But wait… there’s more!
If you’re a regular reader, you know that I am still recovering from the shock of the karaoke night from hell. I thought time would mellow me out on this one, but not so much. The more time that passes, the more pissed off and shaken by it I find myself. Lucky me.
But I have good news! Good news indeed.
First, I scraped together the courage to say what I needed to say to my friend; namely, that I love her dearly, and I am worried about her. That I will never participate in such an evening again. That I fear a night like that may indicate there’s more going on than she has shared, and I am here for whatever she needs. That she scared me. That I don’t want to judge, or lecture, but I needed her to know how unsettled I felt.
I spent the weekend debating speaking my mind. I’m glad I did. And I’m glad she accepted it as gracefully as she did. And now I wait and see.
But the better news is this: you know how often you go through something sucky, and the only thing that really cheers you up is the knowledge that it could’ve been worse, or–better yet–that someone else had it worse? I’m sorry for being happy about this; I really, truly am. But I can’t help it.
Both of the other drunks threw up in the nice lesbians’ car on the way home. If anyone who did not in fact used to live in my body ever vomits in my car, I will not be held accountable for my actions. Now I know it could’ve been much worse, and I feel better!
“… wormy, squirmy mac and cheeeeeese…”
School is out.
Have you heard? No more school. At all. Until Labor Day. It’s a small child’s Christmas and Easter and several lost teeth all wrapped up in one gigantic Mama-frazzling joy!
In the two-and-a-half hours since this day began, my children appear to have had the caffeine equivalent of a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew, apiece.
“MAMA CAN WE GO TO THE BEACH TODAY???” Why sure, sweetie… but you’ll have to wear a sweatshirt since it’s only 66 degrees outside… plus since this is, you know, New Hampshire, the water isn’t going unfreeze for another two months… but what the hey….
“MAMA LET’S PLAY DOCTOR! YOU TAKE CARE OF ME!” Ooookay… this would be different from my day-to-day activity how, exactly…?
“MAMA I WANT TO READ YOU THIS BOOK!” Oh boy! The same book you read me last night? And twelve times before that? You do know you have an entire bookshelf full of a range of books…? Oh, but this is the most wondrous book on the planet, because it contains the words “balloon butt”. Alrighty then.
“MAMA CAN WE GO TO THE SUPERMARKET?” Now that we can do, but I’m still disturbed that my children treasure trips to the store because of the “Play Place” there… which is essentially a big room like our family room, complete with crayons and a wide-screen television.
“MAMA I’M SICK! COME QUICK!” What’s the…? Oh, I’m not finishing up on the computer fast enough for you, I see. Just a couple more minutes.
“CAN WE PLAY OUTSIDE??” Of course, but if you’d rather that Child Protective Services not interrupt, you really need to change out of your pajamas, first. I know I’ve only told you to get dressed five times so far this morning, so naturally you still haven’t done it.
“MAMA I AM GOING TO SING YOU A PRETTY SONG!” Hence the title of this post. I am one lucky lady.
And of course, fill in the obligatory hounding-me-while-on-the-phone interlude, which I could type out for you, but it was pretty predictable. School’s out, and I will not be having another uninterrupted phone call until September.
This will almost certainly be the last summer that I have the luxury of staying home with my children. I pray that I will find a way to appreciate it.
Timing is everything
I am not having my most fantabulous day. I didn’t sleep very well, I got up and started getting ready for church… only to discover that discomfort was turning into stabbing pain… and back to bed I went. Probably another ruptured cyst. If you’ve never had a ruptured ovarian cyst, here’s the medical protocol:
1) Call the doctor’s office.
2) Wait for the doc on call to call you back.
3) Describe symptoms to doc on call.
4) Doc on call tells you to go to the ER for an ultrasound.
5) Head to ER, wait for 3-4 hours.
6) Have ultrasound.
7) Doctor comes in, looks at films, and declares it was a ruptured cyst.
8) Doc gives you a prescription for pain pills.
9) Go home, take pain pills.
As I’ve already been through this routine multiple times, I figured I’d save everyone a lot of time and money and just skip straight to step 9. A quick rummage in my medicine cabinet and… yes!… one lone vicodin, left over from the last time this happened. Praise the Lord. (Now before anyone gets all maternal and scolding on me, I did make a note of the time and the pain level and vowed to pursue the proper channels if it got worse or lasted longer than 8 hours.)
