Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Spinning the Wheel of Fate


It goes a little something like this: I'll tell you what happened this morning, and YOU get to make the decision as to whether I graciously thank the fates for their blessings, or just go stick my head in my neighbor's gas oven and, at long last, end it all.

We set the scene.
It's Tuesday, which I hate with a fury like none other. (Except, perhaps, for the fury I reserve for those people who drive those stupid little motorized carts around Wal-Mart with no good reason other than the fact that they are lazy, blocking the aisles and asking me to hand them things they can't reach. If you have a handicap, FINE. Drive your cart. If you are just a damn slacker, get your ass up and get your own fucking can of spaghetti sauce.) Anyway. So, it's Tuesday and it looks like it's about to storm and the humidity outside is already a bitch, despite the fact that it's only May. I have a list of things to do, and it's my mother-in-law's birthday, so I have to get them all done and get back home in time for Sutton to take a decent nap and for us to get ready for dinner at their house tonight.

The Glitches Begin.
There's a funny smell (like dirty socks) in the bedroom that I cannot locate. I've checked the air vents. I've checked under the bed. I've checked pretty much everything. It's only in certain areas of the room, and it's inconsistent. Being a girl to whom scent is important (as I do not care for smelly things and will Febreeze them within an inch of their lives if necessary), this is a huge deal. So I spend the morning searching, yet again, for the mysterious odor. Eventually, I give up (for now). I make the decision that I will either force Blaker to locate the smell, like the slave driver I am, or I will just stay drunk enough anytime I am in my bedroom that I won't even notice the smell. It is my belief that Blaker will opt for the drunkenness, as alcohol tends to lead to me either taking off my clothes or putting on something trashy and dancing. Either way, it's probably better for him than having to crawl up in the attic and make sure nothing weird has begun to decompose over our bedroom.

With that settled, I go to dress Sutton. And spend about twenty minutes chasing him around the house (a fun, fun game) before I finally closeline his punkass and, while he's gasping for air, wrangle him into his shorts and t-shirt. There. Done. Loading everything into the car, I check our "To Do" list to see where all we need to go. Library. Gym. Target. We head out. In an unprecedented decision, we stop at the library first, which is very close to my house. (Normally, I save the library for last as an "I survived shopping and working out with Sutton, and now I deserve a few minutes of quiet" reward.) Why did we make this decision? Who knows. We go in. We have very little luck finding anything interesting, but still pick out a few things and leave.

Lighting Strikes
I chase Sutton through the parking lot, sit on him while I strap him in, load 9 books into the car, realize I have lost my library card, unstrap Sutt, trek back through the parking lot to see if I have dropped it, locate said card, repin Sutt, restrap Sutt, am informed that he needs to go potty, unstrap him again and take him in to potty, re-chase him through the parking lot, re-sit on him while I strap him in, treat a low blood sugar with jellybeans, and insert the key into the ignition.

My car won't start.

It won't turn over. It won't make a funny nose. It growl or sputter or heave. It just won't do anything.

I load up the kid, the books, my purse, my jellybean stash, and we walk home.

Points to Ponder

Lucky points:
It wasn't storming yet, although it was close.
I got stranded at the library, which is within walking distance when I COULD have gotten stuck at any of the other places on my list, which are NOT within walking distance.
I have enough alcohol to keep me drunk enough to not notice the smell for approximately a year.
Sutt did not obtain any permanent damages from the clotheslining.

Unlucky points:
My car is...um...dead. (And I present my amazing mechanical knowledge and automobile terminology.)
I had to walk home with 9 books and a 3-year-old who thinks he's a space ranger and who was wearing flip flops.
I'm kind of screwed as far as running my errands.
When I first wake up in the morning, I will (most likely) be sober and be able to smell the funny smell if I don't locate and eradicate it.
Child Protective Services will most likely arrest me for clotheslining my son if they read this.

So there you have it. Optimist? Pessimist? (Or, like me, a Realist?)

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The Roof Is On Fire

Do you ever wish you could just not be yourself for a little while? Not be someone else, not give up the things in your life, good or bad--just, for a few hours, not be you?

That's what I'm doing right now. Wishing, that is.

