Expression

I’m a mom of two girls, a fourteen-going-on-forty year old and a seven-going-on-seventeen year old. Which makes me a forty-one-going-on-Prozac year old.

I’ve gotten pretty used to my eldest daughter’s stoicism – her reticence to show outward emotion, particularly joy or pleasure is legendary in these here parts. She could be happier than a pig in poo but if any family member, particularly me, is within eye or earshot, she’d sooner lick a bug than show it. But I’ve gotten used to it. After all, I’ve a plethora of random, haphazard, spontaneous emotions myself and quite honestly, it can be exhausting trying to keep track of all of them. And being familiar with Zoe’s occasional surliness meant I was more than prepared when she hit the tween and teen years. Her emotions currently run the gamut between pissed off and really pissed off with an occasional pit stop at somewhat-content-at-the-moment-so-enjoy-it-while-you-can. Although I must admit that lately, I’ve seen her flash her beautiful smile quite often, which makes me remember fondly the sixty hours of labor it took to bring her into this world.

My youngest, on the other hand, is a completely different story. This one cannot help but show every single emotion the instant she feels it, regardless of where she is or who she’s with. She is an open book with every page ripped out, blown up, photocopied and plastered on every billboard to ensure that everyone within a fifty mile radius is aware of what she is feeling. She’s very generous in that way. And if she can’t articulate whatever feelings are brewing within at the moment, she will simply have an emotional meltdown and cry huge, heaving sobs while Nate and I play a guessing game as to the cause: Are you hurt? Are you sad? Are you sick? Are you angry? Are you happy? Are those happy tears? Are you really crying? What happened? What happened? WE CAN’T HELP YOU IF YOU DON’T TELL US WHAT HAPPENED SO TALK TO US AND HERE’S A BOWL IN CASE YOU THROW UP. And this will go on and on and on until she falls into an exhausted sleep or we fall over dead, whichever comes first.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of Helena in action. If I had the cojones, I’d grab my camera and document these blessed moments as they’re happening and save them for posterity and the Internet, but I have no cojones, much to Nate’s relief.

So I’m just going to sit my cojones-less self down and show you what I have managed to capture of Helena’s personality through the recent years:

.

This is her angry face. I did not spray her with water in the exact manner required by law. Apparently, there is a right way and a wrong way to spray water upon a sweaty soccer player. Who knew?

.

.

Being too cool for school, she hemmed and hawed before she gave me the time of day, looked up and allowed me to take this picture. Thank you, Helena. Now you can go back to your chalking and pretending I don’t exist.

.

.

Sometimes, she’s a little saucy. And yes, I know that word is terribly old fashioned and would only come out of the mouth of a 102 year old woman, wearing woolly knickers and rocking in a chair with the thermostat turned up to sweltering, yelling CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR, IT’S DRAFTY to her husband Burt who died 20 years ago but what can I say … she brings out my geriatric tendencies. And my penchant for run on sentences.

.

.

And sometimes she’s a little cheeky. Is that something a 102 year old woman would say? Maybe I should start worrying about myself? Note to self: start to worry. Love, me.

.

.

Here she is, being carefree. Carefully staged carefree, as in MOM, TAKE MY PICTURE BECAUSE I LOOK CAREFREE.

.

.

Sometimes she’s a totally normal, happy little girl.

.

.

And sometimes she’s a totally happy little girl, but not normal. Don’t ask. I don’t.

.

.

.

But of all the candid shots I’ve gotten of Helena, this is the one that speak to me the loudest. And it says OUCH. Is this the expression of my then sweet six year old, the same little girl who loves forever kisses, Bear and snuggling in the morning? Who thinks her mom is all that and a bag of chips because she makes the best mac’n cheese in the world, even if it does come in a box? Please tell me it is. Because I’m having visions of a sixteen year old who missed curfew AGAIN, who thinks she’s all that and her mom just isn’t, who might just as well slap a sign on her forehead that says STEP BACK. I can almost hear the “I already know everything I’ll ever need to know about anything and I bet you’d like to know how I know what I know but don’t hold your breath and stop about the tattoos already, it’s my body and I can do with it what I want and WHO CARES about grades because Danny doesn’t and I love him and he loves me and as soon as he makes parole, I’M OUT OF HERE and don’t even think about walking next to me ‘cuz that won’t fly and OH MY GOD, are you really going out wearing that, and hey, just so you know, no way will I ever ask you anything ever again because you don’t know anything about ANYTHING and I can’t believe I’ve got to share the same EARTH as you and why can’t you just be ANYBODY but you?”

