Archive for July, 2004
We just loooooove Vacation Bible School, around here. Love it! It involves staying up late for a week straight (as our church elects to hold it in the evening so that even those who work can participate), good snacks, and someone dressed up as a big cartoon character. This year’s curriculum involves a gigantic dog. Really, what’s not to like?
Back before my surgery, I signed up to work during VBS. Then I sort of neglected to inform all the Powers That Be that I wasn’t feeling so hot. So tonight I showed up to discover that yes, I was still fully expected to do several hours of kitchen duty every night. Ohboy. It wasn’t so bad. We made popcorn tonight so mostly I just stuffed popcorn into little bags. And it was so hot in the kitchen (with several pots of popcorn going at a time) that when I saw someone pouring a cold drink from the fridge I asked for one, too, without asking what it was.
It was Pepsi. Full strength, all-the-sugar-and-caffeine Pepsi. Guess whose migraine is gone (for the moment)? *cue the cherubim singing the Hallelujah Chorus*
Now the kids, they get to have some real fun. First everyone gathers in the sanctuary for singing and such, then the different age groups split out to the various “stations” for different activities. Monkey happily slid in with the 3-and-4-year-old group and made friends with the closest child and was happy as a clam. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the back having an important discussion with the other kitchen staffers about whether or not we have enough cups, and Chickadee was running back and forth between her class and me, wanting “hugs” and “another hug” and “maybe I could just hang here with you” and “my sensors have detected that your attention has shifted away from me for a minute and that must be rectified.” Yeah. So I slipped away down to the kitchen as soon as possible.
I only got to see the kids when they came to the station near the kitchen, of course, but I was able to witness a few choice tidbits:
–Monkey sitting backwards during the puppet show for a full two minutes or so, and not understanding what everyone else was laughing about (um, son? didja hit your head?)
–Monkey finding an unravelling thread on his carpet square and commencing trying to pull the entire thing apart
–Chickadee reading the bible verse on the placard VERY LOUDLY ahead of the teacher leading the group (see, I really can’t win… he does dumb things and she does smart things and either way I’m left wishing I was elsewhere)
–Chickadee picking Monkey up against his will and carrying him into the kitchen to see me (where they both got sent back out; surprise!)
Later I was informed–by a pair of teachers who could not control their laughter during the retelling–that Monkey latched himself onto one of their legs during a game, and had to be removed bodily after some failed negotiation. I was mortified. No, no, they assured me… it was funny, it’s okay. He was enjoying himself. Um, okay. More money in the therapy fund.
We got through the evening, and returned home well after bedtime. For me, it’s all worth it because they’re exhausted and actually go right to sleep. But I’m guessing I won’t be so patient if Chickadee is still clinging to me at the end of the week… nor will the teachers likely find it quite as amusing if Monkey is velcroing himself to them every night. We shall see what the week brings.
Posted by Mir @
10:03 pm |
On days like today, when I am sitting here in migraine-land waiting for my doctor’s office to call me back, when I am wondering exactly how many hours of television my children can watch before CPS comes to take them away, I like to remember that I have a fan club.
It’s true! Stop laughing! I have a fan club. My dad is the president, of course. (Hi, Dad!) But much of his adoration is disregarded because of that pesky genetic connection. He can’t help it, you know. (Plus, if you’d known me through my tween and teen years, you’d be pretty impressed with how I turned out, too.)
Anyway. For reasons I cannot explain, I have discovered the natural leader of the Mir Pep Squad. I don’t know why she is so taken with me. All I know is that every time she sends me an email–as she nearly always does after I see her at church or some other function–I can actually picture her waving pom-poms in the air. The woman in question has plenty of kids and grandkids of her own. Her attachment to me is puzzling. But her zeal is unmatched.