I'm feeling kind of burnt out on my life at this moment. It's not the fault of Blaker, or the kids (they are fine, I'm still lucky to have them). It's more that there's just been so much going on in the past year that it's worn me the hell out. I'm exhausted and jaded. I don't need a vacation, per se, where I lie on the beach sipping Corona with the husband (although if that were to happen, I certainly wouldn't complain). I need a vacation from being ME. I need a day or evening or, hell, two-hour block where I'm nobody's Mommy, wife, daughter, sister, friend. I'm nothing. And I need that nothing to have no impact on the rest of my life. I don't want to give up anything I have. I just need a break.

Some of you are aware of what's been going on the past week--to give you a taste of where I'm at at this moment, we've had: a death in the family (more cancer), a kid with an eye infection, a computer that finally keeled over and died, taking a lot of our stuff with it, drama with my Mama (yes, that's supposed to rhyme), I've been sick.....it's been a lot. It IS a lot. I also have a friend who is MIA and company on the way to VA. It's relentless, this abominable 2009. Is there any way out? For just a little while?

Monday, May 18, 2009

Let's Get Physic(s)al

My junior year of high school, it came to my attention that I was probably never going to be on time for school. It wasn't an issue of getting up too late (I didn't) or missing the bus (I had my own car) or spending too much time primping (I can be ready for anything in 10 minutes flat), but rather that I just wasn't interested in being there on time, dealing with the traffic, walking through the hoards of other students in A Hall......basically, why work myself around school when I could work school around me? Bottom line, I needed to be an aide first period. I was a good kid, teachers liked me, so finding someone to sponsor me as their aide wasn't a problem. The problem came in the form of PHYSICS CLASS.

Now, I wanted to take Physics. Although science doesn't really interest me, I'm smart, and the smart kids took Physics. The stumbling block was that, due to a shortage of kids who had actually taken the prerequisites for Physics, there was only one (small) Physics class. And it was held first period. Despite my innocent exterior (oh, how I pulled the wool over everyone's eyes--Fools! Fools, you all were!) I was pretty sure I couldn't bat my eyes at Mr. Corvin (the Physics teacher) and convince him that he should let me take Physics, miss class whenever I felt like it, and when I DID bother to show up, be able to wander in on my own time. For a man whose entire wardrobe was rayon and patent leather, that just wasn't going to fly. I had to find a back-up plan.

Turns out, my high school boyfriend, Brad, and many of my friends were in that Physics class. And it had a very large window that looked out on the lot where I parked. So, I made it a point to show up for the first few days, then after that, I sort of came and went as I pleased--through the window, no less. I wasn't on the class roll--I was listed as being an office aide that period. Brad gave me the assignments, let me know if I was going to miss anything entertaining, and let me cheat off of him during pop quizzes if I hadn't been there for the material. (In return, he had the honor of dating a cheerleader. I am not joking. This sounds like nothing, but it was apparently important to him. Go figure.) It took Mr. Corvin two entire six-week grading periods to finally figure out that I wasn't really in his class. At which point he promptly kicked me out, told me I couldn't come back, and sent a note to the office regarding my shenanigans. Nothing ever came of it. (And I still snuck in all the time to hang out with my friends.)

The point is.......well, there isn't one, really. I just think it's a funny story. But it's true. Oh, and when I got kicked out, I had an A average. I should have had Physics on my transcript. Bastards.

Friday, May 15, 2009

An Inadvertent (Starr) Trip

I like to save my crazy for later. That way, you've already got somebody hooked before you potentially scare the hell out of them. Apparently, though, there are many, many people in the immediate area who are not quite so choosy in when they allow their freak flag to fly.

I present to you:

1. On the way to the bank, Sutton and I passed a woman mowing her yard. In heels. While carrying a large, designer (authentic or not, who the hell knows) handbag. The house was a small, older brick ranch. Nothing fancy or pretentious. Certainly nothing that warranted couture lawn care. The woman was older, using a push-mower, and wearing what would appear to be yard work clothes, EXCEPT for the hot pink heels and the Coach bag. Now, being the kind of girl I am, I've been known to clean the house in my peep-toe stilettos. There's nothing wrong with bringing a little sexy into your chores. But girlfriend needs to know that mowing the grass in those heels will absolutely ruin them, and as for the purse.....well, I won't even go there.