Am I reading too much into this?

Advertisements

June 6, 2008 at 7:00 am 24 comments

Going through our CD collection …

My family decided to drag me kicking and screaming into this century by getting me an iPod for Mother’s Day. And because it was Mother’s Day and she had to be nice to me, my fourteen year old daughter set up my account on my computer, while my seven year old hopped all around the room, asking me what songs was I going to get, what songs was I going to get, WHAT SONGS WAS I GOING TO GET ALREADY?

And can I just say … I love that thing. I don’t know how I lived without it, much in the same way I wonder how I ever watched TV before TiVo entered my life. Between TiVo and my iPod … I think I just might cop a squat, order a lemonade and hang out in this millennium for awhile. And yes, Helena, if I could I would marry it but Daddy may have some reservations.

Much to the consternation of both of my daughters, I listen to my iPod all the time now. As if it wasn’t bad enough when they were a captive audience in the car and I’d belt out a song off key at the top of my lungs and flail my arms around, now I’m actually doing it in public. And sometimes when I’m really into it, I’ll move my body to the beat, otherwise known as dance. And this happens in front of real live people, some of whom they actually know. Thank you Jesus for allowing me to fulfill my God given duty as a mother to embarrass the hell out of my kids. Amen.

I’ve also developed an odd habit of shouting instead of talking when listening to my iPod because I can’t hear myself above the clamor of the rock concerts blaring into my brain. I’m not aware of this phenomenon while it’s happening so when I speak to my girls and they roll their eyes and ignore me, I assume they don’t hear me and I raise my voice a few decibels and repeat myself. Like recently in the waiting room of the doctor’s office where I yelled to Zoe MAKE SURE YOU TELL THE DOCTOR ABOUT THE WART ON YOUR FOOT. It’s instances like these that cause my girls to melt into puddles of embarrassment and humiliation, whereupon they immediately stomp up to me, yank the ear phones out of my ears and admonish me to act like the middle-aged mother they’ve come to know and tolerate and not some hip teenage rocker wannabe.

Yesterday I dived into our eclectic CD collection to see if there were any songs worth bribing my daughters to download onto my computer so that I could listen to them on my shiny new best friend. And yes, I did say daughters, as in plural, because my computer savvy seven year old also manages her own iPod account and is constantly irritated with me because I still cannot navigate Webkinz World without supervision.

While perusing our CD collection, I must admit … I was a bit startled to see what Nate and I had amassed.

.

.

Nate was and is a big Beatles fan, so these didn’t surprise me. Actually, I was pretty impressed.

.

.

Helena can’t understand why I would ever want to listen to last week’s dinner. I’ve got nothing but fond memories and respect for that overweight, aging rock’n roll icon with a bad attitude who belted out words and stories that made baseball seem interesting to me. He made me want to run out into the night like a bat out of hell, going nowhere fast and find paradise by someone’s dashboard lights. He left me all revved up with no place to go. All puns intended. I love that man.

.

.

Nate and I went to this concert while we were dating and just had a blast, dancing and singing and screaming alongside people our own age. They really put on a spectacular show and they didn’t need a billion watts of laser lights or amped up sound to do it. Just their music and vocals. It doesn’t get much better than that. Except when Nate and I drove back to the Wegman’s parking lot where we had dropped off my car. We made out like crazy in that parking lot and this CD makes those memories of that new-found love we were falling into come rushing back to me.

Did I mention my fourteen year old sometimes reads this blog? If she’s reading this post, I’m willing to bet she’s feeling a bit queasy after reading that. Since the alternative is going downstairs and doing those dishes that are patiently waiting for her, I’m thinking she’ll stay put and get over it. And in hopes that blogs are conducive to subliminal messages … ***GO CLEAN YOUR ROOM***

.

.

*CHOKE* How’d these get in there? THESE ARE NATE’S. AND YES, I AM WORRIED ABOUT HIM. People, let’s move it along … nothing to see here, nothing at all … let’s move it along quickly please.

.

.

Whew. That’s better. I feel much better now. It’s amazing how a little eye bleach and Peter Gabriel can make you completely forget the last ten seconds of your life.

.

.

