out of Kadesh

It wasn’t even a bad day, not really. I mean of course work is always frustrating which I won’t talk about on my blog or else I might get dooced. Also we’re trying to save money so I only have $2.37 in my checking account and all I can think about is how badly I want a ham and cheese croissant from Best Buns Bakery. And the worst thing is I can’t stop thinking about my family, who just lost their dog, and I want to be with them because I know how badly they are hurting and they keep writing blog posts about how sad they are which is making me lose my freaking mind. And then we watched this movie tonight called P.S. I Love You which is about a woman whose husband dies and Lance and I are like holding each other on the couch and weeping into soggy tissues.

But other than THAT, my day was really ok. So why do I feel like crap? There’s no reason for it and it is GETTING OLD. 

For example, every night we take Lucy for a walk, and tonight I went upstairs and put on some sweat pants and a hoodie and some sneakers, as always, while Lance finished up the dishes in the kitchen. And I walked downstairs and with each step I felt more and more of a draft around my ankles. By the time I got back to the kitchen, all I wanted to do was pick plates out of the dishwasher and throw them at the opposite wall because HOLY HELL MY PANTS ARE THREE INCHES TOO SHORT. When did that happen!? These are relatively new and I haven’t grown any THANK GOD but am I really such an amazon woman that I outgrew my only pair of sweats within one month? Is this normal?

So I’m all “Lance, I feel I should warn you that I’m seriously about to do something insane, like rip huge chunks out of my eyebrows or run out the back door and start punching those shrubs.” My husband, slowly lowering the glass that he’s drying (that he no doubt senses may shortly become a weapon of mass destruction), calmly comes over and puts his arms around me. “What’s wrong?” “My FUCKING PANTS ARE TOO SHORT AND I DON’T KNOW! I’M CLEARLY WAITING FOR A FLOOD BUT OTHER THAN THAT EVERYTHING WAS FINE TWO MINUTES AGO! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME!?”

A few minutes later I happen to notice that Lance’s pants are… hmmm… those are really short. I can see his socks! OMG, he went to work like that? He looks like Urkle! And then he turns around and I realize that he has pulled them all the way up to his belly button and on PURPOSE, he is sharing my uncoolness. And that, my friends, is what marriage is all about. Lance realized that I was waiting for a flood and he decided he would wait patiently for that flood with me, and for that I am grateful. 

But the point is: why did wearing too short pants to go for a walk bother me at all? Who cares, right? I mean that’s what you’re thinking isn’t it? Because it’s what I’m thinking.

As stupid as this is, you made me feel completely invisible today by not tagging me in your facebook note.

Loneliness weighs ten tons
And hurts like a physical ailment
It makes my shoulders hunch
And my eyelids droop
It makes me drag my feet
Shuffling dust in my wake
It makes my back ache
Which makes me bend awkwardly
And gives me a pot-belly
My muscles are sore with fatigue

But Your love gives me wings
In Your room, I am feather-light
And drunk with relief
My feet leave the ground where I stood
And I feel the burden I carry drop to the floor
My arms drift up past my face
Which tilts toward the sun I can’t see
For this one moment, I am weightless
I am lifted

I love it when you post on Plinky. I feel like I’m learning more about you by reading what you write… things you would never think to tell me.

This is Asta, who died today.

Asta was my family’s dog, but we all knew he loved my sister Ellen most of all, and moped all day while she was in school. He was like Hobbes and she was Calvin – every day when he heard the school bus, he got really excited and ran around in circles until someone opened the door for him, so he could sprint outside and crash into my sister. He slept under her bed and waited outside the bathroom door for her (a feat which can take hours when the person you’re waiting for is a 16-year-old girl). My dad used to tell him to go wake her up on Saturdays when she was sleeping in, and he’d run into her room, snorting at her and jangling his collar until she rolled out of bed.

And my family said goodbye to him today. He had developed some kind of liver problem and he wasn’t eating. When they took him to the vet, they were told there was nothing they could do for him, that he was having trouble breathing, and the kindest thing they could do for him was let him go. It was kind of sudden… I think we all thought we had more time with him. Even though my parents got him after I moved out, he felt like mine too, because he loved everyone and he was always happy to see Lance and me. Their house won’t feel the same without him, and my heart is heavy for my family.

