Mama Always Said.

Mar 7, 2006 | This Life

So.

Mama
always said there would be days like this. We expect bad days
occasionally… right? But yesterday, yesterday met my quota of
bad days for the month.

The day began with Boy Wonder being
nothing short of an ass. What, you say? Boy Wonder?? How is
this possible? OH IT’S SO POSSIBLE. Of course, he picks
the day I’m not staying home to pelt me with belligerence. Before
my coffee. RUDE. So, here is me in various stages of
dressed, trying desperately to find his essay outline, make myself some
food (Never happened), and get out the door. Meanwhile, Boy
Wonder’s antics are escalating to full tilt–in 30 short minutes we are
both reduced to slinging insults and shouting at the top of our
lungs. And all the while, I’m wondering… why isn’t there coffee?

Yes,
I know I’m the adult. I know I should model good behaviour.
But picking a fight with me, as I’m trying to get ready for work, is
POOR timing. Especially when you are griping about doing your
school work at 9 in the morning–mad at your mother for suggesting you
actually write your essay BEFORE I get home because it meant that you
“didn’t get a lot of free time this morning.” WHAT?
Breathe, breathe.

So.

I FINALLY extricate myself from the
war of words and leave the house. I figure, this is not a good
start to the day. It would be equally problematic if I went in to
the church and yelled at them. I don’t think anyone would
especially like being called ASININE before noon. I know–I’ll
go get a mocha at the Rusty Cup (The only decent coffee in Astoria,
btw) and settle down before dealing with the world. I’ll take my
lovely cup of coffee into the office, sit and plan my morning.
And then move the mail and attempt to pick up my cup at the same
time–then drop my cup… You know where this is headed… right?
Ok… so, I drop the cup and it tips and its lid comes off. 12
ounces of chocolaty goodness cascades onto my brand new planner,
all over the mail I dropped in the process of dropping the cup, off the
desk and into my lap. Did I mention, I hadn’t taken off my coat
yet? Yeah, so the red coat is probably ruined for good.
Because there isn’t a decent dry cleaner in this town. Say
goodbye to the red coat… Mourning, mourning.

SO.

You
would think that after the craziness of the morning, Boy Wonder would
read the tea leaves and do his essay. Haa haa ha haa haa ha
haaaa. Please, that would make you as delusional as me–we don’t
want that. No, Boy Wonder does one better. He convinces
(OMG) his father that a very long and poorly constructed run-on
sentence should suffice for his descriptive essay. He did include,
after all, most of his descriptors: blueish, greenish, wavyish.
Move over James Frey–you have competition for your title of
making the world’s most inane literary blunder. I don’t even want
to discuss the fact his father fell for this. Because when I
think about that (or that I had sex with him later that night–Huh!) I
am convinced my head will explode! No, instead, I will tear up
Boy Wonder’s poor excuse of an essay, which–for the record–was
written with the first part of the sentence on the bottom of a blank
page and the second part on the top of another. Little pieces of
paper flying around the room! And I will threaten public school
in the fall… SILENCE.

More Silence.

20 minutes later he
STILL has not written one word. Why? “Because I’m
offended!” Offended. Really? “What, tearing up your
pathetic paper hurt your feelings?” “No!” he spits, “Suggesting
Public School really offends me.” His father, safely in another
room instant messages me, “Well, Public School is offensive.”
WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON???

SO!

Three hours later, we are
still slogging away on this PARAGRAPH and I realize–I REALLY need a
coffee. As I dismiss my petulant student to a break so I can sip
my coffee in peace, with his INSANE father, Boy Wonder insists on
asking a million questions. From the basement door–in another room.
One for every little piece of his essay drifting across the floor. Then he hangs on the basement door, slams it shut, and then
fiddles with the pantry shelves on the back side of the door.
Banging out his questions in some alien nine year old form of morse
code. I finally sneer, “You know, you aren’t the center of the
universe, the world does not revolve around you!” And muffled
through the basement door closing comes Boy Wonder’s reply, “Yeah,
well, neither are you!” Red, seeing red. Red, seeing
bright, bright red.