Here’s the email I had waiting for me this morning:
Hi lady,
So good to see you but sure wish you were feeling a whole lot better. Nothing is easy, is it? Just seems like when your down your down! However, I know you and you’re not going to stay down long. That is not the Miriam I know. I know going thru the ‘change” normally can be difficult but artificially can be a bit more difficult. Just keep that positive thinking going and the right combination is going to be found. Also, I am delighted to hear that you are doing something with your writing. I think that there is a hidden future there for you but, and I do understand this, the real world is first. However, you are extremely talented and smart and you are going to land on those two feet and be one super great lady, not that you aren’t already but one who has the world by the tail. Go for it, my friend. I care very much how you feel so if I can do anything for you please just ask! Love to you, xxxxx
It didn’t fix my migraine or anything. But it did make me smile. I hope every one of you has someone who shakes their pom-poms for you.
Posted by Mir @
8:58 am |
Hey, it’s Saturday night. Those of you with lives are… not in front of the computer. Perhaps you are out on the town, or socializing, or just enjoying a quiet evening with those you love. But not me! No sir! Ever the rebel, I have seized the evening to catch up on laundry. Before going to bed early. Cuz I’m such a wild one. Look out.
Moving on….
Here are the things upon which I have mused, tonight:
1) No matter how long I leave the clean laundry in the basket–even if I’ve moved said basket upstairs to the convenient location of trip-me-on-my-way-to-bed-every-night–the clothes do not put themselves away. Ever. They will still be there when it’s time to do laundry again. Well, most of it is still there. Not the stuff I already pulled out. Because…
2) It is possible for me to wear all of the comfortable and non-ancient underwear in my drawer and out of the clean laundry basket before either child runs out of clothes. That can’t be right. I’m bigger than they are. I should get more stuff. Note to self: stop buying things for those spoiled kids.
3) I have a pair of panties that feature cartoon pictures of… panties. They make me happy. I may have giggled while I put them in the dyer.
4) Bras do not like to be alone. When the washer stops, I open the lid and begin my routine. Grab a handful of clothes… shake them apart and put in dryer. Grab another handful… shake apart… hang shirt that can’t go in dryer… put the rest in the dryer. Grab a third handful… which is actually a huge mutant knot of bras that spent most of the spin cycle having an orgy… and one of Monkey’s socks. Put sock in the dyer, spend 20 minutes disentangling the bras and hanging them up.
5) How many times do you suppose I will have to find coins, rocks, acorn caps, and assorted unidentifiable tidbits at the bottom of the washer before I will remember the check Monkey’s pockets? Whatever number you said, you’re wrong. Add at least a dozen. I’m slow.
6) The bras flaunt their mating, but the pajamas are just sneaky. They multiply in the dryer. How many kids live in my house, anyway?
7) If I stick my head in the dryer and ask politely, can I trade in some of the extra pajamas and get back some of the missing socks? Please?
8) Oh, look! There’s all the stuff I hung up to dry, the last time I did laundry. I wondered where it was. I should take it upstairs. Well, maybe later. Or maybe I’ll just forget. (”A boat? Hey, I saw a boat! It went that way!”)
9) The ex has his own stash of socks, undies, and pajamas for the kids. Naturally, sometimes I end up with things from his house, and he with items from mine. We do our best to launder and return. So far we’ve been pretty good about buying things that are different enough to easily identify as belonging here or there. But there’s this one pair of Buzz Lightyear underwear. I didn’t buy them; he did. I keep sending them back to his house. He keeps sending them back to mine. They’ve travelled back and forth–unworn–at least five times, now. Somehow Monkey got his hands on them and wore them this week. That’s fine. But I seriously considered throwing them away rather than putting them in the dryer. They’re not mine, and the ex is too dumb to recognize them as his. Those tiny Buzz undies are irking me. (But I didn’t throw them out, because that would be wasteful and cause me to howl at the moon in anguish.)
10) Sheets and towels left in the dryer? Also don’t put themselves away. But they do make me say colorful things when I toss the first handful of wet clothes in on top of them.
Posted by Mir @
9:24 pm |
Last night I took lots and lots of (prescribed) drugs and slept for about twelve hours and today I am… better. Not completely, but mostly. Hurray!
Although this is the ex’s weekend, our little social butterfly has two birthday parties to attend, today. I handle birthday party detail (no matter whose weekend it is). It makes sense, I guess. I’m the one who shops for and wraps the gifts, I’m the one who knows the kids and moms in question, and I’m the one who can get through these things without making an ass of myself.