2. At T.J. Maxx, Sutton and I were perusing the kitchenware, looking for a milk frother. (I'm well aware that this was a long shot, but dude, you never know. And in case you're curious, I did not find one. I did, however, find an espresso maker that I bought but will have to return because I purchased a much better one shortly after at another establishment.) As we turned down the aisle that contained the dishware, we saw a middle-aged Asian woman wearing shorts and a tank top. With her hand down the front of her pants. Yep, you heard me. Obtaining a cheap thrill amongst the serving platters? Who knows. We booked it the hell out of there.

3. Standing in line at Burger King, Sutton and I found ourselves to be the only patrons of non-Hispanic heritage in the entire establishment. Sutt was dead set on having a talking miniature Star Trek toy (sadly, I sense a Trekkie in my future), so we were patiently waiting for his kid's meal to be assembled so we could get the hell out of dodge. As I took the bag and turned around to walk away, I noticed the Hispanic guy behind me (who, oddly enough, was wearing construction gear yet also a hairnet) was giving me a pretty serious eye fuck. With his mildly rotund chica (wearing a skirt short enough that I could pretty much see her business and a camisole that showed more cleavage than it covered) standing beside him. Somewhat aware that I was wearing an expression of mild horror, I glanced at the girl. "Whore, " she sneered at me. (For the record, I prefer "crazy whore," but since I didn't want to get my ass kicked in Burger King, I kept that to myself. And, besides, who, while dressed like something you'd find on a Tijuana street corner, can reasonably call me a whore, in my black capris and red babydoll shirt? Nobody, punta. That's right. You heard me. You just wait until I run into you again when I DO feel like getting my ass kicked. It's ON then.)

4. So we're finally at the grocery store. All we need is espresso. (Yes, it's an addiction. Yes, I need help. No, I have no plans to get help. Back off.) I walk in, grab a cart, situate the Sutt, and see.......a very large woman wearing an orange-and-white string bikini covered only by a very small (think handkerchief sized) sarong. Wearing heels. Carrying a basket. Doing her grocery shopping. You know what? I'm built okay. I have a decent body. But at no time, now or ever, will you see me grocery shopping in a bikini. Judgemental? Potentially. But, damn.

5. Running an errand down Nansemond Parkway, Sutt and I pass a small, unassuming house with a very grand, rather assuming fountain adorning the front yard. Three tiers and a large serpent-man statue stand proudly in the middle of the pool, which is probably 8 or 9 feet across. And the serpent-man is wearing a gas mask. And dogtags. And an army helmet. I kid you not. I thought you only saw Memorial Day decorations of that caliber in Tennessee. Clearly, I was wrong.

6. Finally on our way home. Sutt and I are cruising through Pughsville (aka, the ghetto) when we spy a man coming at us in the other lane on a bicycle. With a push mower bungee-corded down to the handlebars of his bike, and the handle of the mower folded flat and protruding out in front of him. How in the hell......? (There is no end to the questions this raises in my head: How did he get it on there? How does it balance? If he falls, will it sever something? Is this for sport? Am I important enough to be getting Punk'd? Probably not.)

7. Home. In my driveway, there lay a chunk of blue sidewalk chalk recently abandoned by my children. As I pulled Sutton from his carseat, he starts to yell, "Look! Look at that blue roly-poly bug! Don't kill it!" I like to think the crazy he was exposed to just wore the poor little fellow down. He had no choice. Ah, me. Thank Goodness It's Friday.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

It's Too Far Away For Me To Hold. Guess I'll Let It Go.

Fuel lyrics, anyone?

The song "Shimmer" always makes me reassess my life--what I've fought for, what I continue to fight for, and for what I will choose to fight in the future. Obviously, I would give anything for my children--my life, my breath, even my soul (God, if you're a fan of my blog, sorry, Dude). But what else in the world would I give for without hesitation?

Not damn much.

Which begs the question, what does that say about me?

Since I've been old enough to drive, I've always tried to help stray dogs. Get them away from the road so they don't get hit, feed them whatever I have, find them homes--whatever I can do. Stray dogs rip at my heartstrings. Granted, most of the ones I've stopped for run from me and I don't end up doing anything for them, but at least I know I tried. The day that I took my Dad to Duke for his second opinion on the cancer--December 2--we saw a stray dog on the way home off of Highway 58. It was starving, bony and pitiful. Only two hours before I had sat in a room with four doctors who had looked me in the eye with not one shred of emotion and told me there was absolutely nothing they could do for my Dad, while he sat next to me looking defeated, then got in the car alone with him and silently driven back. You would have thought the desire to help when I saw the dog--to control SOMETHING--would have spurred me into stopping immediately. But I didn't. I didn't even care. What does that say about me?

