When I first brought my would-be-Hubby home; Papa B pulled him aside and asked: 'Are you getting used to doing things her way yet?' to which Hubby laughed... Little did he know. I am a tad/lot controlling. Not in a bad way; in a the shortest-distance-between-two-points it's my way or the highway -way. If there is a simple way of doing something I will find it. And if your doing something and ask me to help, I immediately take control of the whole project, even if I don't want to do it. Not a great feature in a partner/teammate/roommate/employee/wife or child. Of which I have been all.
I correct everyone. Hubby says I am not supposed to tell people when they're doing things 'wrong'. He goes on to say just because I am like my Papa B, doesn't mean I get to run things in this one dog-town. But I like things my way. For example, I go on bursts of cleaning. Sprees of cleanliness. Organizing everything, so that when I come home from a long day, I don't have to do anything domestically. That means I have to make sure it isn't a disaster before I leave. But Hubby knows by Thursday that the teeny pile of projects on my desk will become a heaping mound of laundry and mail, with a new book thrown in, a cluster of knick knacks and a comedy writing journal. A pile of my working titles and things I hope to have time for...eventually. My way is to sit in that pile for the week and absorb all the life from those things; taking it all in and loving every bit of it. His way is to throw all that laundry into the dirty clothes hamper and hide any evidence of work from our home. Then he promptly remarks on the amount of laundry there is.
My way can be a sloppy and disorganized mess. Taking me off my direct route. Do you ever wish you could take your own advice? As for Hubby, I think he pretends to do things my way so he can stay on the shortest path with the least resistance on the road to his carefree destination. Cuz no one should waste their lives fighting with a control freak over laundry.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this story is a 3 part grade 5 nightmare. As you know I am a dramatic individual. I always have been. I probably always will be...Though I may mellow out in my old age, but genetically speaking I don't see that happening.
Part the First: Toilet Snakes
I grew up in a small town. Where most of the houses aren't built on sewer systems but utilize septic tanks. So, one day when I read in our local weekly free press filled with local events that a snake had found it's way into a septic tank and in it's search for air swam through the plumbing and coiled itself in the toilet bowl; waiting for an unsuspecting victim to answer the call of nature. Now at this time in my life urban legend and undisputed rumours we're as good as truth; especially if they were printed in the local gossip rag. It was years until I could go to the bathroom with the lights off. I mean, literally until Hubby sat me down and explained that a snake couldn't get into our condo building through the pipes and sewer system. And though I believe him, it seems extremely possible- especially since the sewers are open concept.
Part the second: Over-Reaction time
In grade 5 gym class our school didn't have dedicated change rooms, lockers or cubbies; so we changed in the washroom. Leaving our clothes there; unprotected from the grade 6 bullies, susceptible to all types of shenanigans. After one particularly grueling session of king's court, I was the 3rd girl to arrive in the washroom. Walking in the onesie stall I had stowed my clothes in, my eyes beheld to -my terror- a dark, coiled shape in the toilet! Reacting on impulse I flushed it immediately. Saving my classmates from the wrath of the dreaded toilet snake! I realize as the bowl boa was halfway down, it's no snake; it's a purple sock. Letting out a peel of 5th grade laughter, I spill out of the stall and regale my female classmates with the exaggerated interpretation of the moments before. Giving the sock venomous fangs and a thirst for blood. They didn't laugh.
Part the Third: Ramifications
After my nightmare had almost come true I quickly blocked out the traumatic experience. Skipping down the hallway, I didn't even give the incident a second thought. Until...walking into my silent classroom. One of the dreaded Jennifers was whisper-sobbing to my 5'1 burly bearded teacher. Mrs Popuvichu; not actually her name. I never could spell it. Heretofore known as Poppi. Poppi's dark brown eyes narrowed in my direction: "Would you step into the hallway please?" Shocked that I could possibly be in trouble for something. Running through all my outstanding offenses...coming up blank. Hanging my head and dragging my feet out into the hallway to a toe tapping Poppi.
"It has come to my attention that you put Jennifer's sock in the toilet and flushed it." Poppi accused me.
"I didn't put it in the toilet, I thought it was a snake so I flushed it." I defended myself. Poppi, disregarded my story and continued.