I went back to bed. But first I had a little chat with the Big Guy about how I get it, I need to have surgery, I’m having the damn surgery already, next week in fact, and these little cosmic reminders are neither necessary nor endearing. Hmph.
I got up around 1:00… feeling better but not great… and commenced hobbling around the house and getting myself into a dither over all the tasks that lay as yet undone. The kids will be home around 6:00. Hmmmm. I took the trash out; after which, I seriously considered another nap. Okay, clearly I was not going to be getting much done so I should just get rid of that idea right now. Focus, Mir. Pick a few small, lightweight tasks and call it good. Okay.
During the school year, I pack lunches in the morning by retrieving the lunchbags from backpacks, emptying out the debris, wiping down the inside of the bags, and then filling with the new lunch. If I were a better mother I’d probably empty out those lunchbags the second the kids get home, leaving them sparkling clean and ready for the next day… but I’m not so I don’t. Sue me. On Friday–the last day of school–we brought home roughly twelve tons of school-related junk which is still exactly where we dropped it in the mudroom when we got home. Emptying out and putting up the lunchbags would be a light task, and I would be very glad to have done so today rather than suddenly realizing, say, two weeks from now that there was still rotting food hanging about.
I retrieved the bags (which are soft-sided lunchboxes). Strawberry Shortcake for the Chickadee, Thomas the Tank Engine for the Monkey. Both were mercifully empty of edibles. The Chickadee’s lunchbox held an impressive assortment of found objects… toothpicks, trading cards, a bottle top, and some “Funny Money” from someone else’s Lunchable. The Monkey’s bag was empty, but felt too heavy. Odd. Then I remembered the small zippered pouch on the outside. This pouch isn’t big enough to hold much of anything, but I do sometimes slip a nutrigrain bar or other safe snack in there for him just in case the school (which provides snacks) finds themselves short for him at some point.
So I unzippered the pouch expecting to pull out a cereal bar, and instead I found the Ultimate 4-year-old Stash of Treasure. I was laughing and cursing as I emptied it out. I don’t know why it struck me as so funny; had the Monkey been here when I discovered it, I probably would’ve hollered at him. But oh, at that moment, there was nothing in the world that could’ve made me feel better.
6 Danimals yogurt cup lids. 9 little juice box straws. 4 deflated yogurt tubes. 2 cheese pouch wrappers. 5 apple stems. 3 snack-size ziploc bags. 3 red plastic sticks from the hand-i-snack thingies. And a partridge in a pear tree. (Okay, no bird; but it wouldn’t have surprised me.)
That was way better than the vicodin. There is an odd comfort in a child’s proclivities.
Seek ye crap information elsewhere
I am all done being useful to my fellow humans. Last night took it all out of me, and I don’t plan to be even slightly utilitarian again to another person for quite some time.
But before I disappear to tend to my own needs (yes, I have a need to clean the house, and maybe make some dinner, and watch a movie), let me make it crystal clear how much I am just not the go-to girl for ye olde random internet searcher. A sampling:
“Lonely local slutty girls on Maui”
I am lonely, but not for you, scumbag. Nor do I live on Maui, nor has anyone ever described me as slutty unless they were in fact using sarcasm to communicate that I was dressed like a nun.
“gingy Shrek stuffed”
Ummmm… huh??
“miriam mcdonald from degrassi pictures”
I may have confessed to watching this teeny-bopper program, but you’ll still have to find your teenage porn elsewhere, bud.
“ENTP hoarding”
Yes, I have an entire closet full of ENTP types I’m hoarding for just the right time. And you can’t have any!!
“sonohystogram” (3 hits!)
Ummmm yeah. Sonohystogram (I said it again). I had one. The information I shared about it would be superfluous to someone trying to learn more about the procedure. It was probably superfluous even for those who like to listen to me whine, but there you have it. Also? The link to my site? About 6 pages in on the search results. If you’re that desperate for information, call your doctor.
That is all.
Seek ye crap information elsewhere
I’m getting too old for this crap
Yes, I am ancient. Geriatric. 32 going on 99.
