out of Kadesh

The great thing about having artist friends is that you get all the benefits of unique art without having to do any of the work. My friend Kelly, who can make and paint amazing stuff, started her very own Etsy shop, and I am only a little bit jealous that she can make all these gorgeous and cutesy items. Mostly I’m not jealous though, because I can buy them from her. And/or [commence subliminal message] she can make me something for my birthday, as it is coming up next week [end subliminal message].

If you know me at all, or if you read this post, you know that I don’t like it when strange men try and compliment me on my looks or really talk to me more than necessary at all. I get all WOMEN’S RIGHTS MAN! even when it’s totally innocent and normal people think I’m a total weirdo.

So I had lunch with some girlfriends from work today, and the waiter was leaning all uncomfortably close as he took my order, and after he finished writing down “with fries” he looked into my face and said, “You have really pretty eyes.” Then he moved on to take another order.

And I didn’t want to slap him. In fact, it was kind of nice.

This post is dedicated solely to kidisms, because we spent the afternoon at the fam’s and I scored some doozies. They are all from Caleigh, who is 4 years old. She was firing them off today too… these are only the ones I had time to write down.

Kidism #1
Caleigh: “Lance, smell the belly of this stuffed kangaroo. It smells nasty.”
(Pause… in and of itself this is amazing. Who does that?)
Lance: “I can’t really smell anything right now, because of my allergies.”
Caleigh: “Oh, my Mommy has allergies too.”
(Later, after riding bikes to the park)
Lance: “Want me to carry your bike up this hill?”
Caleigh: “Can you do that?”
Lance: “What, ride a bike?”
Caleigh: “No, carry my bike even though you have allergies?”

Kidism #2
Caleigh: “Hey Lance, the person on your shirt looks like you.
The picture is a rough outline of Jimi Hendrix.
Lance: “Caleigh, that’s the best compliment you ever gave me.”

Kidism #3
Me (sweeping the floor): “Wow, this broom is so short!”
Caleigh: “Yep, we have short brooms here.”
Me: “Why is that?”
Caleigh: “Because God made it that way.”

Kidism #4
Carys (the 2 year old) runs up to Lance and holds out her arms, so Lance picks her up. He’s holding her for a few minutes when I notice that she is sans undergarments. And she’s wearing a dress.
Me: “Where’d your pull-up go, kid?”
Caleigh: “She took it off because she had to go poop.”
Lance: “Oh… hm…” (shifts the arm he is holding Carys with)
Caleigh: “I don’t think she’s been wiped yet…”
Lance: “Great. That’s just great. Thanks, Caleigh.”

I broke the number one rule of tax season: I counted on a refund before it was hatched. Last year we got a refund and not much has changed, so I dared to dream about shiny new night stands to put books and alarm clocks on. But this year? NO REFUND. Don’t ask me why because I AM BAFFLED. To add insult to injury, we owe the IRS. To which I say, “Take your sorry money but know that I farted on the computer before we hit ’send’ in hopes that you would get a whiff of poo as our W-2 reaches your inbox.”

Filing our taxes was a horrible way to ruin an otherwise fabulous Sunday. We spent the gorgeous afternoon strolling around the zoo with the kiddos. My favorite thing about the zoo is elephants, and the National Zoo actually has an elephant house where you can walk right up to a fence and watch Dumbo eating dinner about 4 feet away from your face. When we went in there, Caleigh started crying, and we’re all “what’s wrong sweetie are you ok who did it are you scared where does it hurt?” And she looks up at us, eyes streaming, holding on to her face, and sobbs “It STINKS in here!”

I also scored some classic footage of my nieces. Carys trying to shut Caleigh up at the end is the best part of this one:

And I swear every time I see that kid she has learned something new… this one is Carys counting to 20, which I feel no shame in telling you, it was the best part of my trip to the zoo. Maybe the best part of my life, actually:

Her precociousness reached an all-time high when she started arguing with me over what the animals were called. She usually just agrees with whatever I say “This is a finger! Can you say finger? And that’s a nose! Can you say nose? Yes, wow, ok and that is a booger! How about we find a tissue? Can you say tissue?” And she just always used to go along with it but at the zoo I was all “Look Carys, an Orangutan” and she’s all “No, MONKEY.” like she’s teaching me very patiently. My favorite was when she started laughing at me.
Me: “Carys, look baby, it’s a leopard! Say hi, leopard!”
Carys: (Rolling her eyes, slapping her hand to her mouth, and giggling) “It’s a TIGER.”
Me: “No, it’s a leopard.”
Carys: “NO, it’s a TIGER.”
Me: “Ok then.”