"Do you realize now that she only has one sock, how would you feel if you only had one sock?" I shrugged. "Perhaps you should only have one sock. Give your left sock to Jennifer. You must learn to take responsibility for your actions." Starring at Poppi I couldn't help but think how hairy her chin was, but also why would she punish me for trying to protect the girls in my class from a toilet snake? I bent down and removed my indoor shoe to take off my sock. Wearing one solo sock for the rest of the day. Sitting through our afternoon math and clock modules starring at Jennifer's mis-matched socks, I couldn't help but think; is this what I get for being a hero? On my walk home, I tried to figure out a way of explaining this to my Momma, I was dismayed. Upon walking through my front door, she was there to greet me, the diligent Poppi had already informed her for me. After a lengthy conversation about respecting other people's property, it was finally my turn to explain. I had done it for the greater good, to protect the girls of 5C from untold horrors- including snake bites to the bum and if all I lost in doing so was a sock it was a risk I would take again. I think it took some convincing but my Momma understood that my intentions were good, even if the outcome was not. And how mad could she be, really? It was just a sock.
As I mentioned dramatics have always been a part of my personality. And even though I have yet to encounter another toilet snake or purple sock I know I would do the right thing. And just in case being a hero goes awry, I'll try to be prepared with an extra pair of socks:) so no one has to bare the shame of a one sock walk again.
I love my Puppa-Roo. I mean love love her. Even the days when I don't like her, I still love her. It's easy. She snuggles sweetly and is completely dependent on my whims to survive. Somedays she gets overachieving über-momma, somedays not so much. My Sushi Goose? She's another story. I know she at least likes me-most of the time- despite what BFF says. And that when she wants lovin' she gets it from me; as long as there's a Claritin nearby. It's easy to love a fluffy kitty who wants to purr with me occassionaly. Then there's my Momma; easiest person to love ever. Her sense of humour and unwavering support keeps her in the top 3 of easiest things to love. #4 being ice cream sandwiches and #5 swimming pools. The rest of us seem to make it so hard for each other.
Somedays you hate the people you're supposed love the most. Okay, okay, hate is a strong word. And I don't hate them; I hate animal cruelty, thong undies and smog. I just really, really don't like the way we treat the people we say we love. These are the people who are supposed to know you best and sadly the ones who let us down the hardest. These people know our weaknesses and stories from our past. They know the mistakes we've made. But those same loved ones are the worst people to us, and we are to the worst right back.
For example I am meanest to my Hubby, not often, but he takes the brunt of a bad day or my wrath if I'm hangry. By marrying me he made a decision: I agree to this level of mean and I don't mind dealing with her temperament. But sometimes I'm not easy to love. I get soo snappy until he looses his mind and snaps back, then I cry. But I love him. I love-love him. I laugh harder with him than anyone else. He's one of the funniest people I know and I hang out with a lot of comedians. Sometimes I am hard on my Bro who doesn't always deserve it, but needs to hear it anyways. I get frustrated with my Papa B who knows the only person he can change is himself. I know he knows this, because he taught me. All we can do Papa B is hold out hope that our change inspires change in others.
I wanna love these people everyday, why do I have to fight so hard for it? But that's on me. If I apply the philosophy of my daily practice to loved ones I should be thanking the sun for peeking through, instead of cursing the rain clouds. But it's easier said than done. Each one of these people acts as though there will be more time, time for forgiveness, ease and love but always saving it for later. I'll tell you what there isn't a lot of- time. Instead of fighting so hard we could be spending all this wasted time together. Celebrating how we've all managed to get this far. And for the most part without an epic fail. We are so lucky to get this time to spend together. But we're not going to take advantage of it are we? We're gonna to hide behind our snappy remarks and our old grudges and stubborn personality traits. I know that I can get over my hurt feelings and frustration, but I am scared that by then the cat will be in the cradle with the silver spoon and it will be too late. By all accounts I think it's time I say 'I'm sorry. Things haven't always been easy, and Roddammit, you make me crazy but I love you anyways' was that so hard to say? I want to tell you now, because you deserve to hear it.
Love is an easy thing to give. All you need to love someone is the courage and will to do so. While forgiveness is something those closet to you may have the most trouble asking for. Loved ones be loved, even though I wonder why sometimes we make it so hard. Sigh. Life and love would be so much easier if we had furry tails and our only worry was 'when do we eat?'
This coming August I will be celebrating my 1 year anniversary. But this week I was away from my Hubby and it's strange. Sleeping in an empty bed, without Jilly and the grunts of my loving man. My pillow, left behind from a trip up north, smells strangely like my Hubby at the cottage. Covered in sunscreen, lake water and lanolin. It's warm and comforting much like Hubby himself. And I miss him, he makes me laugh.