Would you like to hear about my wild evening? Of course you would. First of all, I was the youngest in our group of six. The friend who invited me along is just a few years older than me, then we had four ladies in their upper forties. One may have been over fifty. Not that this has anything to do with the price of tea in China or what it means to find oneself trapped in skanky karaoke hell, but it just seems like it needs to be pointed out.
I’d offered to be the designated driver, because I’m off ibuprofen, NSAIDs, and alcohol until my surgery. Things wouldn’t have been much different if I was drinking; see my “100 Things” list for details, but “me drinking” means I have one drink… maybe two if I’m feeling wild. And something I didn’t put on my list but I realized last night was this: I never get drunk in public. I rarely get drunk, anyway, but on the few occasions that I have? Either in my home, or the home of someone I trust. I do not understand the allure of making an ass of oneself in front of lots of strangers. I just don’t.
You know how this story goes, right?
The karaoke place is the lounge of a local Asian buffet place. Four of us got there, ordered appetizers, and they ordered scorpion bowls. By the time the additional two friends showed up, my three compadres were already tanked… and it was about 8:30. Shortly thereafter the karaoke started, and all the dregs of society started showing up. It was quite the conundrum, deciding which was worse: the very loud, bad music, or the scary people who were now surrounding us in droves.
First, it goes without saying that we were the oldest people there. Second, it turns out that I was inappropriately attired. I had no idea. Women there wore either black leather or nothing much at all (bonus points for combining the two). Also, our table was short about a dozen piercings.
One of the friends-of-my-friend latched on to me for meaningful conversation. Joy. It went kind of like this:
Her: Mir, I’m so sorry that I sound so drunk.
Me: Don’t worry about it.
Her: But really, I am, and you won’t hold this against me, will you?
Me: Nope, what happens at karaoke stays at karaoke, hon.
Her: *laughs so hard at my not-funny joke that I fear she will wet herself*
Me: So, are you gonna go up there and sing?
Her: Oh no! How embarrassing! I couldn’t!
Me: Oh, you can’t be any worse than any of the rest of these people.
Her: Mir, I have to apologize, I’m so sorry that I sound so drunk!
Me: Ya know, you really don’t sound all that drunk, except for the fact that you keep apologizing for it.
Her: You won’t hold this against me, will you?
Me: Um, I have to go to the bathroom.
Through creative trips to the bathroom (so concerned was the waiter over my drinking only water and diet coke, I somehow ended up with more liquid than anyone else at the table, and did in fact have to visit the facilities multiple times to keep from exploding) and various seating shuffling therein, I managed to work my way over to the two latecomers. They were a really nice lesbian couple (the same woman who kept apologizing for being drunk announced as soon as they were away from our table “Did you know that they’re LESBIANS???” and did I mention one of them was her sister? so nice) who were not getting tanked, so I had a nice time over there with them, for a little bit.
But then the three drunk ones got a little out of control. During one of my trips to the facilities, they apparently made friends with the table behind us through a request for the salt shaker. Table behind us? Big group of smoking, overly-pierced high-school-dropout twenty-somethings doing body shots. And to them I say, good for you! But to our group I wanted to say, For the love of God, you are middle-aged married women who could be their mothers, stop fraternizing!! But I didn’t, of course. The young table found our table terribly amusing, and the boys (men? I suppose they’re men) in particular found the drunken flirting of the “aged” hilarious. This was where I starting thinking about crawling into a hole and dying.
I would’ve left, if I could. But oh yeah, Mother Mir, designated driver! I couldn’t leave, because they wouldn’t leave. So I stayed, and prayed for a power outage.
Two of our group decided to set up one of the guys from the young table to do a song. They spent a good twenty minutes up there perusing the songbooks to pick just the right tune to debase him. And that was a drunken great idea, except they picked a song no one had ever heard of, so when his name was called and he decided he was game, it was a bust. He didn’t know the song, no one in the place knew it, and the DJ ended up going on to the next person on the list. Wow, they sure got him good. But somewhere in the midst of this master plan, the most senior member of our group was treated to a peek of said young man’s dual nipple rings, and was so drunk astonished that she reached out and petted him. Which he thought was hilarious. Dudes, check it out, I’m being groped by grandma!