Usually.
So, today–still feeling a wee bit headachey and more than a bit hung-over-ish from the meds–I got the birthday stuff in order, shuffled Chickadee inside when the ex dropped her off, got her dressed in her party finery, did her hair, and set out to Party #1.
Everything went fine until I bid her good-bye (along with my standard admonishment to use her very best manners) and she sped off with the pack of other 6-year-olds. I then turned to the mother and offered her my cell number, in case of emergency, and we chatted a bit as she wrote it down. No problem. With joy in my heart, I turned to leave and said, “Thank you so much, Esmerelda!”*
I was halfway out the door when I realized. Her name. isn’t. Esmerelda.
“NO!” I whirled around in a panic. “That’s not right!” I exclaimed, still wracking my brain. “JEN! Your name is Jen!”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said with a wry little chuckle.
“Oh my God!” I continued, both feet stuffed in my mouth, now, “What is wrong with me? I know your name is Jen! I know that! I’m so sorry! Esmerelda is someone else’s mom!”
It was at this point that I saw the first glint of fear in her eyes. But you see, I couldn’t stop talking. I had already crossed the line from flustered to full-out babbling.
“You know, I had a hysterectomy a few weeks ago, did I tell you that? I did! Just about three weeks ago. And my hormones, oh you wouldn’t believe it, it’s crazy, my hormones are all screwed up and it’s affecting my mind, I forget things, I call people by the wrong name! Obviously! HAHA! I can’t stop talking! Help me! I am discussing my ovaries with you and we barely know each other! Please, I need help!”
“If you leave right now, I will pretend your daughter was adopted and therefore free of whatever mental illness you are clearly suffering from.”
“It’s a deal.”
And away I went, whispering this solemn prayer to myself as I drove away: “Dear Lord, please give me the strength to be silent when I return to pick her up.”
* No, I didn’t call her Esmerelda, nor is her name Jen. You never know what some freak is going to Google. But the real names in question? About as disparate as Esmerelda and Jen. Truly a noteworthy social gaffe on my part.
Posted by Mir @
12:47 pm |
I have been having a very goodie-ful week, for which I am very grateful. At this moment I feel exceedingly warm and fuzzy… though that could be a hot flash or maybe the drugs. No matter!
First I demonstrated my prowess at blogger foot identification, earning me the label of part-time foot fetishist, and… a book!
Next I wrote about food as love, earning me the Blogging for Books crown and… a book!
Then I hit the doctor’s office, whimpered about my week-long migraine, and earned a plain brown paper bag containing… a book! Wait, no. That’s not true, but it would’ve been nice for the general flow. No, I got a plain brown paper bag full of assorted hormone patches and happy pills, all served up with a huge side of sympathy. I take back anything less-than-complimentary I may have ever said about my doctor. She took her time with me today, comforted me, and got my primary care doctor on the phone and demanded an action plan for solving the headache issue. (My GP? Wanted me to go to the Emergency Room for a shot of demerol. Um, no thank you. But I guess I get to do that tomorrow if the happy pills don’t work.)
In short: I know feet, I loves me some guacamole, and I’m not crazy. And I got some awesome freebies! What more could I ask of a Friday?
Posted by Mir @
5:43 pm |
Wow, I got lots of questions this week! Ordinarily I work on the post throughout the day and then publish sometime late afternoon… but out of sheer fear that if I wait there will be a couple dozen more questions, I’m putting it up early, today.
Genuine asks, what would be my ultimate job?
I’ve always wanted to be a particle physicist, on account of my deep love for math and small, sterile laboratories. (Fiction.)
I’ve love to actually earn a living writing. Any publishers or wealthy, handsome men out there reading this? “Will write for cash!” I know this comes as a huge shock, because there are so few bloggers who are wannabe-writers… (Fact, well except for the bloggers wanting to be writers bit.)
My true love Kira asks…
… what was the worst thing that happened to me this week?
This. stupid. migraine. I’d love to come up with a creative lie but I am far too busy screaming at my little packages of Axert, “WHY?? Why have you forsaken me so and stopped working on the evil headache that has taken over my brain????”
