I’d been carefully asleep in my bed, sweating to my dreams like Richard Simmons had made me his personal bitch, defeating a gigantic Michelin man wearing a Bret Michaels wig who had a voice like the chick from The Nanny (Fran someone-or-other?), dreaming he was made of a delicious white frosting and enjoying every second of eating him alive when…
…tap, tap, tap.
…slap, slap, slap.
I cracked my eyes open a second to see what was going on when I realized my young daughter was playing the bongos on my ass cheeks. Just in time, too, since she was going for my eyes next. Apparently, it was time to wake the fuck up, Mama.
I’d spent the week prior on the couch, bemoaning a scad of diagnoses that ran like the who’s who in the gossip mags of bad viruses, or the amuse bouche menu at the infectious disease cafe, wondering if I’d instead been afflicted by some ancient Mayan voodoo curse, occasionally typing out blog posts in my head:
Day 1: The work of some cruel master is afoot. Perhaps I’ve done something so severe, so unforgivable, that I must now pay for my sins with my life. GOD, I hate it when the voice in my head sounds like a bad Twilight chapter. ALAS, something must be done before I die at the hands of the hands of these cruel masters.
Day B: There is definitely tomfoolery and some of those other descriptive and bad-sounding things going on. It’s probably the bubonic plague. I hope that people come to my funeral and don’t bring filler flowers. Those are bullshit.
Day Too Many To Count: I don’t much care any longer if I sound like a particularity bad romance novel, so long as I don’t have to have passionate sex with a hunky, well-groomed grounds-keeper or some shit. My vagina, like the rest of me, is broken. Death, too good for me, would be welcomed with open arms. Too bad my cat would be the only witness and probably eat my face before anyone found me.
That was until Friday, when my daughter had made up her mind that she would be having our night together WHETHER I WAS DYING OR NOT. Someone had to allow her to eat Pringles and play with makeup, dammit. I knew that if I didn’t just say, “okay, cool,” to her demands, she’d FIND her way to my apartment and lord knows what she’d do to me when she got there.
So Saturday morning I awoke to her playing bongos on my ass cheeks.
When she realized I was awake, she squealed, “Hi MAMA! Let’s go play!” Because she, too, is sick, it came out all Thelma from The Simpsons, “Hi *hack, wheeze* Mama, *blurt, glurt* LET’S PLAY.”
“Mimi,” I asked, trying to squeeze out a few blessed more moments of sleep before I had to get up do her bidding, “Did you take up smoking?”
“Nah,” she giggled, then burst into a coughing fit.
“Good,” I croaked. “No smoking ’til you’re twelve.”
She looked at me all serious-like, eyes watering, before blurping a goo of mucous onto my pillow. She looked at it as I levitated out of the bed to get a towel, and laughed.
“At least it didn’t go on your head, Mama,” she giggled.
I looked at the child-sized thing of goo lying right where my head had been and nodded.
“Could always be worse,” I replied.
“Now go get some pants on.”
Scene: My Living Room, Saturday Afternoon
Me: (mumbles to self while setting up Christmas tree)
Alex: (perplexed) “Hey… Mama?”
Me: (pulling head from underneath spiky needles of doom, expecting the question to have something to do with pizza): “Yes, J?”
Alex: “So, I was thinking a lot about this.”
Me: (resting on my haunches and giving him my undivided attention, expecting a cunning con to splat from his adorable mouth) “Okay.”
Alex: “I don’t know if I’m right.”
Me: (now thoroughly entertained by his The Thinker pose) “Well, why don’t you ask? I’ll see if I know the answer.”
Alex: (is silent for a few moments)
Me: (silently awaiting his question and hoping it has nothing to do with building bombs or roller coasters in our bedroom)
Alex: “A fart is really like a burp coming out of your butt…. right?”
Me: (gapes for a second) “Um… I’d never really thought of it that way, but yes, J, you’re right. A fart IS a burp coming out of your butt.”
Alex: “Okay, that’s what I thought.”
Me: (stifling laughter at how seriously he’s taking this) “Really glad I could help you with this one.”
Alex: “And… can we order pizza?”
Me: “Nice try, kidlet.”
Yesterday, I wrote this for Band Back Together, the community weblog I run with a group of volunteers. It’s there that we share stories – YOUR stories – (and pair them with over 600 resources) with the rest of the world so that we can grow, learn, and thrive through our trials and tribulations. You never know who will be touched by the words you write, so I’m seriously asking you to share your stories. Can be old stories or new. Sad stories or happy.