By this point, I was checking my watch about every… oh… twelve seconds. (“Mir, I am so sorry that I sound so drunk!”) The Nipple Groper left for the bathroom and didn’t come back. After various permutations of members of our group going to check on her, it was discovered that she was busy puking her guts out. Alrighty then. It’s a party now. Could someone please pass me the blue mascara? And, ohmigod, could you maybe go ask that cutie if he wants to dance with me? Bad flashbacks, man.
So between the sober couple and myself, we’re trying to figure out how manage this, who’s driving whom, etc. The other two were now alternating dancing and coaxing the amused young guys into buying them more drinks. One trip back from checking on Pukefest 2004, two of the young guys stopped me and drew me in close enough to hear them speak.
Guy1: Hey! Are you babysitting tonight?
Me, surveying what the other women are up to, and probably turning crimson: Yep, I guess so. Is it that obvious?
Guy2: Oh yeah. *they both laugh* Good luck getting them outta here.
Me: Uhhhhm yeah. Thanks?
Because I am a logical person with a good head on my shoulders, I chose to focus my remaining energy on hating The Toad (the one who appeared to be a prince, was my first post-split involvement, and promptly turned back into a toad as soon as my divorce was final). It was his fault. All his fault! If he was still around–and not, you know, an asshat–I could’ve either been happily spending the evening with him; or if I was stuck in this situation with him at least he could’ve helped me see the humor. But no, he used me and discarded me and look at me now, here in karaoke hell. All his fault. Yeah.
Assignments were made. The couple would drive the puking Nipple Groper and her friend, I would drive the friend who got me into this in the first place. I was encouraged to go ahead and gather my friend and be on our way; they would wait for the puking to stop and then do the same. Those of us who were sober exchanged pleasantries and goodbyes.
My friend didn’t want to leave. Surprise, surprise. I talked her into it. She tried to get out of her chair and fell on the floor. At this point I decided to just proceed as if everything is hunky dorey, because there is no way in hell that this is actually happening or is a part of my life. Clearly I’m having a very bizarre, embarrassing nightmare and will soon wake up. We were, at this point, the center of attention. And why not? My friend is sprawled on the floor laughing her ass off, I am clearly mortified and trying to pull her up again even though she outweighs me by quite a bit. We were better entertainment than most of the karaoke, to be sure.
I steadied her on the way out to the car, whereupon she nearly got into an altercation with a young lady talking on a cell phone. This girl committed the sin of laughing (at her conversation) as we walked by. My friend was sure she was being laughed at. Oh Lord. I managed to talk her out of that one and get her into the car. She talked a lot on the way home, but I didn’t understand most of it. She thanked me for taking care of her; that much I did get. At one point I asked her to not bother trying to talk to me because I don’t speak Drunkish.
And so, dear friends, I arrived home after midnight. I was tired, I was grumpy, my hair reeked of smoke (can I tell you what I hate more than smelling like smoke? I can’t, because there isn’t anything), and I felt ooooooooold. OLD. What was fun about that evening? Am I actually supposed to enjoy that?
Anyone wanna come over and watch a movie tonight?
Third Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction
“Just the facts, ma’am.” (That seems cuter and less wordy than explaining that I am being dragged out on a girls’ night, shortly, and won’t have a ton of time to devote to this, and so will just be giving the facts today.)
Janet asks: Harry Potter or Frodo, and why?
Color me perplexed. Of course we know Janet is fond of elves, so the motivation for asking about these two is clear. But which one? For what, exactly? Sex? Companionship? High adventure? Freaky Friday-ish swapping? I’m not clear what the intent is, so I pondered this long and hard…
… and then I realized, whatever the specifics, Harry Potter wins every time, for me. I enjoy both stories, but I view Frodo as a more 2-dimensional character than Harry Potter, who I think has been given the benefit of better character development. (And, dude, who wants to either have or be hanging out with someone who has hairy feet?)
Lee wanted to know if my dream included me falling asleep while spitting watermelon seeds, though I doubt he intended his question to be used for this.
It didn’t. But that would’ve made it a less disturbing dream, I think, because then I would’ve just chalked it up to “stuff on my brain.”
Also in the “why in the world are you using my comment for this?” category, Michele wanted to know if I would mind hacking up another watermelon for her.
