Life is all about choices.
After your choice comes the inevitable ‘follow through’. You take some sort of action – be it passive or aggressive. And then comes everyone’s favorite part: consequences. Right or wrong, good or bad – everything has a consequence. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yes?
Alright then. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, you know someone that knows someone. And the someone you know works with a woman. Allegedly this woman is a nice woman, if a little nerve grating from time to time. However, as much as the someone you know likes this woman they cannot help but be a tad disturbed by her ... habits.
See, this someone you know was in the bathroom they share with this woman. They were a bit bored, because sometimes the gopher shits take awhile, so they decided to go through the drawers of a cabinet right in front of the toilet. Previously they’d only ever opened the top drawer because it’s where they store their feminine hygiene products, but that day they were curious. Upon opening the bottom drawer they noticed a box of wet wipes and they were pleased because everyone knows that wet wipes are the best invention ever, second only to The Bullet (The zzzzzzz kind, not the POW kind).
But upon further investigation they noticed several clear, plastic Ziploc bags stashed behind the wet wipe box. The bags appeared to have been there for awhile, condensation was visible on the inside plastic. Upon even further investigation it was noted that these bags contained wadded up pairs of women’s underwear matted together with, well, shit and mold. They then yelled, “Holy mother of gawd! *gag*”
Now, it’s safe to say that this someone you know got what they deserved for being nosy: disgust, embarrassment, and the hardship of keeping a straight face every time someone says “shit” in the office. However, you can also argue that this is a shared bathroom and the drawers are now communal property. (And by drawers I mean the pull out kind, not the shitty kind.)
Now, herein lies the problem: Does this person you know tell the woman that they know about her dirty little secret? Do they hint around so that she cleans out the drawers (both kinds, if we’re being technical)? Or do they continue to keep silent and check to make sure they are still there, turning it into a running joke with their friends: “Who had $20 on three months? You lose! It’s been 4 and they’re still there! Who wants $10 on ‘the collection will be added to by 5 months’?”
Whatever choice they make, there will be another consequence and another. Until eventually they’re old enough to understand what it’s like to lose control of their bowels and start shitting in their own drawers, though hopefully they dispose of them properly. Is life depressing or what?
How are some people so decisive when there are all these choices?
Let’s try another one. Something a little different.
Let’s say that, hypothetically, you haven’t had sex since New Year’s Eve. And even though it was sex, it wasn’t great sex. And the guy was a complete tool bag man whore masquerading as a nice guy and he stabbed your clitoris, repeatedly and viciously, like the Romans stabbed Caesar. Et tu Bruté?
Let’s also say that you’re trying this new thing called getting to know a person before you fuck their brains out. You’re trying to be mature. You’re trying not to act on a sexual whim or 8 liquor drinks and a bong hit. You kind of want to remember who, what, when, where, and how the hell he did that thing with his...whatever. You’re not slutting it up anymore. High five to well-behaved, classy you!
However, here’s the crux of the matter: You’re dying. Not literally dying, but seriously, if you don’t get screwed by something that doesn’t take batteries they might put you in a mental hospital and change your middle name to ARGHHHHHHHHH!, because that’s all you ever say anymore. Everyone thinks you’re bipolar or schizophrenic, but you aren’t. You’re suffering from NoDick Disease. To complicate matters, you’re actually about to get more alone time than you ever get. Also, you may or may not have a ridiculous crush on someone that you totally shouldn’t have a crush on and you couldn’t sleep with them right now even if you wanted to.
So do you go back on your promise to yourself, go out and pick up a six foot, green eyed cure with a David Copperfield complex (Surprise! He’s in there!)? Or do you continue biting the heads off of random passersby, because they look like they just got plowed, until you finally meet someone, date them, and then fuck their brains out?
If you just do it you may get satisfied, but then again you may not. Either way, you’ll eventually be slapping yourself silly because you totally ruined your well-behaved, classy plan.
The consequences are a motherfucker on this one either way you go, right? Maybe you should just go back to your old routine: Do it. Like it. Don’t care. Suffer the consequences. Still not care. Do it again. But no, it’s still a cycle! Sigh.
