, I'm annoyed. Her misplaced good night toy ruined what could have been the best dream I've had in months. On the other, I don't think I knew I was dreaming until she started prodding me for her toy. The sheer absurdity of all of this is too much and I laugh, loud and hard. From the living room, my husband asks if I'm okay. I respond that I am. I have one final thought on the matter, as I pull myself from my bed:
I really need to follow through on making her sleep in her own bed.
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