Ah, yes. My size two, contact-lens, funky hair, high-heeled, make-up wearing, it’s-only-2:00 AM-where-do-you-want-to-go-next clubbing days. Excuse me while I take a moment to pay my respects.

.

.

My boyfriend. Don’t tell Nate.

.

.

Another one that makes those memories of falling in love with Nate wash over me like waves. I would go over to his house for dinner on the weekends I didn’t have Zoe and we’d spend hours playing this CD over and over. And over. I loved it and I loved Nate and I loved falling in love with him to this music. This CD will always bring me back to that time.

****ZOE, FOLD THE LAUNDRY****

.

.

You just can’t have enough Achtung Baby. Or anything by U2. You just can’t. It’s a law, somewhere.

.

.

And likewise with INXS. Much to my chagrin, this is the only CD I have. I don’t have any with Michael Hutchence. Go ahead and flog me with a wet noodle, I deserve it. But I’m going to rectify that with my brand new shiny iPod, don’t you worry about it.

.

.

Hmmm, looks like Nate has a thing for new age music.

.

.

And piano music. And that’s OK, because I like these too, but where’s the Beatles and Peter Gabriel lovin’ man I married?

.

.

Nope, not here.

.

.

And not here either. Don’t get me wrong … I like that he’s in touch with his sensitive side but I’m starting to miss my manly man. Nate, Nate, wherefore art thou, Nate?

.

.

There you are! Hi Nate! I was getting worried there for a second. WHEW.

.

.

AACCCK!

For the love of God, where’s the eye bleach?

.

.

June 4, 2008 at 7:00 am 23 comments

Date night at Home Depot

Remember when you were first dating, you’d go out for a romantic dinner with candlelight, cloth napkins, unchipped plates and sturdy silverware? Spending hours just chatting and then afterwards, seeing a movie or going for a walk along a pier with an ice cream in hand, or maybe going to an outdoor concert for some good music and holding of hands? Maybe even taking a trip to Niagara Falls and finding yourselves under a gazebo next to the falls where you’d make out under the mist? Or maybe sitting on a grassy hill in a beautiful park where you’d make out under a gorgeous sunset?

And not for a nanosecond did the option of going to a home repair superstore ever pop into either of your heads when you tossed about answers to “What do you want to do tonight?”

Funny how things change, isn’t it? Because now, Nate and I will catch a greasy burger on the fly at Bill Gray’s and then, more often than not, wind up in the aisles of Home Depot and let me tell you, nothing screams romance louder than X-GROOVED, INSULATED, SANDED-TOP, SUB FLOORING ON SALE TODAY ONLY! Whew, just saying the words gets me all hot and bothered.

To be fair, we did try to act as if we were still on a date when we first started frequenting Home Depot. We’d hold hands, stroll leisurely through the paint and flooring sections, pointing out things we’d like to try in our own house when we married. We would read the item descriptions together and actually discuss the pros and cons of whatever home decorating decision we were struggling with at the time. We had conversations with words and everything.

But inevitably, the charm of being surrounded by compound miter saws, drywall and Quikrete quickly wears off and you realize that they could pump that place full of edible panties and Viagra and it won’t matter. The magic is gone, long gone and all you’re left with is the smell of sawdust and offers of $500 mail-in rebates in aisle ten for a limited time only so HURRY UP AND GET THERE ALREADY.

These days, Nate practically skips into Home Depot. I follow at a slug’s pace, reading the plethora of signs and advertisements, wondering whether I can fill out an application for the sole purpose of taking a drug test because that would take up some of the “just five minutes” destined to turn into two hours. But it turns out they don’t give drug tests willy nilly to just anyone so I’m out of luck. And hungry. And then it dawns on me that Home Depot could really widen its customer base by offering a dessert bar.

Because Nate automatically develops tunnel vision upon walking through the doors of Home Depot, he is immediately immersed in what I’m sure is a fascinating mental discussion of the benefits of 1-5/8 inch drywall screws as opposed to 1-1/4 inch drywall screws. I am left to wander around aimlessly and without purpose.

Sometimes I wind up in the paint department where I pretend that I live in a world where I actually have a say in the colors we choose for our walls (if this makes no sense, see my PEACH BLOSSOM MIST post). I pick a dozen or so paint swatches and create wonderfully colorful schemes that will never see the light of day in our house. Then I get sad and depressed, crumple up my paint swatches and continue my pointless meandering.