While sitting on my parent's front porch saying our goodnights over the phone I glance at the widow's house across the street. In her younger years she was a supply teacher with high blood pressure. Her husband was a notorious drinker, who drove home in his old pickup truck, generally parking askew across their lawn. There was many a screaming match heard echoing through the neighborhood as he arrived home in the early hours; driving dangerously down our rural street lined with kids. And though he often slept in his beat up truck to avoid the wrath of his wife she loved him desperately. She waited up for him, greeting him at the door. The smells of roasting beef and fresh apple pie lingering around their home. But as is the case with many people who live frivolously he died early, leaving a wife and semi grown kids, who had both left home early to avoid their toxic relationship. And as I sit and watch the tv flicker softly through her living room window I can see her sitting there alone. She has been watching tv alone for more than 15 years. With only the occasional church bake sale or visit from her children and grandchildren breaking up her days. And that makes me sad.
After our goodbyes I climb the stairs to my childhood bedroom. Through my window I can see the backyard neighbour who is also a widow. Her husband consumed by illness. Slowly wasted away into a shell of the robust man who used to take such pride in his garden. The man who used to repair his own siding and fix his own car. The man she married young and stayed in love with for as long as I can remember, there was nothing she could do but try to make him more comfortable. Their grown children taking shifts watching and waiting for his soft exit. I can see her sitting on her deck in the fading daylight alone and it makes me sad.
Curling up alone in this bed that smells strangely like my Hubby I can't help but be thankful that we are just starting out together. His smells good and bad are all around me. But so are his arms. There is such a sense of loss in the eyes of the widows walking the streets of my former small town. Like in wartime when women were left to fight on the home front while the men lost their souls for the higher calling of peace. But this war is daily, a fight to stay in love. A life alone spent fighting for all the memories that a widow holds dear, but for now I will embrace my lucky stars and kiss my Hubby and fight for love each day. So that if the day comes that I am sitting on my deck alone I will remember my love, and I won't be sad anymore.
When I was about 17 I took a job babysitting three kids before and after school. Now, all three of these kids were kooky. The oldest a girl: was bossy and loud and was always right. The second a boy: was clumsy and forgetful and needed help with math. The youngest boy was hilarious, even with his lisp and his constantly running nose he was my favourite. But then it's always easy to love the baby, and being "this many*insert all five fingers* ywars ode", who wouldn't? Their Momma would drop them off at my house at 7:30 and I would take them to school, walking of course, except the eldest girl who took a bus from the corner to her french immersion school. And when she was gone the boys and I would walk/play all the way to school, which she thought was immature. She was a very mature grade 5. Throughout the school year, I gave the youngest nightmares by watching Kindergarten Cop. The middle boy lost his pants and the Girl would just tattle on me all the live long day. I remember one day when I picked them up from school; the youngest was wearing different clothes than the ones I had dropped him off in. Upon asking him what happened, he informed me they were lost and found clothes. While waiting for the answer to why he was wearing a stranger's outfit, he told me he had "fawen into a pudduo up to he-yor"*insert a hand a foot above his head. Despite not being the ideal role model and having a pretty sketchy track record when summer came I was upgraded to their fulltime babysitter. Summer is great for kiddies but their Momma still had to work...So... Let's put the pieces together... I started babysitting them at 7:30 am at their house and stayed until 4:30 a demanding job, for a 17 year old.
Our routine would go as follows. I would drag myself out of bed at ten minutes to 7 and race around getting dressed. Jumping into my Chevy Lumina I sped the back roads all the way and managed to make it just in time...barely. Then their Momma would tell me what to make for lunch and she would leave. Kids being kids and it being summer they wouldn't wake up until 8:30, and in the time between I would sleep on the sofa. On more than one occasion I woke to find them all sitting on the sofa beside me watching Phantom Menace, the house fav at the time. Then it was time for toast and jam, mandatory 1 hour outside time and maybe a movie or craft depending on my enthusiasm level and the Girl's demeanour. She loved crafts and sometimes I didn't want her to have fun; there I said it, I was a petty teenager. We quickly feel into a rhythm. A lazy summer beat.
