Let’s say yesterday was the day you decided to fix the bush that Husband took a weed whacker to last summer.
Let’s say you went outside with your pruning shears and a brown bag for the cuttings to go into. Let’s say you were doing a fantastic job trimming his mess and getting the bush to look more like a round clump than a mutated octagon clump. Let’s say you were humming and have a great time sniping here and snipping there, the blustery warm wind whipping around your hair. Let’s say you were feeling pretty smug about your technique and were putting together your statement of "I’m more awesome than you because..." that you were planning on springing on Husband the minute he walked in the door.
Then, let’s say mother nature decided you were being an ass and had the wind move the bush just as you snipped and a large LARGE chunk of bush came off in your hand leaving a hole in your otherwise round and fluffy bush.
There is no way to fix that! No amount of pulling this branch this way and that branch that way will fix a hole the size of my head in a bush. This ain't no head of hair. No comb over will work to cover this mess.
So let's say now the bushes are still totally uneven, look like a donut from above but are a bit less wonky than before. After a lifetime of haircuts that started with "I'll just fix this side. Oops. I just fix that side. Oops." and ended with "Annnnd now I'm bald." at least you stopped snipping and came inside.
Mother Nature and Karma =1
You and ego = 0
Then, let’s say that the tornado watch warning thing the news had been harping on all day actually turned into this massively awesomely scary storm that was so windy it made the holey bush dance. And the lighting was like nothing you’ve seen before. As if the trees were celebrities and the lighting was the flashes from cameras lighting them up. At times, it was full on daylight out there. Let's say you were wickedly impressed and humbled while you sat by the window and watched the show.
Mother Nature = winner of everything
You = in awe
So, we’re in the homestretch with the kitchen. Tuesday the knobs were put in and the trim was installed and the new refrigerator and oven/microwave finally made it out of snowed in Atlanta and into our house. I got home from work and it was pretty and shiny – okay, it was pretty and everything was covered in a layer of fine white dust but it was closer to done. I was giddy with the possibility of food made by me and not in any of the restaurants we’ve been frequenting in the last FIVE months. And then, Husband asked me to help him moving the new fridge from the den into it’s new home in the pretty kitchen. The fridge was in its Styrofoam packaging and the floor covered in Ram Board floor protection. No problem, right? Wrong. Sure, it was pretty easy to shuffle across the floor and then we got the counter area where things got tight and Husband got shouty.
ME: I AM pushing!
HUSBAND: PUSH HARDER
ME – under my breath: @#%#$^% I’ll push you #$%# harder you $%#$^@$!
I tapped out and left the room to put the copious amounts of Styrofoam packaging in the garbage and Husband finished the job.
So, that went well.
I HATE doing projects with husband. HATE! We’re not one of those couples you see in the home depot or Lowes commercials enjoying the wonder of painting walls or building decks. We are the couple on those house flipping shows – or those flippin’ house shows having arguments about tile and bathroom grout. We fight every time. EVERY. TIME.
He thinks I talk too much. He thinks I ask too many questions. I think he’s an ass.
He’ll ask me if I’m holding something and then yell at me when I don’t have the strength of a 200lb weight lifter and the thing I’m supposed to be holding slips. And I’ll yell back “I was holding it! That this is all I could hold.” And then I’m upset and he’s grumpy and we can’t stop and hug it out because we’re holding the stupid thing and I don’t like hugging when I’m mad and I don’t like him and he thinks I’m doing it on purpose and it’s just awesome.
AND it doesn’t help that Husband over-engineers things. Like the deck he made with five hundred postholes. The holes that required a two-person hole augur. A two-person auger with a gas pull start that I couldn’t pull so I was the holder while Husband pulled the gas. It went like this; he pulled the gas thing. I held for about a second and the weight of the stupid machine and the force of the drill thing was too much and I went spinning round with the auger and off into the dirt. Awesome. Just awesome. At one point the next-door neighbor leaned over the fence and asked if we were okay. And I actually said, “Nope. We might need a divorce lawyer.” And he laughed. And husband laughed. And I pretended to laugh as the tears welled up and spilled over my dusty lashes.
Around hole forty-nine, I contemplated killing him. Around hole ninety, I contemplated killing myself. It was a very long day that was EXACTLY like the day we put in gravel for our faux grass. And the day we mixed cement. And the day we put together the Murphy bed and I had to climb inside the closed bed to spring the spring. And the day... you get the idea. We do not play well together.