… what was the best thing that happened to me this week?
Monkey waking up dry that one day. It gave me hope that he may be nighttime potty trained before college. (Fiction; well, it did give me hope, but it’s not the best thing that happened to me this week.) Actually, the best thing that’s happened to me this week, my dear Kira, is getting you onto IM. I haven’t laughed so hard in a verrrrrry long time. (Fact, and not just because you asked the question.)
… what’s my first memory?
There’s a very prominent memory of mine, and I don’t know how old I was… but young enough to be in a highchair, which is where I was… and my mother was screaming something about “no more wire hangers”…. (Fiction, and if my mother reads this I am so dead.) Okay, seriously: I don’t know if it’s my very earliest memory, but it’s certainly one of them. My mom put me down for a nap (and I was in a regular bed from quite a young age, due to my habit of climbing out of the crib) and when she came back to check on me, I was gone. Panic and various scrambling ensued–including a hysterical phone call to my father, and him rushing home–but I, of course, knew none of this until later. What I remember was thinking that it was too bright in my room, and that it was nice and cozy and dark in my closet. I can easily conjure the memory of the closet door opening and waking me up. I was quite pleased with myself, and didn’t understand why my mother was so upset. (Fact, and this story is the second-most-told in the Chronicles Of What A Difficult Child Miriam Was. The first-most-told is about the day I decided to wash my hair with Desitin.)
Jennifer asks…
… what color are my bath towels?
Black. All black. (Fiction.) Ummmm… the ones in my bathroom are all either slate blue or lavender. The ones in the kids’ bathroom tend to be Buzz Lightyear and Disney Princess colored. And last but not least, the guest towels tend to be whatever-I-received-as-random-wedding-gifts colored. Hmmm. Might be time to invest in some new towels. (Fact, and now I would like to know how this knowledge will enrich your life.)
… how many televisions will be delivered before I demand a refund?
I just invented the entire television saga because I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. (Fiction, but oh how I wish it was fact.) Honestly, if I still had the original TV, I would’ve given up on this after the second delivery. But I don’t, because I am a moron, so at this point I pretty much have to just hang on until I get a working TV. At which point I plan to make a big stink until they give me a discount or a gift card or something, because this has been ridiculous. (Fact.)
Chewie is just chock-full of questions despite having given surprise birth less than two weeks ago and now being a mom to 4 under 6. Knock it off; you’re making us lesser moms look bad! Ahem. Anyway…
… would I say I have good days/bad days or good hours/bad hours?
What makes you think I have anything but bad; have you seen the way I whine around here? (Fiction. It is. Shut UP.) Hmm. I think I tend towards good/bad days. I’m a champion grudge-holder, and that extends into taking a bit of time to break out of a funk. That’s not to say that I couldn’t have something good happen in what is otherwise a lousy day, but I do tend to categorize the entire day based on my overriding mood. (Fact.)
… how many days until school starts?
Too many. Way. too. many. (Fiction.) Would you believe, I don’t actually know? This is the first year Chickadee will be in public school, and her packet of info had everything we’d need to know except the date that school starts! Our town publishes the school calendar and bus schedules in the local paper sometime in August. So I’ll know then. Until then? “Sometime around Labor Day” is my best guess. (Fact.)
… tell me more about that woman who had a baby and didn’t even KNOW she was preggers!
Well, Chewie, I love nothing more than to talk about this friend of mine and the miracle of her mystery illness turning out to be a perfectly adorable baby boy. But I also think that if the lady in question has time to be hanging out on my blog, this indicates two things. 1) She truly is Superwoman, and 2) She needs her own blog, to tell her own story. Also, you’re a nut and I love you!! (Fact, baby!)
Hula Doula is also full of questions! Like…
… have I always been a natural beauty?