Last one. This is super hard, you guys. I know. My head hurts too.
Let’s say that, hypothetically, you and your five year old kid live with your mom and teenage sister. Said teenage sister is, like, ohmigawd, so perfect! You’ve always tried to relate to her, but it makes your head hurt. Until recently you never really had anything to talk about.
But now all of a sudden you’re being sought after for sexual counseling and advice, and being asked to fill the role of the mom that's popping Xanax like skittles and sticking her head in the sand because “no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-will-ever-have-sex-nononononono” by taking said teenager to the health department for birth control. And then your nosy nature, combined with all of this sisterly bonding, suddenly culminates in the form of a cell phone video you wish to gawd you had never opened *gag* vagina *gag*...hold on a minute, please.
Ok. *deep breaths* Lalalalalalabia. In-out-in-out. *gag*
Sorry. Let’s continue.
So now you’re supposed to be the cool older sister that’s completely ok with this pimply fucker hanging around all the time and railing your sibling and talking about it to all of his friends, but you aren’t allowed to talk about it to your friends because she’s, like, ohmigawd, so perfect and no one can ever know. And she starts fucking up all the time and getting caught doing stupid shit, but everyone brushes it under the rug and she never gets punished, unlike you at that age, who totally got locked in the guest room and bitch slapped into next week.
So you take all of that angst and confusion and combine it with this most recent issue.
You’re in charge while the teenager goes to the prom. You’re supposed to monitor the time she comes in and make sure there’s no funny business going on. On one hand, you were totally doing funny business at that age and thoroughly enjoying it. On the other hand, you totally got knocked up and had to move back in with your mother. You understand the shit she’s going through, but you feel like you have to be the adult in this situation, ok.
She actually comes home at a decent hour, boyfriend in tow, to watch movies. She’s also brought along a friend and her friend’s date too. You’re completely fine with this because: A) you’re sitting on your porch getting shitfaced drunk on wine while having a fascinating four hour long phone conversation with a stranger and B) what are they possibly going to do with you RIGHT there and with their friends RIGHT there.
Everything is fine. Everyone leaves. You pass out. You wake up the next morning, pick up the kid from the non-in-laws, and park her in the other room to play while you nurse your killer headache.
But that evening you’re cleaning up the kid’s playroom and there’s a bright yellow wrapper on the floor. You pick it up and it’s an empty, torn open Trojan condom packet. You gasp and yell for the obviously guilty party. She comes in, angry at being interrupted from staring at herself in the mirror. You hold up the evidence and she immediately claims, “That’s not mine!”
“Who the fuck does it belong to then”, you say.
She rattles off the names of her friends that were there last night.
You blanch. “You mean to tell me that you let them fuck on my daughter’s playroom floor?”
“I didn’t know”, she whispers.
You are livid for many reasons: How dare someone else get laid in this house when you aren’t getting any? How dare some teenage kid deliberately bring her boyfriend over and secretly have sex in this house? How disrespectful is that? How dare your sister let them do it? IN YOUR KID’S PLAYROOM where she’s been playing ALL DAY! There could be jizz hiding anywhere! In her kitchen set teacups! You were sitting on the porch. Right there!
Before you have time to think about anything else, you decide not to mention it to your mother. Then later, once it’s percolated, you realize a few things: You’re an adult. You were technically responsible for these kids. Maybe you should say something and let them suffer the consequences, just like you had to when you were a disrespectful little shit. Or maybe you should continue to be the cooler, understanding older sister.
You demand an apology from the teenage friend and force your sister to listen to three, randomly spaced, thirty minute monologues about how much she sucks, her friends suck, her boyfriend sucks, and it sucks being an adult that has to deal with this shit and FUCK, you don’t want to think about it anymore.
And yet you continue to wonder, even after its pretty much over, if you should have done things differently. Because right now the consequences you’re suffering from are a slightly guilty conscious and the urge to vomit.
What kind of choices would you guys have made?