It doesn’t help that Husband starts these projects with me when at night when I’m done for the day. I’m a morning person. You want lovely assistant help with a cheery can-do attitude; don’t ask me to hold something at 8pm at night.
Like last night, when we tried to install the vent over the cooktop. And Husband told me to hold it. And I held it but I’m not He-man. And the vent moved. And the pipe moved. And then there was grunting and lots of huffing and someone was told to stop asking questions. Oh yea, that was me. And someone tried to lift the vent using two pieces of wood but didn’t tell the other someone what the plan was and the vent almost fell on someone’s head. Oh yea, that was me. And someone tried to figure out why she was married and what life would be like without him in it. Oh yea, that was me.
Heck, it was probably him too but this is MY rant about how hard life is FOR ME!
I have no finish for this rambling rant of a post. The post I’m typing in my pretty new kitchen that is still covered in a layer of dust. The pretty new kitchen that is missing the oven/microwave thing that is on tonight’s install list. I am very much not looking forward to that. It’s a good thing that husband has invited a friend to witness – sorry - help us with the debacle that will be that project. I will attempt to keep my mouth shut and smile pretty while I imagine life with my next Mr. Husband in a house that is move in ready. Happy thoughts...
What the heck is happening with the kids of today? Yesterday, I had more than one parent tell me about their teenage girl posting naked selfies and having sex and/or trading sexual favors for drugs.
WHAT THE HECK?!?
Do they not know the Internet is FOREVER? Have they not read a single paper – okay, of course they haven’t. Have they not read a single article written for their short attention span brains with GIF memes things that shows them that the Internet is forever? Have they not heard about teachers who stripped or did porn in college that are now losing their jobs because their students are finding the pictures? Or teachers who are getting caught having sex with their students and convicted because the proof is in the text messages? Or teens that are killing themselves because a picture from a drunken party has made it online? Have they not seen a single picture of what a sexually transmitted disease looks like when it mutates and pusses and gets all ‘Worst case of...’ Have they? I can find these things just by reading the Daily Mail or Facebook.
WHY IS COMMON SENSE SKIPPING THIS GENERATION?
Thank whomever you believe in that the Internet did not exist when we were kids. When my friends and I drank that bottle of tequila and I passed out in the circles on the way home and Kate kept trying to pull me off the street by my belt loops. The next day, with all my belt loops broken on my favorite jeans and my hips and thighs the color of eggplant, I would have DIED to see a picture of me floating around school. School was hard enough to get through with my semi-Afro and inability to form sentences in front of boys. A picture of me looking a fool would not have helped me make it out of there alive.
And having sex? Or trading sexual favors for pot? Heck, doing pot? At thirteen? THIRTEEN!!! WHAT IN THE HECK?
At thirteen I was all braces and bushy Afro hair and body odor and new boobs and just an awkward hot mess. The closest I got to “having sex” was the one time that boy I had a crush on but couldn’t speak to – who, by the way, was in love with my best friend - held my hand at the amusement park on the scary ride I went on with him instead of her because she was too scared. If it weren’t for the Drop Zone, I wouldn’t have gotten to - what base is holding the sweaty hand of your best friends boyfriend on a scary ride? Hum? Perhaps the bench on the sidelines near the baseball park? I got to that base!
The worst thing is that she was “in like” with him too – but only AFTER she found out I was “in like” with him. Then she went out with him and kissed him and did whatever you do at thirteen with a boy that isn’t trading sexual favors for pot and posting evidence on the Internet. My best friend then wasn’t very nice. She made me sit and watch them make out once. Put her back against the door and made out with him and wouldn’t let me leave the room. Talk about awkward. Perhaps I’ll bring that up with him on Facebook… kidding.
Anyway, aside from watching them kiss, I knew no one in middle school who was having “the sex” or doing “the drugs.” (You have to say those things in a hushed whisper while looking around to make sure no one is listening. I still say them that way.) Okay, sure there was that rumor that ‘that girl’ was pregnant and sure, some of the cool kids were likely drinking but sex and drugs were just these abstract concepts that we read about in the pamphlets they gave us as warnings in school. They were the reality when we were “older” but now, they were not part of our everyday life. And when we eventually did the stupid things they warned us about, there wouldn’t be pictures on the Internet haunting us FOREVER.
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here… Hide your daughters until they have brains again, until their need to fit in with the cool crowd passes. Lock your sons up until that rush of hormones becomes less of a torrential river and more of a faucet you can turn off. Hide all the electronic devices – after they show you how to use them – and never let them get on Facebook. It is bad out there and the children – hopefully not your children - are stupid at an earlier age. And they are posting proof of their stupidity on the Internet where it will be FOREVER…
I am SO glad I just have a dog.