Er, sure thing. People often mistake me for Cindy Crawford. (Fiction, and, um, bwahahahahaaaaaaaa!) Well, let’s see. I’m a little confused here. If by “natural” you mean “eschewing make-up and most other time-consuming and expensive beauty efforts because I am a lazyass,” then yes, I have. If you mean “natural beauty” as in, I am actually beautiful, then I would like some of what you’re smoking, please. Heh. I have always been thin–through no fault of my own, might I add, as I have a very deep relationship with all manner of junk food–so my theory has always been, at least I’m thin! As in: I hate my hair… oh well, at least I’m thin! I cannot believe I still have acne in my 30s… oh well, at least I’m thin! Etc. Someday my metabolism will slow down and I’ll blow up like a blimp and have a nervous breakdown. (Fact.)
… why do I make her laugh so hard with my brilliant writing?
Mostly, because I live to serve and entertain my fellow humans. (Fiction.) Mostly, because you are very easily amused. Which I really appreciate, by the way. (Fact!)
… am I sugared up good now?
Alas, the migraine makes me nauseous, so other than sipping at my trusty ice water, there’s not a lot of chocolate gluttony happening here (yet another reason to be sad…). (Fact.)
… do I need a hug?
Always! And unlike Monkey, I bet you won’t try to cop a feel after you hug me, either. (Fact, I hope.)
Kym asks…
… why haven’t I told my damn doctor to change me to 1mg Vivelle Dot like my smart friend Kym keeps telling me to do?
Because I am really enjoying this feeling of pain-mixed-with-imminent-insanity, of course. (Fiction.) I dunno, Kym. Sometimes I think I’m just not very bright. I have a very hard time asking doctors for help, even when I know I need it. For something as intangible as balancing out my hormones, I fear that I will just be told to “wait a little bit longer” and I keep thinking I shouldn’t make a nuisance of myself until it’s critical (I don’t want to be the boy who cried wolf, er, the woman who cried not enough estrogen). But rest easy; I have an appointment to see the doc this afternoon, and I plan to lay it all on the line. Let’s hope she has some answers. (Fact. Wish me luck.)
… do I get a little halo light effect with my migraines?
Silly. I have a halo all the time! (*snort*) Um, I’ve always called it an aura, but I think we’re talking about the same thing, yes. When it’s really bad, everything I look at appears to be covered in fluorescent cilia. Delightful. (Fact, though not actually delightful in the conventional sense.)
… if I were a fruit, what fruit would I be?
Heehee. I think I’d like to be grapes (a single grape?). They’re versatile. You’ve got grapes, which are yummy, anyway. Then, you can also have raisins. And more importantly, you can have wine. If only I were so multi-purpose! (Fact, because it’s striking me as more amusing than any fiction I could come up with.)
Janet is getting all serious on me, wanting to know whether I would choose to eat all the foods I like but have to become a Satanist or be stuck with foods I hate but get to remain a Christian.
Janet, hon? Did I mention that I’ve had a migraine for about 6 days, now? Are you trying to kill me? Okay. Hmmm. I think I’ve gotta go with sucky food, because as much as I like to transfer all my needs for acceptance and affection onto my snacks, I don’t think I could completely reorganize my brain to jive with Satanism. Plus, many amazing things have happend in my life that I believe wouldn’t have been possible without God. I’m guessing that after a while Jesus would reward my choice and send me some Oreos. (Fact, mostly kinda.)
Tani asks, if my ex asked me to get back together, would I laugh in his face or run away screaming?
What do you mean? If he asked I’d be ecstatic! (Fiction! That was actually hard to type.) Neither. I’m pretty sure I would either vomit or pass out, or maybe both. (Fact.)
Lisa wants to know if I’d like to help her blow up the cable company.
Lisa, that sort of violence only increases the violent dischord of the world we live in. I’m shocked and disappointed that you would even suggest such a thing. (Fiction.) Let’s be civilized (read: sneaky) about this. I’m thinking more along the lines of a little bit of voodoo resulting in all of them having migraines for a week. That would bring them to their knees, and then they’d be ripe for our demands. (Fact. Do you know anyone who knows voodoo?)
Debby asks–in an effort to be less of a wiseass–which famous actress would I like to be, and why?
Uh… Deb? You are now officially both a wiseass and senile, because not only did I answer this already, you were the one who asked!! (If you’re too lazy to go back to the original post, my answer was Glenn Close.)