Of course, this is all completely hypothetical.
Showing posts with label vomit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vomit. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
When everything turns to shit
Usually when I say “I’m very busy and important” I’m being ridiculous, but lately it’s been completely true. I’ve had meetings constantly about this new database and somehow I’ve become the go-to girl. I’m not under any illusion that this is because I’m smart. It’s likely because no one else wants to deal with it and they know they can push it off on me and it will get done. That and they like sitting in my office and staring at my cleavage.
A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.
I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.
I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.
The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.
Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…
That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.
Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.
I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.
I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.
The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”
“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”
I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.
That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.
As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.
I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.
“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”
I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.
I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.
While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”
“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.
“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”
“I didn’t do that either”, she said.
“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”
CLICK.
Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.
I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.
I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.
And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.
The only way was to get on my knees.
And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.
After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.
I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.
“I’m hungry”, she said.
I stared at her in disgust.
“What?”
Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.
“What’s…oh…oh!”
That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.
After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”
“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.
“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.
The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.
“Mom”, she said.
“What honey?”
“It still smells like shit in here.”
*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*
A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.
I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.
I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.
The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.
Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…
That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.
Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.
I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.
I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.
The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”
“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”
I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.
That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.
As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.
I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.
“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”
I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.
I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.
While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”
“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.
“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”
“I didn’t do that either”, she said.
“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”
CLICK.
Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.
I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.
I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.
And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.
The only way was to get on my knees.
And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.
After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.
I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.
“I’m hungry”, she said.
I stared at her in disgust.
“What?”
Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.
“What’s…oh…oh!”
That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.
After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”
“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.
“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.
The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.
“Mom”, she said.
“What honey?”
“It still smells like shit in here.”
*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
The morning from hell
I’ve never been a morning person.
Unless, of course:
- Something I’m really, really looking forward to is happening that day.
- I’m still drunk from the night before and haven’t actually been to sleep.
- I’ve just had sex and I’m being woken up to have more sex.
That’s about it. Getting out of bed in the morning is one of the hardest things for me to do. It really brings out my temper. I can usually control myself quite well, but in the mornings it’s hit or miss. I try not to speak to anyone and they generally try not to speak to me. But for some reason, this unspoken rule doesn’t seem to apply to my mom’s boyfriend Ray.
People that are chipper in the morning piss me off. Just what the fuck do you have to be so happy about? The same routine happens every day. Except maybe it’s raining or maybe the dryer is making a strange noise so everyone is afraid to use it should it just happen to blow up and you have to actually iron your pants instead of fluff them. Ironing pisses me off.
I’m supposed to be the first person up, but it doesn’t always happen that way due to the invention of snooze buttons. The next person awake is Ray.
I’m not sure what his routine consists of exactly, but it sounds like a herd of buffalo are mauling each other in the kitchen. Then there’s the whistling and loud singing. Every morning. Seriously? You’re going to WHISTLE right outside my door? You have that much disregard for your ballsack? And singing “The sun will come out tomorrow”? Really?
Cue clenched fists, eyes rolled heavenward, teeth grinding, and big breaths.
This morning my alarm went off at 4:30 as usual. I beat it into submission every 15 minutes until I finally rolled out of the bed at 5:30. I could hear Ray pounding around and whistling in the kitchen. I padded across the room, poured contact solution in my eyes, and went straight for the coffee pot.
He paused in his whistling long enough to look at me, laugh and say, “Good morning!”
“Fuck off”, I growled at him.
He continued out the door, whistling his death song, and I continued toward the bathroom where I caught the first glimpse of myself. Hair stood up in all directions, one stubborn curl hung directly down the middle of my forehead and there were crease marks on my face. Nothing different there.
I was peeing (which I know you like to hear all about) when my cat Nugget came and stood with his front paws on my leg. “Eeeugh”, he said, because he can’t meow properly you know.
“Go ‘way Nug”, I grumbled as I shook him off my leg. He sat at my feet, his big green eyes staring up at me accusingly. Then he promptly vomited Purina cat food all over the toes of my right foot. I screamed and gagged. I don’t do well with vomit.