Tonight, when asked what we wanted, I almost wrote down “I want friends.” But then I realized that what I really want is for You to be enough for me.

Me: “And then Kevin said ‘I’m never touching that thing again,’ and then I said, ‘That’s what she said.’

Lance: “Of course you did.”

Me: “Can you believe it?? In the middle of our meeting! I can’t believe I did it! That’s what she said.”

Lance: [groan]

Me: “That’s what she said.”

Lance: “You have to stop.”

Me: “That’s what she said. AH! Ok sorry, I’m done. That’s what she said. Dangit! Ok, seriously.”

Lance: [holding a milkshake] “Oh man, this must be leaking.” ….[Glares at me]

Me: “What! I didn’t say anything! It doesn’t count if I was just thinking it.”

Lance: “You’re thinking it really loudly!”

(Inspired by Post Secret. Feel free to leave your secret in the comments section at any time.)

Even though I told you not to wait for me this morning, I still looked for you when I left and was sad not to see your face.

Last night after dinner, we were in the kitchen cleaning up when Lance announces “I have to go to the bathroom.” He announces this because if he doesn’t, I’ll start looking around for him when he’s been missing for like half an hour. So he leaves the kitchen and heads for… the bookcase. Oh, brother. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.

When I need to drop the kids off, worst case scenario I’m out in four minutes. Why do men need to read three chapters in the latest Neil Gaiman novel to accomplish one poop? When we first started moving in together, we were at Target and Lance is all “Ok, we need some milk, some soap, and a plunger.” And I’m like “A plunger? Seriously? I’ve never even owned a plunger.” And Lance is like “Trust. I’ll pick one out.” You’d have thought he was picking out my wedding ring with the care and time he put into choosing the Plunger of Perfection. And while I had never needed a plunger before, I soon discovered that when you poop for 20 minutes, you indeed DO need a plunger. It goes like this: get up, zip up, flush, then PLUNGE PRONTO! 

So this morning, my copy of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, which I forgot I even had, was sitting on the dresser. I’m thinking, “What the… when did I put that there? When’s the last time I even read this? That’s weird…” And then Lance walks in and he’s like “Oh yeah, I started reading that last night while I was on the john. I heard Gary Oldman’s in the film; we should que it! Why are you grinning at me?”

I’ll tell you why, reader. It’s cause my baby got all kinds a culture goin’ on. I’m so proud of him!

Sometimes I wonder if I am the craziest person ever to walk the earth. I won’t tell you why I feel this way, since for the most part I have kept the craziness close to the chest (I hope), and even on my blog I don’t want to give up my own spot. Suffice it to say, sometimes I find myself screaming inside my head.

Maybe lots of people feel this way. I’ll comfort myself with that possibility.

In other news, I have felt very rushy and panicky for the last couple of weeks, which is why I haven’t written a decent post in several days. So in an effort to sort out some of these thoughts that are bumping into one another in The Brain (I tried shaking my head a few times to sort them out but it didn’t work), I am forcing myself to sit here and write. Maybe it will calm me down. I apologize if I seem crazy. Don’t worry… it’s just because I am (see Paragraph A).

Valentine’s Day is the weirdest holiday to me… it’s like greeting card companies thought “How can we make the most amount of people feel guilty enough to buy something pretty thoughtless for someone they may or may not even care about?” And then they chose the slaughter of a priest named Saint Valentine for this celebration of love. Question: is the color red for all the blood? And what does the pink represent? Innards? Seriously, what a weird thing to celebrate. People think my reaction to Valentine’s Day is odd, since after all I’m happily married and isn’t this holiday sort of meant for people like me? Let’s just say that it doesn’t mean much to get something on an obligatory gift-giving holiday, but it still sucks to not get anything at all. So it’s basically a lose-lose situation.