Julia asks about casting for the movie of my life, but I will have to plead the 5th on that one, rather than risk offending anybody. She also asks, what room would I have redone on Trading Spaces and what would I like to see?
Ohhhhh that’s a hard one. You know, I just loved that “Prisoners of Love” bedroom that Doug did…. (FICTION! Crap; there goes my dad, again.) I’d be hard-pressed to decide between my kitchen and my family room. My kitchen is decorated in cheap, chintzy, early-70s-meets-country and could use a serious overhaul. I would love to have stainless steel appliances, corian counters, no more baskets-of-fruit wallpaper, and all of that sort of stuff. On the other hand, with just me and the kids, I’m not exactly spending a ton of time dishing up gourmet meals. The family room sports some very poorly-designed built-ins that could probably be re-engineered to actually hide most of the small ones’ mess and give the illusion of a nice room. Plus this whole area is beige. Yawn! (Fact, but who would I swap with? I need to start meeting more of the neighbors.)
Sheryl and Aurora are debating my living space: small New England Victorian, or large apartment with wood floors?
Don’t look now, but I’m typing on my laptop from down in your basement right now! (SQUEEE SQUEEE SQUEEE!) (Fiction, though that’d make an interesting if totally formulaic geek thriller movie.) Sorry, you’re both incorrect. I live in a largish, unimaginative, boxy colonial… as does everyone else in my neighborhood. No, they don’t all live in my house, we just all have basically the same house. (Though it is in New England, so Sheryl gets some points, there; and it does have wood floors, so points to Aurora!) I once discussed how this house is really too large for us, now, but the market here is such that it would cost too much to move somewhere smaller. And as I have lived in this house longer than any place else in my life save for my childhood home, I am rather attached to it. I hope y’all can still love me even though I am so rude as to not live in the digs you’d imagined. (Fact.)
Aurora also asks if I am happy.
Let’s just say that I’m happier. Happy is definitely in my sights, and sometimes (though fleetingly) in my grasp. I’m the sort of person who might not recognize happy if it walked up and smacked me in the face, so this is more progress for me than someone of a more zen-like persuasion might realize. (Fact.)
Liz has bugs on the brain. Poor Liz. She asks if I have ever eaten chocolate covered crickets, have I eaten any type of chocolate bug ever, and if I did, would I do it again?
Yes, yes, and absolutely. They’re better than Nestle Crunch bars, I tell you. (Fiction… gaggy, gaggy fiction.) The real answers are: No, NO, and PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS BEFORE I PUKE! Ahem. Thank you for playing. (Fact.)
That concludes this week’s installment of “Friday Facts and Fiction.” Today’s rendition was brought to you by the letter Q and the number 13. No animals were harmed in the making of this blog.
Posted by Mir @
11:30 am |
… whether or not this migraine is now a permament part of my life.
… whether my doctor was surprised when she called me back and I burst into tears when she asked me to tell her how I was feeling.
… whether I will repeat my embarrassing tearfulness at my appointment with her tomorrow or merely rip her head from her neck, screeching “You did this to meeeeeeeeee!”
… whether I will have the presence of mind to haiku, later, after the kidlets are in bed.
… whether I should not write semi-serious stuff in my blog, as I actually heard the crickets chirping here after discussing my PTDD (post-traumatic divorce disorder!).
… when did BlogSpot make all these changes to the editor, whereby now inserting HTML tags into the text results in weirdness and sometimes hilarity, but rarely the result desired??
… whether it’s possible that the two “damaged” TVs actually have that line because of something about the cable feed, itself. But the old TV didn’t have a line, so I’m thinking no. But that would so be typical of my life, so I’m thinking maybe. (Obviously, this is going to keep me up tonight.)
… how many questions will you all leave me for tomorrow’s Facts and Fiction Friday? Watch me bat my eyelashes and point out that my head may explode at any moment so you’d best ask while the asking’s good! You know what to do; leave your questions in the comments and if I’m still in one piece tomorrow, there will be the baring of my soul and the creation of outrageous lies and maybe some funny stuff in-between.