When I stood up to hobble to the tub and clean it off, I accidentally stepped on his tail. He squalled, wrapped both of his hairy arms around my leg and started biting the shit out of me. I grabbed him and held him up in front of my face, “GODDAMNIT NUG! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!”
That’s about the time Ray came back in to grab his to-go coffee he’d left on the counter, heard the ruckus, and came to investigate. He and Nug are boyfriends, you see, and he won’t tolerate any Nugly abuse. So around the corner he came and there I stood, with the door open (because that’s how I roll) and my pajama pants around my ankles and puke on my foot, shaking my addled cat in the air and screaming in his face while he countered with “Eeugh eeugh eeugh” noises.
“Put him down!”
“Here!” I tossed him the cat and slammed the door. I heard him say, “It’s ok Nug”, in his animal voice.
You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t care who you are, when you talk to an animal that you like, you use a different tone. Sometimes one that’s so ridiculous it’s painful. Some people do it with children too. (Ray’s isn’t really that bad, but mine is. Maybe I should do a recording. I can just imagine your shock and horror.)
The rest of my morning routine went pretty smoothly until it was time to warm up the car. I opened the door and got smacked in the face with wind and rain and cold. Muttering under my breath, I backtracked and put on a jacket with a hood and tennis shoes. Upon reaching my car, I realized that my sister had parked so close to my passenger side that I wouldn’t be able to put the kid in the backseat. Muttering some more, I splashed over to the drivers side, got in, moved the car, and hurried back inside.
I went directly to my sister’s room. “If you ever park that close to me again, I’ll rip your face off.” (I swear I’m not usually a psycho shrew.)
She blinked at me, having just woken up. Another reason to hate her...she got 45 minutes more sleep than I did.
I bundled the kid, whining and sniveling about her coffee cup being empty and her TV show not being over, into her raincoat and herded her toward the door. I heard my sister in my mom’s room, “She said she’d rip my face off....”
I took our belongings out first and stashed them in the front seat and went back for the kid. I picked her up, carried her to the car, opened the back door and shoved her in her seat. She immediately started wailing.
“What? What? What happened?”
She continued to wail. The rain was pounding down on my back and ass as I was bent over her, searching for injury. “What? What happened?”
Finally, when I could feel it soaking past my jacket and into my shirt, she held out her little hand, covered in droplets of water and screamed, “I GOT ALL WET!”
OOOOK. Bite the tongue, shut the door, ignore ignore ignore.
I shut the door, walked around and got in my seat, dripping all over the interior. She’d stopped wailing and toned it down to the sniffles, which I also concentrated on ignoring.
I backed out, drove down our gravel road, took a left onto the main road, rounded the curve and slammed on breaks.
“What mama? What’s the matter?”
“Hold on kid.”
It was 6:40am and still pitch dark. My headlights were trained on an enormous tree lying across the entire length of the road.
Motherfucker.
I got out and stood in front of it, assessing the situation. If I waited for someone else to help me move it, I’d be late for work. If I moved it myself (there was no doubt in my mind I’d be able to move it myself because I’m hardcore like that), I’d probably get dirty. If I drove over it, I’d probably rip out that black piece that was still duct taped under the front. If I didn’t hurry and decide, I’d probably run out of gas before I made it to town. My idiot light was already on.
There was a split in the tree on my side of the road. I decided I’d kick it and see if could get it far enough out of the way to drive around. As I was kicking the tree, my neighbor pulled up on the opposite side. She poked her head out the window and said, “Want me to call somebody?”
“Who the fuck are you going to call?”
“Papa!”
“Yeah, because he’s going to get his fat old ass out here and move this tree”, I said still vigorously kicking.
I made a bit of progress, but realized that I would have to try and roll it out of the way with my hands.
While my neighbor watched from her car I started pushing on the tree, leaning into it, my shoes slipping on the pavement behind me as if I were on a treadmill. The tree was giving bit by tiny bit and the bark was biting into my hands. My boobs were falling out of my top, my clothes were soaked underneath my jacket and I could feel the wet creeping through to my underwear. And the whole time I was letting the tree have it: “You sorry sonofabitch! Fucking move! SHIT! MOVE GODDAMIT! I’m gonna...”