On one such meander, I found myself in the flooring section and came across some very plain, bare, white twelve inch ceramic tiles. They looked so lonely sitting there amongst all the colorfully decorated smaller tiles. I felt an immediate kinship with them, having spent more than my fair share of time as one of “those” moms who watches her daughter’s gymnastics while attired in a bulky sweatshirt, dirty sneakers and no make-up, while sitting next to one of “those” moms with trendy flipped-up hair, smart leather jacket, high heel boots and a french manicure. My heart went out to those lonely twelve inch tiles and I experienced an “I AM NOT AN ANIMAL, I AM A HUMAN BEING” epiphany, grabbed those tiles up and headed to the checkout where I met up with Nate who, though he’ll deny it, had completely forgotten that I had come with him.

At home, I went to work. I created my designs in photoshop, had them printed, trimmed them and then battled fiercely with Mod Podge, a battle I ultimately won but not before I had cried buckets and doubted my self worth. After I reached what I thought was the end of my journey, I leaned my tiles up against our walls to admire my handiwork. I dragged Nate from his beloved TV to show him and he stared at them for a minute before asking what purpose they served. Out of sheer frustration, I yelled “THEY’RE ART – THEY DON’T HAVE TO SERVE A PURPOSE – HENCE, THEY’RE ART” and proceeded to move them around to show their versatility. Upon moving one of the tiles, we immediately noticed that our walls looked as if we had locked a rabid cat in the room that had scratched her claws down to the nub trying to escape. Apparently, the naked backs of the tiles did not play nicely with our freshly painted walls and after Nate turned all shades of purple but before he had an actual heart attack, I ran out to the fabric store, picked up some felt, covered those naked backs and thereby saved Nate’s life, and that of my tiles, in one fell swoop.

And these are the fruits of my labors:

And because I had tiles and creative juices left over, I decided to make some more, taking full advantage of the free time I had since I had decided that doing laundry and going grocery shopping just wasn’t fun anymore. And you know, you can never have enough altered twelve inch tiles, a fact that I keep trying to drill into Nate’s head, but he won’t listen to me anymore:

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with these, but I like looking at them. They make me think of possibilities, of creating something out of nothing, of making that proverbial lemonade out of lemons.

If this inspiration lasts, I’m thinking date night at Home Depot won’t be such a bad thing after all.

June 2, 2008 at 7:00 am 24 comments

Chamberlain Smackdown

I’m feeling reasonably intelligent this morning so I think I might balance our checkbook today. This is always an exciting time in the Chamberlain household because, as Forrest Gump so aptly put it, you never know what you’re gonna get.

I always follow the same routine before I do this task. I eat a full breakfast, take a shower, clean up the kitchen, take a deep, long breath and then face my calm, serene self in the mirror. I tell myself I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and dammit, people like me. I take the time to memorize my features so that I can recognize my own self three hours later when I have been transformed into a raving, seething, psychotic lunatic who would eat her own young if it meant the last entry in our checkbook would read BALANCED, THANK YOU GOD.

Our statements:

You may have noticed that there are four months worth here. That’s because I can find the courage to complete this task only three times a year and that’s because I’m married to a tall, dark, handsome man who has THE most creative way with numbers you have ever seen. In my previous life, I handled all the household finances, wrote every entry in the checkbook, balanced it every month to the penny and believe you me, I would scour the earth to find a penny that dared go AWOL on my watch. But now? Nate is in charge of the entries and everything I ever learned about addition and subtraction has become obsolete because nowadays there’s math going on in our checkbook that hasn’t even been invented yet. But that’s ok, because Nate has a system. I have spent the last eleven years trying to understand this system with no success. But I don’t give up easily and three times a year, I try my hand at it again.

My tools:

I don’t bother using paper in my adding machine. I don’t think they make rolls big enough for the numerical gymnastics that are about to happen. I keep the phone handy as it is inevitable that I will be calling Nate periodically throughout the day to yell questions such as WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME? and WHY DON’T YOU JUST HIT ME OVER THE HEAD WITH THE WEED WHACKER AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY? To which he will calmly respond with “I don’t know” or “I don’t remember” or “Huh.” Then I will cry. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The red pen is crucial. Nate’s entries in the checkbook are in blue. Mine are in red. It’s kind of like a miniature version of the electoral smart board on CNN but without Wolf and the best political team on television.