Posted by Mir @
7:02 pm |
Well, that was over in a blink. Welcome back to the realities of my life. It may not be glamorous, here, but at least it’s familiar! (I may have postcards made up with that printed on them. The pictures will be things like the crumbs under my kitchen table and the bathroom sink clogged with Polly Pocket detritus.)
Offered for your consideration:
1) Monkey awoke this morning with a pull-up weighing approximately five pounds, sagging down to his knees with the weight of a gallon of urine.
2) The ex emailed me as soon as he got to the office to share a too-long missive about how much traffic sucks, and as a result he got to work late today and surely I won’t mind if he’s an hour late to pick up the kids, right? Of course I don’t mind. Just because I’ve now had the kids here, without help, for ten consecutive days and I am still popping Advil like tic-tacs doesn’t mean I don’t want an extra hour with them! (I’m not crying; there’s something in my eye!) Being the calm, mature adult that I am–on the third day of rain and fifth day of headache–I replied with, “No problem. I’ll do my best not to kill them before you arrive.”
3) Today being Day 5 of The Migraine From Hell, I put in a call to my doctor. She’ll call me back. Maybe. If the phase of the moon is favorable. And if by some miracle she actually does call, I will spend the entire conversation trying not to giggle, since (thanks to Debby) I will now forever picture her with a Mylan patch stuck to her forehead.
4) Remember how the whole precipitating event for the Great Television Adventure was my old TV channelling Charlie Brown’s teacher? What could be crueler than receiving not one, but two defective televisions in a row? Why, discovering that the “wah wah wah” issue is in fact related to the cable itself. No, that hadn’t occurred to me before. Yes, I am an idiot. Yes, my old TV has gone… somewhere… with the delivery guys, and didn’t even need to be replaced.
Yep. Everything’s back to normal.
Posted by Mir @
10:21 am |
I was rather enjoying a long, dragging, tedious day of being trapped inside by the rain with two small cranky beings. Okay, maybe “enjoy” is the wrong word. But I was managing.
Then the phone rang this afternoon, and the caller ID informed me that it was the ex. In the middle of the day. On a day when he doesn’t see the kids. Uh oh.
I answered with great trepidation. Something wrong? Bone to pick? Laid off unexpectedly? (I’m almost afraid to say that last one out loud, so completely screwed would all of our lives be if that were to happen at this point.)
“I’ve been filled in!” he announced with glee. “Want to hear all the gossip?”
Beat.
‘Nother beat.
OH. No crisis. Phew. Okay, yes, fill me in, but damn you for nearly giving me a heart attack.
I have mentioned before that we made our move to this town during the technology boom, while the ex was a founder at a start-up which paid him piles of money but then subsequently sucked out his mind and soul and after a while, fired him. I could tell you the entire story, but as the overused saying goes, then I’d have to kill you. Suffice it to say that it was a very messy business, both on the career and personal sides, and was–not coincidentally–no small part of what eventuated in our split. Bad Stuff, in short.
Last week the ex mentioned that he’d heard “rumblings” of further problems at The Evil Empire. Today he got the whole scoop and couldn’t wait to dish on the misfortunes of those who’d tossed him out like yesterday’s garbage. “You were the only other person I could think of who would really appreciate this news,” he said. And we discussed it for a bit, pros (what comes around goes around) and cons (we still own quite a bit of stock, and no matter how much fun it would be to watch them fold, we stand to benefit if they don’t), like… friends.
That can ruin a perfectly okay day.
I don’t want to be friends with my ex. Neither do I want to hate him (I worked my butt off to get past that one; my therapist may have a beach house somewhere, now), but this sort of friendly discussion about mutual interests? No. No! I don’t want it. Go away and please return to being an insane yet predictable idiot over there so that I can continue to believe that I had no other choice but to kick you out. Don’t go actually giving me glimpses of the basically good human you used to be, because that makes me feel bad. Shades of grey, in this particular realm, are not appreciated. Let’s go back to the restraining order. Let’s go back to where you see a car in my driveway at night and call me up hollering about what a slut I am. Those things are easy. Those things I know how to process.