SO!!

I figured… why not end my day
on an up note? And I know you are expecting me to say that the
sex was really horrible. Considering my day that would be a
reasonable assumption–but it wasn’t. It never is, despite my day. I
get out of bed, after… you know… stuff… and head to the bathroom
where I promptly walk into the ceiling. Because our bathroom is
under an eave, the ceiling above the toilet is slanted. One must
duck. Except I didn’t. Seeing stars. Swirling stars…

I get back into bed–look at the clock. Spinning before my eyes in neon: 11:52. 11:52.

Mama always said.

(more…)

The Poor Thing

Mar 1, 2006 | This Life

So, I’ve spent the day thinking I was having a high blood pressure attack.
All afternoon, I would have these floating black images appearing at
the top of my field of vision–seriously. I know I’m under a lot
of stress–but this is too much.

Imagine my relief then,when IZ walks into our entry way and says through the door, “Was that a bat?” “A bat?!” I answer. “Whew! I thought I
was having ‘issues’.” Oh shut it–I know I still have issues,
nobody likes a smarty pants–and it’s rude to interrupt a person in the
middle of a story.

Ok, so where was I? Yeah, so we have a
bat. It did one more fly by which completely unhinged me–as it
flew right in front of my face–and my unhinging unhinged the
cat. Who, we have discovered, is completely useless. The
poor bat ended up flying into my office upstairs and weirdly enough,
under my bed. So, we think, let’s open a window and then get the
stupid cat to flush the poor thing out the window. Snickers
proceeds to crawl under the bed and promptly sit on top of the
cardboard box the poor thing is hiding under. Yeah, real useful. She was completely full of herself, all smug and smirky, until the poor thing started singing its own personal distress song–oh, then the cat freaks out and will have nothing to do with helping us get the poor thing out
of the house. USELESS CAT… remind me to replace you, cat, with
a DOG. A tiny dog, the size of say, A BAT. Stupid fluff
ball.

This left us no choice but to get out a broom. Poor
thing finally gets airborne and then decides to fly the same pattern a
couple of dozen times–each pass getting lower and lower as it
approached the corner I was crouching in trying to take close up
pictures with my zoom lens. ARG… Anyhow, I managed to
get a few pics–IZ finally managed to get the bat to alter its course
just enough to fly out the window.

We have No idea how the poor thing,
which is its name now, by the way, got into the house. But, I’m
relieved to know that instead of having a blood pressure issue I only
had a small case of the poor thing.

IZ wants you to know that he was only trying to guide the poor thing out the window.

The poor thing was really quite sweet. Which, I can say now that it’s out of the house.

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Birthday Girl with Birthday Camera.

Feb 25, 2006 | This Life

Or… Ode to my Sweetie who spoils me!


I looooove him because he
LISTENED to all my pathetic little hints. So… Now I have an
A-List camera. What are my odds for getting A-List
comments? Come on people, I have to live into this reality.

I’m such a poseur. 🙂

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42

Feb 24, 2006 | This Life

I
guess I’ve known all week that today is my birthday. Not like I
can for get it, right? Oh how I try. It’s not that I’m
depressed about my age–or people forgot–or it gets overshadowed by
some holiday. Nothing traumatic. This month has been
offered up to the virus of the decade and I’ve spent so much of it
curled up on our couch–I guess I just don’t want to admit the month is
over. But it is, over. My birthday is here. Once
again. Someday, that annoying habit will cease.