What Lance said to the waiter: “Um, this was supposed to come with tartar sauce?”
What the waiter said: “Oh, ok, I’ll go get you some.”

What Lance thought he said to the waiter: “Clearly you are an idiot, so I will say this slowly and loudly so you can understand me, Ape. YOU LITTLE TWERP. GET. YOUR. SORRY BUTT BACK IN THE KITCHEN AND GET ME THE TARTAR SAUCE MY MEAL WAS SUPPOSED TO COME WITH BEFORE YOU SCREWED IT UP BEFORE I LOSE MY FREAKIN’ MIND!!”
What Lance thought the waiter said: “Sir, my wife just left me and my kids are dead and I’m actually only volunteering here to help raise awareness for AIDS victims, and I am so, so, so sorry about your tartar sauce being missing. I begged them in the kitchen to get it right because I could see you were not a man to be trifled with, but please just forgive me. Look, here’s the watch my grandfather gave me right before he died. I want you to have it. And I’m going to run barefoot through some hot coals to get you that tartar sauce.

What Lance decided he should have said to the waiter: “Excuse me, kind sir? Listen, I know this is SO EFFING annoying to ask you, right when you’re in the middle of doing your rounds, but I wonder, if it’s not too much trouble, if I could get a tiny spot of tartar sauce to dip my fish in? I know I’m so white and middle class, and there are starving people in the world. ARGH! You know what, never mind. I’m sorry for even bothering you, because you are amazing and I am nothing. NOTHING! Here, will you please spit in my cole slaw?”

Not that I’m not super excited for you that you’re getting married, but it’s hard for me to be truly happy every time I see wedding countdown all over Twitter and Facebook when I wasn’t invited to your wedding. I suppose that makes me a horrible, bitter person.

On Thursday, I went to the dentist for the first time in 3 years. The truth is I loathe the dentist, and I am still getting used to being an adult. For 21 years my mother made my dentist appointments, and I’ve only been trying to do these unpleasant things for myself for 4 years. Clearly, I’m failing, but if my only punishment is not getting to experience the fear, pain, and inevitable guilt that accompanies a dentist appointment, I’m cool with it.

The list of dental history they made me fill out when I first got there only made me sink lower into the shroud of terror that surrounded me. “Check all of the following that apply: Bad breath.” Let’s pause right here. I hope I’m not alone in this but I feel that not checking this box makes me not only a liar, but the most oblivious person in the state of Virginia. Really? Does anyone ever not check this box? Or is it really just me that wakes up every morning and wonder what creature has crawled into my open, drooling mouth and died a long, slow, miserable death. In other words, I looked around the room, swallowed, and checked the “Bad breath” box. Also I checked Sensitivity to cold. Sensitivity to sweets. Sensitivity to country music. I resigned myself to the fact that the dentist was going to tell me that I needed to have immediate dental surgery to remove all of my disgusting, rotting teeth.

When the hygienist called my name, I tried to control my shaking limbs as I followed her back to the room of death. She sat me down in a reasonably comfortable chair which she slowly lowered. Why does that make me feel like an idiot? I folded my hands. I unfolded them. I folded them again. I put them under my thighs. I crossed my legs. I tried to look perfectly at ease. Then she pulled out a tray filled with horrible devices that looked exactly like instruments of torture I’d seen on CIA television shows and I whispered a prayer that went something like “Oh dear Baby Jesus and Mother Mary holy hail to the chief.” The hygienist was all “What?” and I was all “Oh, um, nothing.”