Maybe I've used up all of my compassion. Maybe I never had enough in the first place. All I know is that there seems to be less worth fighting for every single day.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

I'm a Wicked Girl

For Mother's Day, Blaker bought me: a giant purple glass vase thingie that I had been coveting for a while, and that looks FABULOUS next to the fireplace; a robe that I had been coveting that looks SUPER CUTE on me; and......(trumpets, please) tickets to see WICKED during its Broadway Across America run.

First of all, yes, that's a lot of stuff. Second of all, no, I don't know why he gave me so much stuff, although I like to contribute it to my prowess in the bedroom. (Unfortunately, I suspect it's highly likely that that reason exists only in my own head.) Maybe he just feels bad because Christmas blew so badly last year, along with all parts of 2009. Or maybe, I'm just a WAY more awesome wife than I realize. After all, I DO pack his lunch every day, and I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Anyway.

The important thing is that I get to see Wicked.

For those that know me well, one might deduce that Wicked would not appeal to me all that much. While I'm a girl who can appreciate a good opera, I generally think musicals are quite boring. Likewise, crowds freak me the hell out, make me internally (and sometimes externally) scream, "Mayday! Mayday! Permission to retreat!" (no joke, this has actually happened) and there is sure to be a crowd there. But, dude, it's WICKED! Do you KNOW how badly I wish I could be a witch? Not part of that Wiccan nonsense-- (for any Wiccans I may have offended, I appreciate that you are practicing a religion, and I support you in your tree-hugging, granola eating, Mother Earth celebrating ways) but a real, live, fly-around-on-a-freakin' broom and wear-a pointy-hat-kind-of-witch. I want to cackle and put spells on people and have my own large team of flying monkeys (other than the two I'm presently raising). Oh, yes. I want to be a witchy woman.

Besides, I bet I could make those striped tights look damn sexy.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Russian Roulette Is Not the Same Without a Gun


1. Jean and the Magic Coffee: On Wednesday, after Bible Study, Jean invited Heather, Tanya and I back to her house for MAGIC COFFEE. (Please note: As I recently explained to my Mom, "magic coffee" is not laced with any kind of drugs or alcohol. It's just REALLY GOOD COFFEE that Jean has imported from Italy--where she used to live-- and then makes with her super cool little Italian coffee pot and hand-frother. I call it "magic coffee" because it's easily the best coffee I've ever had and looks complicated to make, although Jean claims it is not. It's definitely not Dunkin' Donuts in my Gevalia stainless steel.) Perhaps someday I, too, will be awesome enough to create MAGIC COFFEE. Unfortunately, that day is yet to come.

2. Tornado Watches Thwart Soccer Practice: No practice Wednesday night as we are inundated by storms and crazy weather. Which means less soccer, more dinner at La Tolteca followed browsing the library and a REALLY good red wine that we just discovered.

3. Have I Told You Lately That I'm Awesome: My 3-mile treadmill excursion is now completed at a steady heart rate of 120. I'm not even out of breath when I finish AND since I've been stuck on the HG-TV treadmill, I also have learned how to re-tile my bathroom, should I ever choose to do so.

4. Eulogy for a Caterpillar: One of the cocoons Bellamy's kindergarten class is studying falls to its death mid-Language Arts. Mayhem ensues. Bellamy and I write a eulogy for the fallen cocoon in an attempt to ease the pain.

5. Shake Your Money Maker: I learn that I am the only one of my friends who knows how to mix a decent cocktail. I plan a girls' night to teach all the other girls how to become alcoholics like me.

6. TGIF: Bellamy has plans to go home with her friend Ally on Friday and stay until after dinner. Pops and GrandGrabs have plans to keep them overnight. Date night at the McPhails.

7. Date Night #2: My foresight and insomnia enabled me to register the kids for Parents' Night Out at the Y for Saturday. If you don't register the kids at 4am when registration opens, you're screwed. I, however, don't' sleep. SO, 6-9:30pm on Saturday, Date Night #2 (Oh, the insanity!)

8. Sunday is Mother's Day. While I have plans to make a key lime pie and potato salad and go to my in-laws, I secretly want to spend the day in my ginormous bathtub with a good book and a bottle of wine. We shall see what desires prevail.

Try not to envy my rockstarr life.