Until
then, I guess I’m aging. That kinda sucks, doesn’t it? I
don’t like to think about it either. Being sick this month has
brought it home in ways I like to pretend don’t exist. I would be
lying if I said I wasn’t bothered by the speed of my recovery.
Worried? No… I would have to admit to fatigue and exhaustion to
be worried. Concerned? Not really. It’s just a virus.
Right? No unintended consequences. Internally, I must
admit to my reality–but externally, I don’t like to think about
it. I don’t want to admit to anything that detracts from the
pretty lies I tell myself. Pretty lies–so much more palatable
than what is truth. Rebounding ain’t what it used to be–I’m not
who I used to be. Lies, lies, more lies. Nothing a little
lipstick and an inhaler can’t cover.

See this is
depressing. Sheesh… Happy Birthday to me. You know, it’s
been a quiet day but only because I like quiet. IZ gave me my
birthday present early to take on our ill-fated trip. He finally
splurged (he’s getting even for the anniversary present I bought him
last year!) and got me the Nikon I’ve been lusting after. Not
that I needed it or can even use it to its potential. Honestly, it’s
way too much camera for me. I’m the old lady on the road driving
a Ferrari in third gear. However, my protests fall in deaf
ears. Because, even though he shouldn’t have, I’m glad he
did! And me? I went and bought myself the Depeche Mode
CD I meant to buy last November. But didn’t. And
then forgot to ask for, for Christmas. Is that bad? Do you
think I care?

So, how old am I? 42. (lies) Seriously! (lies) Just like last year. And the year after. I’ll be 42 when I die, too. I’m happiest lying to you.

(more…)

Cleared for Take-off

Feb 7, 2006 | This Life

My little stormtrooper of a Doctor comes flying into the room and says, “I hear this misery has hit you at the worst possible moment in your life. Tell me about it.” I start to list all my glorious symptoms, only to hear her say, “No… tell about where you are going!” When I start to cry and get all weepy about missing our trip, “The nine year old is devastated…” she stops me cold. “Oh, you
are so going! You are going to be great in no time flat. TRUST ME.”

You should meet my doctor. She’s this tiny little ball of wonder who refuses to let her patients be sicker any longer than necessary. She deals the GOOD stuff and believes in being proactive. Turns out, this creepy little virus triggered an asthma attack. Not only have I been hacking, I’ve been without the appropriate rest and oxygen to get better. Then there is the looking a tinge green
business. It’s nice to know that I don’t have to produce a bit of my lung to get an inhaler,
because I’m rather attached to my lungs. I like my lungs. (Hey Pam, I like my Lips… heh)
Four scripts later, I’m sitting here finally able to breathe. Sure, I feel completely disconnected. You would too, if you had my cocktail of meds coursing through your veins. And speaking of meds.

If you aren’t a meth head in Oregon, you can skip the following rant.

NOTE TO THE METH HEADS OF OREGON: Would it have killed you to pick a less USEFUL drug to abuse? Huh? I do understand and appreciate that one has an urge from time to time to be self-destructive. I, too, on occasion have found myself with a box of powdered donuts and a Beverly Hills 90210 marathon. However, my stupidity is harmless. I hurt no one when I shout at the T.V. “Braawndon Walshhh, you’re soth nowt strwaightn.” Heck, who can understand me with all that donut in my mouth?

But your stupidity not only harms you and the people around you, it has precipitated in a change of legislation. Not only are you meddling in the highest levels of society but you are messing with my head. No longer can a normal human being with a head cold get Sudaphed over the counter. Instead, we must be content with a lesser form of medication–and by lesser I mean, useless. And by content I mean spending the night dancing the one nostril cha-cha. First you sleep on your left until that side clogs–then flip, you turn over on your right side waiting for the pressure to close your last open passage. Gasp for air, gasp for air. Repeat. This is not sleep. This is torture.

So, while I’m willing to live and let die, as your case may be–I’m not so inclined to DIE myself for your choice in stupidity. On behalf of all of Oregon suffering with this terrible virus, I would just like to say. . . thank you. Yes, that’s sarcasm.

As for me, it’s time to remedicate. This whole ordeal is going to give new meaning to the term, flying high.
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