To spare you a long story of my teeth and how the hygienist told me a couple of times that I had copious amounts of plaque built up on my teeth and did I floss? Because I needed to floss, suffice it to say that it went ok. I am not dead. And my teeth never felt so clean. I did have to answer a couple of questions while the dentist had her hand in my mouth though, like “So where do you work?” “I wah a a hee-a-rrr?” “Oh really? I’ve never seen a show over there. What do you do for the Theatre?” “Ah wah ee waaaaa-eee?” “Oh, marketing sounds fun.” And so on. It occurred to me that I had forgotten to write “wisdom teeth removed” under the ”surgeries” category, and maybe the dentist might care more about that than what I had written: “heinous mole which was sprouting hair removed thank GOD”, so I was all “OO ie ee waaa, Ah aaaa ah wi-oohm eee wooo?” “Oh, ok. Thank you.” I guess she didn’t care after all.

Next week I’m going to the gynecologist. I can’t WAIT to share the graphic details of having my vagina explored with you, you poor innocent Reader.

Today at work, I felt like a total screw-up. And that word isn’t strong enough for what I actually felt like, but I’m still on my no cussing fast.

I was working out some of my frustration at the gym by beating the bejesus out of my poor bronchitis-stricken body, and I said to the Lord “If you will just show me that You’re proud of me, that’s enough. I don’t need anyone else’s approval. Just Yours.” I felt like this wasn’t true and the Lord knows it of course, but the thing is, I want it to be true so I said it anyway.

He didn’t answer me like a friend would talk to me over coffee. It wasn’t even a sentence. It was more like a comprehension. When the Lord spoke to me, He told me it wasn’t anyone else’s approval I was seeking; it was my own. I think when I come home from work all emotionally exhausted and “Lance, I NEED A COCKTAIL PRONTO!”, no one else is going “Man, Megan really sucks.” It’s just me that’s thinking that. So my prayer has to change. It has to be “Lord, I don’t need my own approval, because my opinion of myself some days is like I was personally responsible for the war in Iraq, segregation in the 60s, Sex and the City being cancelled, and the fact that cosmetics test on animals. I only need Your approval.” And maybe that’s not true yet either, but soon it will be, especially now that I get it.

I hope you hear the Lord’s voice telling you that He has nothing but good thoughts about you today, that you’re not a screw-up, and that His opinion of you is infinitely higher than what your opinion of yourself could ever be.

I would 100% rather go to the gynecologist than the dentist.

I am infected with Bronchitis.

For the past four days I have been sitting on the couch watching movies and trying to breathe and let me tell you, I want to go get lunch or a coffee somewhere so badly. I want to use my voice to communicate with other humans. I want to be working. I feel so useless! And you always think to yourself “if I ever get a second off work, I’m gonna (insert whatever here: find a new job, write my book, paint that room, etc.).” But that’s just what I tell myself because when I get the chance to actually do it… I DON’T. I just sit here, blowing my nose and popping pills, and my muscles are slowly atrophying. I know it’s true because every time I stand up to go pee or refill my orange juice, I feel woozy. And I have a sneaking suspicion that my BRAIN IS ATROPHYING TOO. It’s all the junk television that I’ve been watching. There’s only so much “Weeds” one mind can ingest before becoming mushy and full of mildew. If I ask you how many ounces you need next week or say anything at all about “busting a cap”, just ignore me. I’m sure I will come back to my senses momentarily.

Oh! It kills me the things I should be doing in all this copious free time! The great multitude of tasks and goals to be accomplished is right in front of me and yet… and yet so is the remote control and a pillow. The worst part is, this is the way my husband will find me when he comes home from work. Lovely, right? Husband works all day and comes home to monster wearing wife’s pajamas. Monster has neither showered nor brushed her teeth today, has a head full of hair that was obviously scraped off something dead in the road, and is lying slack-jawed, covered in sick carnage: used tissues, Halls cough drop wrappers, the plastic leftovers from a Tylenol Flu pill, popsicle sticks, vitamin C tablets that I’m too scared to try and swallow without someone here who can perform the Heimlich maneuver in the inevitable event that it gets caught in my snot-lined throat.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to warm up something delectable from the freezer so that I can add Pizza Roll crumbs, a squirt of tomato sauce, and paper towels to the Welcome-Home-Hubby Collage.