One morning that changed. Having fallen asleep in the typical way I once again awoke to the pod race screaming through their surround sound. While rousing from my slumber, I heard another noise. A shuffling, a scratching, a what was that...was that a squeaking? type sound. Pausing the movie- a VHS by the way- we all listened together. Suddenly, as if on cue a bat flew out of the chimney and began circling the room. In a normal household this would have raised screams of "it's in my hair!" but not here. The weekend earlier their family had gone to Science North a wonderful place with an extensive bat exhibit. These 3 youngsters remained calm, knowing that a bat uses sonar to locate objects and that this tiny little herbivore was trapped inside and only wanted out, so he could go to bed. I myself have never had a problem with bats, so I calmly walked to the screen door and held it open to our flying friend. All with the stillness and dignity of 4 smart kids respecting nature. Cue the three legged tabby; a cat that only moved to follow a sun spot across the floor... With the sudden focus of a jungle cat, this tabby leapt from 3 legs to snatch the bat mid air. Only to have the problem of, now that I've got it pinned beneath my one front leg, how do I get this twitchingly delicious morsel in my mouth? Back to the stunned audience...screams arise from 4 mouthes in shocking harmony. Which sends the tabby into a frenzy, who then grabs the flapping bat in it's teeth and makes for the bedrooms upstairs. Three screaming children!! The bat, oh no, Tabby got the bat!!! And now it's eating it in your Momma's bedroom. Ordering all 3 outside I race up the stairs in hopes that the bat if not still alive is at least not a bloody mess on the sheets. Which of course it is. Storming out past 3 still crying kids, asking if Batty is alright I get a shovel, prepare a burial and strip the bed. I am in tears at this point, the babysitting course did not prepare me for this. With the sheets in the laundry, I arrive in the kitchen just as their Momma calls for the mid-morning check in. Consoling me and cajoling me, she says the best way to fix this situation is to go outside and have popsicles. Yeah, right, but you know it's just crazy enough to work.
Walking outside to see 3 glum faces suddenly light up with the thought of mid-morning popsicles. Problem solved right? As the 4 of us are licking our drippy frozen juice, the middle boy starts asking to play Squeeze, a local game, like baseball but with only 3 players, to which the youngest boys whines that he will be left out again, my response is, I'll pitch so they can all play, as long as they set it up. So, they agree and go to the shed, unpacking the bases, the gloves, the bats and the ball. Sitting behind home plate, finishing my popsicle, I start to think, today might actually turn out okay. Before I've finished the thought, another bat swoops down across the deck and towards me, the middle kid who's setting up with bat in hand shrieks like he's having flashbacks of wartime. Swings the bat with all his gusto and knocks one out of the park...Hitting me square in the nose with a Louisville. Crumpling like a paper doll, I sink to the deck, 3 sets of children's shoes huddled around me. "I phink she's dead." the youngest says. "She's not dead, she's faking." the girl snarked in her typical snotty voice. Frozen andWrapped a cocoon of pain, both emotional and physical, the blood streaming from my nose. So I did what any rational 17 year old does. I called my Momma. Bombing down the back roads, she pulls into the driveway and has everything humming along smoothly in minutes. All calm, cool and collected, the way the best Mommas are. Turns out that sometimes even though the cats are snatching and bats are swinging, you really just need a designated hitter to clean up. As for the kids, we lasted the summer, just barely, and after that I hung up my babysitting belt without batting an eye.
This week was a banner hanging record breaking, past the point of no return, let's get ready to rumble type week. As my adventures in adulthood continue; finance became priority # 1 on the never ending list, with laundry holding steady at #8. In the same week I was offered a crazy amount of credit, but none of it could be used for anything helpful; like a mortgage. Though somehow they'd be fine if I wanted to buy a boat. The very next letter I opened was a fine and a serious scolding for not paying enough to the government. Now wouldn't it be great if one group spoke to the other? One supporting my spending habits, the other keeping them in line.
If we go back to where all this finance business began for me. It started in post secondary school. Everywhere you turn there's another credit card company offering you the world via a tiny-fit in your wallet-easy, breezy shiny plastic card. What's a bright eyed optimistic theatre student to do? Soo...you sign up and go out! And out! And out! Because you only have to pay the minimum; you go out a lot. But those little minimums grow, and that balance you were carrying; starts getting big and heavy fast! Suddenly all you have is balance owing...
Well, you grow up. Decide to pay a school to teach you. The government gives you 15% of zero as OSAP help. Then for the next 130 months you have to pay them back but most of that is interest. Then when you actually start making the money to pay them back, you have to pay the government for getting the job with the paycheck you were working towards. Letting you sit there for a year, unknowingly accruing another kind of interest. Then the government pipes up again with a wage change. You're held captive by being a good person. Because you want to keep flying below the radar, it's only a matter of time until they catch up to all the really bad stuff you've been doing. So, you might as well pay taxes and keep your chin up.