Everyone has a story – it’s time to tell yours.
And? If you’re interested, we’re doing tons of excitable things behind the scenes – we have an auction going on AND a calendar this year. If you’d like to join our volunteer pool, we’d be honored to have you. Email firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll get this party started!
Thursday night, I’d finally had enough wallowing and whining, so I told Crys that I was about to go all Eye of the Tiger on the Christmas tree I’d neatly transported from that life to this – with, I feel compelled to add – only a few minor bruises and a cut finger, which certainly isn’t nearly as horrifying as it could have been.
I’d already lugged everything in from the car, which made a grand mess in my wee apartment, adding, I like to think, a little rustic – yet slobbery – vibe to the place. I mean, who doesn’t go apeshit with The Awesome for stuff in cartons you don’t have anywhere to store? (answer, obviously, is “anyone.”)
Mimi was waltzing her big girl ass over here for our weekly girls night the following evening and I figured we’d spend the weekend decorating my apartment festively, as, most of you well know, I wear a #1 finger for Christmas – and no, not the YOU’RE number one finger. As I didn’t really want my daughter to watch me mangle a tree from – literally – the fifties into submission because there’s no amount of therapy THAT can undo, I was all proactive and shit. I nearly patted myself on the back, if only I could’ve reached that far.
The tree was a hand-me-down from the first year we were married, given to us by my sister-in-law’s parents, who apparently never get rid of anything, a trait I find remarkable in others, especially considering I cannot, for the life of me, find your standard, garden variety, scotch tape. None of this fancy “electrical tape” for this girl – nope. I may SPEAK fancy, but I’m all about the plain Jane tape.
(this means, Pranksters, that my presents will be wrapped with duct tape this year. Thems be the very colorful breaks)
(double sorry for anyone who gets a present from me. Should be a *ahem* challenge to unwrap)
Our first year together, Dave assembled the tree as I watched, my mild-mannered husband swore like, well, me, which lead me to understand one thing (okay, two):
1) Dave should NEVER be allowed to do tedious housework
B) Putting together fake Christmas trees requires a Masters in Awesome..
Since my parents were the sort who chopped down their own Christmas trees and made syrup from um… those trees that give you the stuff to make syrup (*I’d* been under the impression came from Mrs. Butterworth and her quaint, homey – and terribly refined – apron), I knew nothing at all about fake trees beyond “they come out of a box and smell like burnt hair.”
And once that first tree was up, it was a sight to behold. I’d petitioned for a real tree, but with carpeting and dogs and cats and kids, I was summarily denied, and for good reason. There are probably STILL needles in the most odd places left from the one year we did manage a real tree.
So I figured, if I’m going fake, I’M GOING MOTHERFUCKING FAKE. And I did. And it was awesome:
Whoops. Wrong photo. That was me. A very surly bag ‘o’ jelly beans. Very little has changed since first grade. I’m taller now, I think.
WHOOPS! I’ve got to stop naming my snaps shit like, “Tate the asshole hedgehog,” because then I get all excited to see what it is and it’s NOT my fug ass tree.
See? The tree? I mean, okay, if you can’t see it, it’s on the left there (or is it the OTHER left?) and you know you’re a bad blogger when your snaps aren’t actually aimed at your intended target.
Also: SQUEE! When did Ben get so fucking OLD?
So the tree. We put it up twice, each time, Dave swearing like an asshole, causing me nearly to go into labor and then we moved onto a more…adult-looking fake tree. At least, the thing was green and not white. Which did NOT make me particularly happy, by the by.
When I moved out, I thought it only natural that I’d take the old white tree, because, well, I’m tacky and Dave’s an adult.
Which brought me to Thursday when I was all ramped up and ready to be festive, motherfucker. I could TOTALLY put together a tree and shit, even if it was rusted and appeared to be flaking lead paint. I was ALL ready to kick some ass.
Until I realized that things – even aluminum – do turn to dust eventually and I was missing the top half of the tree. So okay, it was really that I was missing the top half of the tree, so stop humming “Dust in the Wind,” will you? PLEASE? That song gives me hives.
What I’m ashamed to admit about the tree is not that it was half broken or that I was going to need a new tree if, in fact, I wanted to deck the motherfucking halls, it was that it took me finishing the bottom of the tree to note that the top of the tree was missing. I won’t lie: I was ashamed for a couple of minutes before I spent some quality time intensely debating whether or not I should, in fact, leave it as is. Make it a truly Charlie Brown Christmas.
It didn’t take long for the remnants of the tree to make it into the trash.