I won’t cross out entries. I won’t scribble over numbers, I won’t have arrows pointing this way and that. That is entirely too confusing and makes our checkbook messy. I don’t do messy. Instead, I will simply use the red pen to make brand new entries explaining why the preceding twenty entries in blue are terribly, horribly wrong. That way, when Nate gets home, I can simply place the checkbook in front of him and he will see all the red and immediately know everything he ever wanted about my day. This negates the need for Nate to actually ask me about my day and this, in turn, relieves any need on my part to actually speak and that ultimately serves to protect Nate from any desire I may have to tackle him to the floor and choke him with his very own tongue. We’re like a well oiled machine that way.

The balancing of our checkbook is, at its core, a battle of wits between Nate and me and even though I’d like to consider myself better armed, make no mistake about it … I want Nate to win. I really do because in this instance and this instance only, it makes my life so much easier. Using the red pen means I’m going to have to think and think hard and I’m not happy when I have to think hard, so I am all about the blue. GO BLUE GO.

So this morning, I’ll prepare myself for battle, take one last look at myself in the mirror, shout BRING IT ON, BABY to no one in particular and the blue vs. red smackdown will begin.

History has proven time and time again that the smackdown will be over in about three hours. Team Blue will have been decimated and Team Red, specifically ME, will have lost approximately two pounds of weight in the form of stress sweat, together with the ability to form a coherent sentence. And the carnage … oh, the carnage.

WARNING: the following contains graphic material and may not be suitable to viewers of the anal, obsessive-compulsive, my-checkbook-balances-every-single-month-and-I-always-wear-matching-socks persuasion:

Wow. That’s a lot of red. Kind of awesome in a psychotic-psychedelic sort of way. See all of those “should have”, “mistake on”, “never recorded” and “duplicate” notations all over the place? Those are my routine moves – no biggies.

My favorite strategy, my absolute favorite one, the one that just makes me quiver in ecstasy is the “adjustment to records.” That’s my big gun, so to speak … the one I use only as a last resort, after I have attempted every mathematical combination of numbers humanly possible, ransacked our office in search of statements from the last year to verify running totals, called Nate 327 times for clarifications, eaten an entire Tony’s pizza, bitten my nails until they’ve bled and screamed at God to JUST TAKE ME NOW.

“Adjustment to records” is me giving up before I become a puddle on the floor, gasp my last breath and lose consciousness. As a rule, I try not to employ this tactic unless and until I have banged my head repeatedly against this:

So here I am this morning, preparing for our next battle. I just love the smell of potential nervous breakdown in the morning.

If I’m not back in two days, send out a call for help. Nate will need it.

May 30, 2008 at 8:17 am 13 comments

She was just seventeen, if you know what I mean …

My fourteen year old daughter asked me the other day if she could get her working papers for a job this summer. After I picked my jaw up from where it had fallen on the floor, I said sure. Actually, it might have come out more like HOLY CRAP, YOU BETTER BELIEVE YOU CAN, GET IN THE CAR. And then I got all excited because I was actually seeing light at the end of that long, dark, scary, endless I-AM-NOT-AN-ATM-MACHINE-FOR-CRYING-OUT-LOUD tunnel.

It got me to thinking about my early days as a wage earner. I went the traditional route at first and built up a great reputation as a babysitter – little human beings loved me. I rotated between a couple of good, reliable families, sacrificed my weekend nights and made quite a bit of money for a couple of years. All right, perhaps “sacrifice” is a bit of overkill. I was a painfully shy fifteen year old with braces, glasses, bad hair, acne and I lived in a town 50 miles past the middle of nowhere. What else was I going to do with myself?

My babysitting career was brought to a screeching halt after I turned sixteen. I agreed to babysit for a new family with a toddler whom I like to refer to as Satan and that was the beginning of the end that came four hours later. This child’s parents had called me at the last minute, having been referred by someone who knew someone who knew someone. They practically begged me to help them out and at $2 per hour, I just couldn’t pass it up. I should have gotten a clue by the maniacal sprint they did to their car once the door closed behind me but I was naive.