Threatening a tree must be bad karma because I never got to finish the rest. The next shove sent part of it rolling down the embankment and sent me belly flopping onto the dirty, wet asphalt.
I’m ashamed to admit that I might have kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Just for a minute. My neighbor was roaring with laughter. She’s used to my clumsy antics, but not to seeing a grown woman wallowing on the ground and screaming in frustration and anger.
On the plus side, I’d managed to push half of the tree out of the way and my path was clear. Unfortunately I was also filthy and soaked to the skin...which was going to make me late after all.
I picked myself up and returned home to change.
So, how was your morning? I’m kidding, I don’t really care. Didn’t you just read all that?
Unless, of course:
- Something I’m really, really looking forward to is happening that day.
- I’m still drunk from the night before and haven’t actually been to sleep.
- I’ve just had sex and I’m being woken up to have more sex.
That’s about it. Getting out of bed in the morning is one of the hardest things for me to do. It really brings out my temper. I can usually control myself quite well, but in the mornings it’s hit or miss. I try not to speak to anyone and they generally try not to speak to me. But for some reason, this unspoken rule doesn’t seem to apply to my mom’s boyfriend Ray.
People that are chipper in the morning piss me off. Just what the fuck do you have to be so happy about? The same routine happens every day. Except maybe it’s raining or maybe the dryer is making a strange noise so everyone is afraid to use it should it just happen to blow up and you have to actually iron your pants instead of fluff them. Ironing pisses me off.
I’m supposed to be the first person up, but it doesn’t always happen that way due to the invention of snooze buttons. The next person awake is Ray.
I’m not sure what his routine consists of exactly, but it sounds like a herd of buffalo are mauling each other in the kitchen. Then there’s the whistling and loud singing. Every morning. Seriously? You’re going to WHISTLE right outside my door? You have that much disregard for your ballsack? And singing “The sun will come out tomorrow”? Really?
Cue clenched fists, eyes rolled heavenward, teeth grinding, and big breaths.
This morning my alarm went off at 4:30 as usual. I beat it into submission every 15 minutes until I finally rolled out of the bed at 5:30. I could hear Ray pounding around and whistling in the kitchen. I padded across the room, poured contact solution in my eyes, and went straight for the coffee pot.
He paused in his whistling long enough to look at me, laugh and say, “Good morning!”
“Fuck off”, I growled at him.
He continued out the door, whistling his death song, and I continued toward the bathroom where I caught the first glimpse of myself. Hair stood up in all directions, one stubborn curl hung directly down the middle of my forehead and there were crease marks on my face. Nothing different there.
I was peeing (which I know you like to hear all about) when my cat Nugget came and stood with his front paws on my leg. “Eeeugh”, he said, because he can’t meow properly you know.
“Go ‘way Nug”, I grumbled as I shook him off my leg. He sat at my feet, his big green eyes staring up at me accusingly. Then he promptly vomited Purina cat food all over the toes of my right foot. I screamed and gagged. I don’t do well with vomit.
When I stood up to hobble to the tub and clean it off, I accidentally stepped on his tail. He squalled, wrapped both of his hairy arms around my leg and started biting the shit out of me. I grabbed him and held him up in front of my face, “GODDAMNIT NUG! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!”
That’s about the time Ray came back in to grab his to-go coffee he’d left on the counter, heard the ruckus, and came to investigate. He and Nug are boyfriends, you see, and he won’t tolerate any Nugly abuse. So around the corner he came and there I stood, with the door open (because that’s how I roll) and my pajama pants around my ankles and puke on my foot, shaking my addled cat in the air and screaming in his face while he countered with “Eeugh eeugh eeugh” noises.
“Put him down!”
“Here!” I tossed him the cat and slammed the door. I heard him say, “It’s ok Nug”, in his animal voice.