“Dear Schmoopsie-Poo,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
1. I remembered that it’s Valentine’s Day (Six whole minutes before getting off work! It’s a record!).
2. (Crapcrapcrap… I gotta go to the store on the way home.)
3. Grocery stores have cards… right?
4. I only found 4 choices for cards, but you mentioned that you like Snoopy once, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU!?
5. Found a bar of dark chocolate while I was in line buying your card – I know how much you like dark chocolate. WAY better than milk chocolate, as I recall.
6. Saw a refrigerator full of single roses on the way out of the store.
7. Decided the sex would be better with a card, a bar of chocolate, AND a flower.
8. Stood in line AGAIN behind the other guys who also had wilting flowers and boxes of condoms.
9. Smirked at the guy with the heart-shaped balloon. Even I know better than that.
10. Drove home and handed the treasure to you, then pulled you into a kiss before you could look too closely at the brown-tipped peach rose. Also took advantage of the situation behind your back by pulling the $1.99 sticker off the bar of Dove.

As you can see, Honeybunch, THIS WHAT I FEEL FOR YOU IS TRUE LOVE.”

Sorry to be so cynical and all, but wouldn’t it be so much more exciting to get a gift from the person you care about simply because they’re thinking about you and who cares what day it is? Why do pink and red heart shapes have to throw up inside Super Target for you to remember your feelings for the supposed love of your life? I guess what I am saying is, why so much pressure around this one day? Why can’t every day be a Valentine’s Day? Get a him card on Wednesday. Get her a flower on Friday night. Get him a subscription to Wired Magazine in July. Get her a necklace from Etsy.com in September. (Or tomorrow. Please? Tomorrow works for me…) Then you can say “you know what, I got this because I love you, and I’m thinking about you all the time. Not because someone died and put Hallmark in charge.”

Lance and I actually celebrated FAKE Valentine’s Day on February 15, because we had church on February 14 and WHO CELEBRATES LOVE IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD, AM I RIGHT?! Anyway, there’s a whole ‘nother blog post about the life change that I experienced on the real Valentine’s Day, and it’s coming soon so go ahead and start holding your breath. But it’s one of those pesky bumper cars in my head right now and I have to wait for it to stop racing around and crashing into my ears before I can write it down. Anyway, we really did have fun. We went to a couple of Virginia wineries and I accidently got plastered as I tasted my way through 6 or 7 glasses of wine. When we got home I went upstairs to try on the Fake Valentine’s Day present I got for Lance, and came down wearing it and some heels. Let me tell you something, “Battlestar Galactica” never got paused so fast in the history of its 13 seasons. I hear women complain that their husbands never get off the couch, but I have a hunch that lingerie will do the trick every time. You’ll be all “Do you like it? It’s your Fake Valentine’s Day pres…ok and there it goes onto the floor.”

And speaking of making babies…

Favorite Weekend Kidisms

1) Clark, the six-year-old, asks who wants to go up to his room with him (for what reason, you may ask? We have no idea). I reluctantly volunteer. When we get upstairs there is a weird scotch tape- spiderweb creation across the hallway, but I am used to stuff like this so I just step over it. It falls, and Clark turns around and says “ha-HAH!!” dramatically, and points in my face. I ignore this out of sheer confusion, and he doesn’t offer any sort of explanation. Later Shannon asks “Did you see Clark’s web? He set it up for y’all. He had this whole thing planned out where he would jump over it and you wouldn’t see it so you would trip and he planned out what he would say and what you would say. He was really excited about it.” Hm… it ALL COMES TOGETHER.

2) Caleigh, the four-year-old, had a pink snotty eye. It’s about 9:00 on Friday night, and Shannon says: “Oh dear, it looks like we’ll have to go to the doctor. That eye looks bad.” Caleigh starts sobbing and says: “But… I don’t WANT to go to the doctor! I’m so sleepy!”

3) Carter, the nine-year-old, is apparently going on the age of 15. He stays hidden all night, except when he comes out to watch TV. He promptly goes back into his room when his show is over, and Lance attempts to follow. The door is closed in his face, and there is a sign stuck to it that says KEEP OUT and it has a stop sign drawn on it. Ah, innocent youth. They just grow up so darn fast.

4) Carys, the two-year-old, takes her pants and pull-up off sometime during dinner but seems not to notice the draft. She eats a couple of cupcakes. Lance sees her and hollers “NAKED TIME!” with his arms in the air. I can tell he wishes it was naked time for him too.