Four hours later, I wasn’t naive anymore. Cleaning up thrown spaghettios, dirty toilet water and piles of poo scattered here, there and everywhere tend to knock the blissful ignorance right out of you. If the book had even existed back then, I would have said the Devil does not, in fact, wear Prada, he wears pull-ups and is three feet tall and I’d rather chew off my own tongue than babysit him again. This was painfully obvious to his parents as they pulled up to their house and found a blubbering heap of me on their front step. I resisted their pleas to give SISPU a/k/a Satan In Scooby Pull Ups another chance, mumbled something about being busy for the next two years and got the hell out of Dodge. I headed straight for the mall where I thereafter found my dream job.

I started work at a local record store in our mall and can I just say, THAT JOB ROCKED. I was seventeen with perfect teeth and good skin, thanks to Dr. Strauss and Neutrogena respectively. Puberty had finally gotten its act together and I was not all together hideous anymore. In fact, I looked pretty damn good. It was smack dab in the middle of the eighties which meant I had BIG hair and lots of it, tons of makeup, thick shoulder pads, shorty short mini skirts and high heels. Shiny black patent leather four inch heels, to be exact – the first to be seen at my high school, thank you very much. Sometimes I wore them with cute little frilly socks, sometimes I didn’t. Either way, I had a killer set of legs and a fantastic figure and I worked in a place that played the latest and greatest in albums and cassettes and attracted everyone who was anyone. In other words, I was cool for the first time in my life and I made up for lost time in a way only an attention starved seventeen year old wallflower-turned-hot-chick knew how: at warp speed.

It was vinyl heaven and we’d rip the cellophane off any album we wanted and whip that baby onto our state-of-the-art turntable, turn the sound up to sonic boom level and let it rip. We were next door to GNC Vitamin Center and our daily mission was to shake their bottles off their walls. It was usually mission accomplished by dinnertime, thanks to a particularly loud piece by Mötley Crüe. You’d think their manager would have pitched a fit, but more often than not, he’d be AWOL, only to be found sifting through our head banger section.

I loved my job. I heard all the new releases first, got huge discounts on all the music I loved, met some great people and got to dress up in funky clothes that I got at incredible discounts because I was a mall employee and friend to a lot of other mall employees. I learned to flirt and was surprised at how easy it was to get some extra sauce on my fettucini alfredo simply by inching my skirt up a bit. After work, I’d hang out with these friends, all of whom were older than me and into the bar scene. They took pity on poor underaged me, doctored up my license and next thing I knew, I was a faux 22 year old burning up the dance floors at Flashbacks and Club 2001. Good times.

Would someone mind checking on my mom? I think she just fainted.

It’s hard to believe that I got near straight A’s in high school considering the above, isn’t it? But I did. I managed to keep my priorities in order for the long haul even though they veered a bit off course in the short run. I’ll always be grateful to my friend Pete who had my back at all times, making sure I was safe every time I went out. He was convinced I would tire of the scene in short order and he was right because he was always right, something that used to piss me off at first but then became what I trusted most. Of course, the suspicious bouncer weighing in at 400 pounds at Club 2001 who confiscated my fake i.d., helped curb my underage wild ways as well. HE WAS SCARY.

Eventually, I found my way to college, maintained an almost perfect 4.0 grade point average, graduated Summa Cum Laude, became a productive taxpayer, got married and started a family, in that order. All of it to the immense relief of my parents as I think it’s entirely possible I may have shaved a couple of years off their lives.

(As a side note: I am now well-versed in the theory of karma, having a teenage daughter of my own right now. I TOTALLY GET IT.)

Anyway … that record store and the mall it lived in don’t exist anymore and I don’t know of anyone who even owns any actual vinyl today. Any remnants of that seventeen year old with the drop dead figure are long gone now. But sometimes when this 41 year old wife and mother of two plays the oldies station in her car and hears Smokin’ In The Boys Room, she’ll sing off key at the top of her lungs, ignore the gawkers in the passing cars, and tap her flip flopped feet on the gas and brake pedals. And for a brief moment, that woman will yearn for some shiny black patent leather four inch heels.

And some killer legs to go with them.

May 28, 2008 at 9:34 am 11 comments

Peach Blossom Mist

I had planned 736 things to do today and not one of them is going to get done because I’ve already given up and it’s only 8:00 a.m.