Um, no. As in, I would mind, and, I won’t do it for you or anyone else. My kitchen floor has been wiped down twice and mopped once, and it is still sticky and my OCD-ish self is having a great big freak out and recalling that this, people, is why the good Lord invented the melon baller! AAAARRRGGHHH! So, I love you… but NO.
Getting all kinds of serious on my ass is Kym, who asks: What do I see as my children’s three strengths and weaknesses each?
Funny; the end of school has brought about quite a few discussions on this very topic, so it’s actually been on my mind.
For the Chickadee:
Pro: she’s brilliant. Con: she knows it, and is easily frustrated when she can’t master something immediately.
Pro: she’s incredibly empathetic. Con: she has trouble dealing with her feelings, and feels everything to the max, big or little.
Pro: she can often figure out how to best get what she wants. Con: she is often manipulative.
For Mr. Monkey:
Pro: he’s very easy-going and basically happy. Con: on the rare occasions when he is affronted, he tends to react explosively (truly his father’s son, in that way).
Pro: he finds joy in the weirdest little things. Con: once something has made him happy, he expects it to remain static forever, and seems truly bewildered when it doesn’t!
Pro: he remembers everything! Con: he remembers everything! HA!
And there you have it… everything you never really wanted to know on a Friday. Thanks for the questions!
With any luck, I will have some very entertaining stories upon my return, as I believe I heard the word “karaoke” mentioned during the planning phase of this evening….
Scattered
In the sugar coma induced by graduation, the end of school, and all the trappings therein, I completely forgot about Friday Facts and Fiction. Got questions? Leave ’em if ya got ’em, or maybe we’ll just skip it this week.
I will be spending the morning mowing the lawn, cleaning up the carnage that is my kitchen after hacking up a 40-pound seeded watermelon so that the Chickadee’s class could include a seed-spitting contest in their Field Day activities, and dealing with laundry. Don’t you just wish you were me? You know you do.
Last night I dreamt it was a week or so after my surgery, and I had no pain whatsoever. However I had developed a rather severe post-surgical case of narcolepsy. In the short course of the dream, I spontaneously nodded off at the mall (that’s how I knew it was a dream; I never go to the mall!), the supermarket, and the movie theatre. I’m still trying to decide if that gets filed under “big fear” or “wish fulfillment.” Hmmmmmm.
Graduation
That much cutesy cuteness, all in one incredibly cute place doing a cute presentation? Should be illegal. At the very least, they should offer lemon slices or decontamination or something on the way out to help you restore a more natural ph. Kindergarten graduations are not ph-balanced. First they saturate you with the ultra-cutesy-cuteness of a giggling gaggle of 5- and 6-year-olds, then afterwards they ply everyone with cake! At bedtime! They should have been giving out insulin with the diplomas.
So we sat and watched, and I took a million pictures (oh, look, there’s Chickadee with red eyes… there’s Chickadee with red eyes, chewing on her hair… there’s Chickadee with red eyes, poking the kid next to her… there’s Chickadee with her eyes shut, waving at me…), and maybe got a little teary, and spent a lot of time trying to convince the Monkey that the world was not, in fact, going to end if he was not the the center of attention right this very second in the middle of everything. Oh, and, the ex and I made nicey-nice. Cuz it was so damn cute and sweet in there, we couldn’t have been rude to each other if we’d tried.
The only problem was when Fun Daddy decided to let the children run wild afterwards, and didn’t pay much attention to the time, and then I had to be the heavy and reel them in on my own and try to get them home and put them to bed. Wow, deja vu… it was just like being married again, except this time I didn’t have to bring him home with me! But I digress….
We survived, and the children are asleep or smart enough not to let me know they’re awake. I’m cobbling together the final bits and pieces of the teachers’ gifts and cards. And also thanking my lucky stars that I don’t have to go through this again for another two years. I may have recovered, by then.
Excellent news!
My ex’s opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, the official word is in… I’m only one-quarter evil!
Now… decisions, decisions. Do I advertise myself as slightly evil (first banner) or mostly good (second banner)? Cast your vote and the winning banner will take up residence in the right-hand column.
(Yeah, I know a few minutes ago I told you to go away, and now I’m asking you to vote. That’s the 25% evil, get it?)