I have an iPhone that sends me updates on my screen while it’s locked so I can decide if it’s worth unlocking the phone right then and there of if I should wait until a time when I’m not pretending to do something else. Usually I feel the buzz of the message on my butt cheek, fumble for the phone while trying not to drop whatever is in my hand, read the message and then slide it back into my too tight back pocket. Once, after checking it while I was driving, having to abruptly screech to a stop resulting in the top of my vente' cup of peppermint mocha exploding off and the contents spilling all over the floor of the car and me, I learned never to do to check while driving. Especially when, even after a very thorough cleaning by husband, my car floor turned into a science experiment on mushroom growth. To this day, despite Husband replacing the carpet, my car will occasionally smell like mint chocolate…
Yesterday, the phone buzzed while I was carrying my cup of tea. I carefully put it down before reaching for the phone in my back pocket. While turning to sit, I turned the phone right side up and read the message on the screen.
And burst out laughing and promptly missed my chair resulting in an Abbott and Costello like comedy routine with the chair, the floor and me. Luckily the tea was safe on the desk.
My friend C that sent the message has always has a way with words and with timing. He has a fantastically deep voice and can drawl out a syllable, making it sound like liquid chocolate. He can insult you and you’ll thank him, he’s so eloquent with a phrase and snarky enough to use honey when he stings. C seldom needs to cuss because his special talent is the ability to turn any word into a curse word with tone, pace and intent. One summer he turned the word “fantastic” into a multi-layered insult that would instantly turn the cluster fuck we were in into a brilliant TV sitcom.
My topic in this rambling post today - Cussing.
I cuss a lot in my real life. I think it might be because I work with children and spend my much of my day trying to moderate my language. The end result is, my down time is like a pressure cooker released and I liberally pepper every sentence with words that would force my Grandmother to wash my mouth with soap. I also have a hard time getting my thoughts out and find, when I’m stuck in when speaking, a cuss word will fill the space in a way no “um…” cannot.
But, when I write, I am so very aware of how crude a cuss word is and how much of a cop out it can be. I try not to use profanity or, when I do, I try to take the sting out of them with an * or **.
But there are times a good “Fuck!” can really make a point. (Yes, I'm aware that without punctuation, that sentence would be a totally different statement!) Without use of the word ‘Fuck’, a word he never really uses, my text from C would have not resulted in a belly laugh that put me on the floor. So, however you choose to be profane, be it with curse words or, like C, with slow drawl, tone and intent, I may laugh but I will not judge.
Well, at least I won’t judge out fucking loud. (Sorry Grandmother)
THREE YR OLD: Do you eat a lot of snacks?
ME: I do.
THREE YR OLD: A lot of them?
ME: I probably eat too many snacks.
THREE YR OLD: Do you eat ALL the snacks?
ME: I do eat all the snacks.
THREE YR OLD: Does your tummy hurt?
ME: Well, it sure doesn’t feel good.
THREE YR OLD: It hurts?
ME: Well, it is big. There are a lot of snacks in there.
THREE YR OLD: No. That’s a baby. That’s a baby in there.
Well - I guess it’s time to take down my pretty card tree, admit it’s no longer the holidays, and move on with the ‘eating healthier’ plan.
Perhaps the clue a change needed to happen should have been the romantic gift from Husband for Valentine’s Day. Like toddler who walked in with a very matter of fact face and, while shaking his head sadly, said to me -
TODDLER: I's sorry I didn bing you fowers...
Husband didn’t bring me flowers either. He brought me a six-pack of Hard Lemonade and a bag of potato chips. And I loved them.
But that was before Three Year Old thought I looked pregnant.
A friend of ours has lost 40lbs. in the last six months just from changing the way she eats. She's removed carbs, refined sugar and refined grains, "anything thing that man has refined or screwed with" and she is a happier healthier person. And yes, the pounds dropped are exciting, but really, the change in her energy and state of mind is what I find so remarkable. I would like to be approaching my life with her zoom and pep instead of my current state of sigh and meander.
So, thank you, dear Three Year Old. Message received.
Perhaps today is the day I begin the plan to substitute out refined grain for a fruit or a vegetable. I need to start somewhere. Or husband will have to buy the whole snack section for our anniversary. And that Three Year Old is going to think I’ve got the gestational cycle of an elephant!
So. A French fry is a vegetable, right?
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me