Here is my washing machine. And as much as I would like to just toss these things into my dryer with a Bounce sheet and be done with it, I can’t. They’ve been sitting in my washing machine for approximately three days now and while you can’t tell from the safety of your home, in my home the sour stench emanating from my washer is about to make my eyes bleed. So I’m going to have to rewash them in blazing hot water with bleach and/or vinegar at least twice before they make it to the dryer. Can you tell this is a well trodden path for me? I am physically incapable of remembering to switch loads upon hearing the buzzer, in much the same way Nate is physically incapable of telling me he’s got something planned until five seconds before it happens. It’s just not in our DNA. And if I had an inkling of pride, I would have photoshopped that dirt ring right out of this photo but my pride jumped ship about twenty-five pounds ago so there you have it.

And once I do rewash that load, these are waiting for me.

Just looking at them sucks my will to live.

Maybe I’d feel happier about my predicament if I actually enjoyed being in my laundry room. Maybe deep down I subconsciously try to avoid my laundry room as much as possible because when it comes right down to it, I just don’t like it in there. When we bought this house, I was overjoyed that I was finally going to have a first floor laundry room. I had big plans for that room, plans that included gleaming white shelves, lace curtains, satellite radio and lots of wicker hand baskets. But those dreams took the express line straight to hell in one of those baskets because the key word here is “had.” As in, past tense. As in, I was delusional.

Notice the color of the walls? They’re a pale lilac, if you can’t tell. I hate them. Hate them with a deep, raging passion I usually reserve for bullies and those occasions when TiVo stops recording one minute before Lost actually ends.

I wanted a soft, pale peach for my laundry room. It was called Peach Blossom Mist and it gave me warm fuzzies and I loved it and it loved me. When I suggested it to Nate, he had to take what some refer to as “a moment” when he became very quiet and still for several minutes. When he came to, he calmly told me that Peach Blossom Mist did not match the flooring he had just spent all day installing. When I responded with something along the line of “who cares?” Nate had the closest thing to a seizure without actually having a seizure and from that, I got the general impression that LAUNDRY ROOM WALLS MUST MATCH LAUNDRY ROOM FLOORS, OR ELSE NOTHING WILL MAKE SENSE AND IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR SOMETHING, ANYTHING, TO MAKE SENSE IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN WORLD WE LIVE IN?

I’ve learned to pick and choose my battles and thus far, I’ve managed to keep my sanity at a level hovering just above nervous breakdown so I didn’t push it. I told myself that it was just a laundry room after all and nobody other than myself was going to spend any quality time in there so was it really that big of an issue that a good cry and Dove chocolate couldn’t cure? So I caved, otherwise known in the world of marital bliss as “compromised.” Before I knew it, Light Lilac or Pale Purple or whatever the hell you want to call it adorned my walls and my laundry room was declared “done.” It’s now 13,927 loads of laundry later and despite some heavy duty Dove gorging, I’m just not feeling the love.

Every time I am in that room, trying to maneuver among the swarm of dirty underwear and wet towels, I am immediately struck by the fact that I can’t even see the 2 foot by 4 foot section of flooring that shattered my dreams because of the amount of stuff, otherwise known as crap, covering it and I get an annoying little tick in my left eye. And it occurs to me amidst flurries of lint flying about my head and up my nose that if I could have foreseen the sheer number of hours I was going to spend in this very room prying apart sticky, sweaty, smelly socks from one another ad nauseam, I would have fought a whole lot harder for Peach Blossom Mist. And a hazmat suit.

I think we need to revisit this room, Nate. I think you know me well enough to realize I’m not above holding your comfy Fruit of the Looms hostage and the way I figure, you are the last person on the face of this planet to consider going commando so I think I’ve got some pretty good leverage.

I get my Peach Blossom Mist, Frank and Beans get to stay ensconsed in the 100% cotton comfort to which they’ve grown accustomed and all is right with the world.

And then maybe we can discuss a possible do-over of my office? Nate?

May 27, 2008 at 8:16 am 16 comments

Memorial Day Weekend

It’s officially here and we’ve got a long weekend ahead of us full of fights, laughter, tears, insults, love, guilt, jokes, stony silences, judgmental looks, friendship, hugs, babies, giggling children, animals running amuck and general mayhem, otherwise known as family gatherings.

Have a great weekend and I’ll catch up with you early next week.

Oh and by the way … stay safe, will you? Someone’s got to be around to read this blog and give me a sense of purpose – it might as well be you, right?

May 24, 2008 at 3:56 pm 5 comments

Older Posts Newer Posts


When?

September 2017
M T W T F S S
« Jun    
 123
45678910
11121314151617
18192021222324
252627282930