This? This is complicated, and wholly unwelcome. And how much of an asshat does that make me, when I know plenty of people who would–in all likelihood–cheerfully give their right arm to have a civil conversation with the father of their child(ren)??
This kind of anger drops into my lap out of nowhere and mocks me with its unashamed lack of logic. Maybe it’s too soon; I don’t know. But a small, tired part of me thinks that it will always continue to taunt me, at the most unexpected times. I always joke about how “there’s just no pleasing me.” It isn’t nearly so funny when it turns out to be true.
Posted by Mir @
4:49 pm |
This morning I was scheduled for replacement delivery of my new television. I received my automated call yesterday, informing me that delivery would occur between 8:30 and 10:30.
So I was laying in bed this morning at around 8:15, willing myself to get my lazy butt up, but reasoning that I had another 14 minutes before I absolutely had to be up. And then the doorbell rang. Ooooops.
It was, of course, my friends The Nice Delivery Guys, who were either unsurprised to find me in my pajamas and a 15-year-old college sweatshirt or prudently pretending oblivion in the hopes that I would tip them again. It’s raining outside (again), and they tracked mud all over my kitchen floor, but I did not care! Because they had my replacement television! We had a nice chat while they unhooked the old (new) TV and then brought in the new (new) TV. They finished in record time, and we turned it on.
And saw… a fuzzy line down the left-hand side. Exactly like the other one. Helllooooooooo? Alan Funt? Are you out there? This is a set-up, right?
My new buddies The Nice Delivery Guys and I stood around and pondered our course of action. I filled them in on the saga of getting this replacement and told them I wasn’t sure I was up to the task of going through that again. Then Nice Delivery Guy Number 1 made a call on his cell phone and told me “it’s all taken care of, call this number in 10 minutes.” Well. That was… mysterious. Ooookey.
I bid them farewell, feigning cheerfulness at the prospect of seeing them again soon, and promising to be dressed, next time. (”That’s okay,” Nice Delivery Guy Number 2 answered with a grin, “you’re wearing a lot more than the lady at our last delivery!” Ummm… ewwww?) I closed the door behind them, grabbed a spare towel, and started working on the muddy footprints left behind. Damn rain. All this mess on my floors, and what do I have to show for it? Another defective TV! Wow!
Naturally I was working myself into a pretty good funk when Monkey came careening around the corner shouting “OUTTA MY WAY I GOTS TO GO POTTY REAL BAD!!!” I got “outta his way” right quick, but I was puzzled. As I have mentioned here on numerous occasions, my dear sweet Monkey sleeps the sleep of the dead. As such, he continues to wear a pull-up at night and soak it regularly. In the continuing yet hopeless attempt to get him nighttime potty-trained, I usually get him up and take him to the bathroom before I turn in for the night, with varying degrees of success. Since my surgery I have abandoned this delightful ritual, as lifting fortyish pounds of snoring potatoes and then being peed upon is kind of a post-op no-no. And quite honestly, even with this late-night trip, he’s only been dry in the morning a limited number of times.
Now he was flying into the bathroom, and peeing… well… a lot. When he’d only been up for about fifteen minutes. Peculiar. I checked his pull-up. Dry as a bone. Dry as the Sahara! Dry from 8:00 last night until 8:45 this morning!
And there was much rejoicing, and dancing, and perhaps even a little bit of singing, because it is possible that we have a special song invented for just such an occasion as this. It is also possible that my darling boy enjoys shaking his booty, and other… uhhh… bits, naked, to such a song; and that an onlooker might conclude we celebrate a dry night by making him practice for a Chippendales audition. It is also likely that this accomplishment–revelry aside–was 1) a fluke, 2) an indication that Monkey is dangerously dehydrated, or 3) both. But we take joy where we can get it, here! And we got us some!
Following the celebration, I called the mysterious number Nice Delivery Guy Number 1 had given me. It was a direct line to the department manager at my local Excellent Purchase. He promised to take a television out of the box and test it at the store before letting the guys deliver it, and he promised it on Friday. Not too bad, I suppose. Besides, third time’s the charm… right?
By the way… dry pull-ups? Are great for cleaning up muddy footprints.
Posted by Mir @
9:27 am |
