I was feeling a little jealous of all the folks who got to attend BlogHer this weekend, but really, my life is way more exciting than all of that. Who needs a conference full of funny, cool women when they could just BE ME instead?? I am my own entertainment, baby. All excitement, all the time.
Wooooooooooooooo!
I’m on fire, I tell you. Stand back.
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Every now and then, grace sneaks up on me when I’m not looking.
I don’t mean when I’m plucking my eyebrows or squeezing a zit or anything; even grace isn’t that miraculous. But when I most need it, and least expect it, I am occasionally–quite unexpectedly–blessed.
Two days ago I stumbled upon the ability to let go, and the most amazing part is that I was spitting mad when it happened. I mean I was mid-birthing-live-kittens angry.
But then, I suppose that’s why we so often refer to grace as amazing.
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I’d like to be able to do all of my own home repairs. I’d also like to be able to fly and inflict severe bodily harm with only my laser-beam glare. Sometimes I don’t get what I want.
Nonetheless, I think I’ve learned a fair amount about how to remedy the basic annoyances that face most homeowners. Nothing stunning, of course. I can spackle, sand, paint and wallpaper. I can do very basic carpentry repair. I’ve put in a new floor. Whatever needs doing, that it seems like I might be able to teach myself, really. But I do not mess with plumbing, short of changing a washer. I know my limits.
So when the wet spot appeared on the dining room ceiling, I experienced a sinking feeling. The shower in my master bathroom has always slopped water onto the floor unless the curtain was arranged just so. Perhaps I’d slacked on my curtain vigilance. I was more careful, the next day, and the floor was dry when I emerged from the shower.
But the spot on the downstairs ceiling had grown.
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The entire world is reading Harry Potter, and I am stuck with THIS rattling around my brain:
There was a huge and impressive thunderstorm tonight, which began as I loitered by my side door, waiting for a friend to come pick me up. I was being dragged to a BBQ. As I watched the rain pummel the earth and blinked against the lightning, I noticed that my recently-cleaned gutters were simply not up for the deluge. Were the gutters blocked, or just overwhelmed? I was mesmerized, trying to puzzle it out. It doesn’t matter, of course; either way, the end result is the same. They couldn’t handle it. The reason is immaterial.
But I’m a fan of reason(s), and lack of it leaves me feeling lost.
The reason to go to the aforementioned gathering was clear: my friend demanded that I attend. I think she was certain this would Be Good For Me. Me, I don’t argue anymore. She said she’d come get me, and I said okay. And I stood there transfixed by my new personal waterfall until it was time to go.
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I need a vacation. And some sleep. But I. NEED. a vacation.
It just so happens I have a plane ticket! Yes! Isn’t that fortuitous?
Except that it isn’t, exactly, because this ticket I have is the Wrong Ticket. Not a Golden Ticket (we saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory today) or a ticket that will take me to somewhere exciting or even just to people who are willing to tolerate me. Nope. And of course, it’s a non-refundable ticket, because refundable ones cost eleventy trillion dollars, and this one only cost one of Monkey’s kidneys.
But! Non-refundable means I can pay a change fee (perhaps only equivalent to the sale of some plasma) and apply it towards a different ticket. A vacation ticket.
Did I mention, I need a vacation?
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My dad and stepmom are in town for a brief visit. I know they’re thrilled to be here, because I am a complete pleasure to be around these days. Fortunately, my children are pretty cute… and as any parent knows, once you have spawned, you pretty much cease to exist in the eyes of your own parents, anyway.
Example 1:
“You’re too thin.”
“Yeah, ummm… LOOK! A naked white-tushied Monkey boy!”
Example 2:
“How are you doing, really?”
“I’m… HEY, have you seen Chickadee riding her new bike, yet? CHICKIE!”
(Etc.)
And on account of the fact that I fed them “Summer Fare” for dinner last night (translation: hotdogs and sausages on the grill, and a big lazy platter of raw vegetables), they offered to take us out to eat tonight. It was a lovely and generous offer, borne of complete amnesia about what it’s like to eat in a restaurant with small children.
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Have you ever had a fight with someone, and you’re REALLY REALLY mad at them, but you also miss them, a little, maybe, but it’s UP TO THEM to make the first conciliatory move because dammit they were WRONG and no matter how many years or how much chocolate you’ve shared, a line was crossed and they had better start APOLOGIZING or you will just have to continue pretending that it’s not ripping your heart to shreds to not be able to talk to them?
Me neither.
Um, except for this current situation I’m experiencing. Which honestly, is no big deal at all. I mean, hey, I have plenty of people around and one little tiff isn’t going to change my life one way or another. Much.
Did I mention the object of my consternation is God? And let me tell you, that bastard is lousy at admitting when he’s been a jerk.
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The cupboard was bare. Somehow, we ran out of food… um… a while ago. Not completely, of course. But my usually well-stocked kitchen was down to the bare bones and I just hadn’t gotten it together to get to the store. One by one, we ran out of staples. No milk. No bread. No american cheese slices. No yogurt.
No (*gasp!*) pop-tarts.
The situation was becoming dire.
And I tried–lo, how I tried–to just convince the children to join me in my misery and adopt the all water-and-tums diet which I have been so enjoying. “Look!” I would exhort them. “This is a delicious ice cube, which was made by modern magic right here in our freezer! It is both tasty AND refreshing! And really quite filling!”
But I am afraid I have already spoiled the children beyond all reason, for they would only whine in response. We need REAL FOOD, Mama, they insisted. Endless wailing about how they wanted green beans and chicken and blueberries, or something. I don’t know. Brats.
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“Being run over by a truck doesn’t make you not a good person. It just makes you a flatter person.”
Want more of me? Visit my professional site. And then hire me. You’re pretty!