You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t care who you are, when you talk to an animal that you like, you use a different tone. Sometimes one that’s so ridiculous it’s painful. Some people do it with children too. (Ray’s isn’t really that bad, but mine is. Maybe I should do a recording. I can just imagine your shock and horror.)
The rest of my morning routine went pretty smoothly until it was time to warm up the car. I opened the door and got smacked in the face with wind and rain and cold. Muttering under my breath, I backtracked and put on a jacket with a hood and tennis shoes. Upon reaching my car, I realized that my sister had parked so close to my passenger side that I wouldn’t be able to put the kid in the backseat. Muttering some more, I splashed over to the drivers side, got in, moved the car, and hurried back inside.
I went directly to my sister’s room. “If you ever park that close to me again, I’ll rip your face off.” (I swear I’m not usually a psycho shrew.)
She blinked at me, having just woken up. Another reason to hate her...she got 45 minutes more sleep than I did.
I bundled the kid, whining and sniveling about her coffee cup being empty and her TV show not being over, into her raincoat and herded her toward the door. I heard my sister in my mom’s room, “She said she’d rip my face off....”
I took our belongings out first and stashed them in the front seat and went back for the kid. I picked her up, carried her to the car, opened the back door and shoved her in her seat. She immediately started wailing.
“What? What? What happened?”
She continued to wail. The rain was pounding down on my back and ass as I was bent over her, searching for injury. “What? What happened?”
Finally, when I could feel it soaking past my jacket and into my shirt, she held out her little hand, covered in droplets of water and screamed, “I GOT ALL WET!”
OOOOK. Bite the tongue, shut the door, ignore ignore ignore.
I shut the door, walked around and got in my seat, dripping all over the interior. She’d stopped wailing and toned it down to the sniffles, which I also concentrated on ignoring.
I backed out, drove down our gravel road, took a left onto the main road, rounded the curve and slammed on breaks.
“What mama? What’s the matter?”
“Hold on kid.”
It was 6:40am and still pitch dark. My headlights were trained on an enormous tree lying across the entire length of the road.
Motherfucker.
I got out and stood in front of it, assessing the situation. If I waited for someone else to help me move it, I’d be late for work. If I moved it myself (there was no doubt in my mind I’d be able to move it myself because I’m hardcore like that), I’d probably get dirty. If I drove over it, I’d probably rip out that black piece that was still duct taped under the front. If I didn’t hurry and decide, I’d probably run out of gas before I made it to town. My idiot light was already on.
There was a split in the tree on my side of the road. I decided I’d kick it and see if could get it far enough out of the way to drive around. As I was kicking the tree, my neighbor pulled up on the opposite side. She poked her head out the window and said, “Want me to call somebody?”
“Who the fuck are you going to call?”
“Papa!”
“Yeah, because he’s going to get his fat old ass out here and move this tree”, I said still vigorously kicking.
I made a bit of progress, but realized that I would have to try and roll it out of the way with my hands.
While my neighbor watched from her car I started pushing on the tree, leaning into it, my shoes slipping on the pavement behind me as if I were on a treadmill. The tree was giving bit by tiny bit and the bark was biting into my hands. My boobs were falling out of my top, my clothes were soaked underneath my jacket and I could feel the wet creeping through to my underwear. And the whole time I was letting the tree have it: “You sorry sonofabitch! Fucking move! SHIT! MOVE GODDAMIT! I’m gonna...”
Threatening a tree must be bad karma because I never got to finish the rest. The next shove sent part of it rolling down the embankment and sent me belly flopping onto the dirty, wet asphalt.
I’m ashamed to admit that I might have kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Just for a minute. My neighbor was roaring with laughter. She’s used to my clumsy antics, but not to seeing a grown woman wallowing on the ground and screaming in frustration and anger.
On the plus side, I’d managed to push half of the tree out of the way and my path was clear. Unfortunately I was also filthy and soaked to the skin...which was going to make me late after all.
I picked myself up and returned home to change.
So, how was your morning? I’m kidding, I don’t really care. Didn’t you just read all that?
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