With the government I have to pay off last year, with this year's money. Because this year's money went into the wrong account and the many branches, no, tentacles of the CRA don't speak to each other. Les sigh. So, I am paying it off as go. The problem? I am making more money this year... Oh oh. So I need to save twice the amount! And wait the twelve billion years it takes to organize any 'oversight' on their part. But Kevin-forbid you be late- for that you'll have to pay.
It's a constant battle for good and evil. Well, make that evil and evil. Save me Wealthy Barber, I need some money advice. To pay anything online it costs me 1.50 or .57 cents +a stamp+ a chequing fee to mail it. It's a very complex system of cheques and balances. Two distinctly different bodies, struggling to get ahead in business. It amazes me that the world has come to such a money controlled crossroads with the important things in life quickly disappearing from sight in the rearview mirror. Though I guess I would feel better about it if that mirror was attached to my new boat.
I remember holding my grade 3, bestest friend's hand, walking down the hall of a brand new school, saying: We can't be separated, they wouldn't do that to us. Clutching to each other in a new and scary place, begging not to be spilt up. But they did. They split us up- there were only 2 french immersion classes and we were split up. Being down the street and around the corner made us fast friends. Riding the same bus and waiting at the same stop helped for sure...but the great divide, it tore us apart.
My class was made up of some kids I knew, some I didn't. We were all french immersion, but they had always been 2a or Kindergarten even days, we never mixed- not even in the school yard. We played soccer and freeze tag, while they played wall-ball and 4 square. We were birds and and they were fish. Never to living together...But now we were at a new school, where nobody knew the rules of the game. Entering James Mc in grade 3, we mixed and I lost my Bestest friend in the whole wide world. I lost her to one of the dreaded Jennifers of which we had 4. That first day on the bus ride home, she and I sat together for the very last time. She told me how exciting her class was, I told her how I didn't pay attention to Monsieur Gagne all day, and how I missed her. She said she really liked her new class, I said I didn't really like the 2 guys sitting at my desk cluster, and we were seated alphabetically. She was happy. I missed my best friend.
And then the day of reckoning came: she didn't sit with me on the bus in the morning. I couldn't find her at morning recess. She wasn't playing outside at lunch, she was eating in her classroom, a place I wasn't allowed. On the bus she sat alone, I took my spot next to her, eager to talk her ear off about my day and winning a spelling contest. She ignored me, starring out the window. I thought it was weird, but my 3rd grade brain went with it, what could be wrong? We're best-friends-forever. When we got to our bus stop, she pushed past me and down the bus stairs. Then; she ran. She ran hard and fast. She ran away from me. I still don't understand...
This continued, everyday for what felt like forever to 3rd grade me. Somedays I would yell after her- screaming her name- yelling that I didn't care if she ran away from me. "I don't care!!!", but really I did care. It was the worst part of my day. I knew she would run, and she always did. Somedays I would run after her. Somedays I would just cry. I never understood what the running was about. I now think it had to do with all this talking...I can see why somebody would run away. Our friendship ended, though not without me trying to turn her back into my Bestie with gifts, and phone calls (she would hang up on me) and I would stroll by her house casually...a lot. Waiting for her to remember all the fun we had sledding and getting into trouble for switching our clothes and trips together during summer vacation.
Friendship can often be a tricky and unstable slope- awaiting a holler to trigger an avalanche of emotions. Being a grown-up and dealing with actual problems, I wish I could run back to my worst Grade 3 day and just enjoy it. But no matter how fast you run, you can't outrun your past and the decisions you make can greatly effect the people you've decided on. Even the worst days I had as a child aren't so bad in hindsight but I'm definitely glad my friends don't run away from me any more. Well, most of them.
Time flies when you're having fun, so what happens when you're not? Well, I'll tell ya. Take work this week for example; it dripped by and it repeats and repeats like a broken, like a broken, like a broken record. But home time never comes, the day never ends...well it does eventually but by then you're Salvador Dali's warped clocks hanging from a cactus. If you know what I mean.
In my heart of hearts I knew the short week back from a long weekend would be an adjustment- as it always is and always will be. People coming to work with gleefully sunburned faces and a bounce in their step. Only to have their spirits quashed by the Man. Their weekend smiles evaporating by day 2, replaced with their typical at work scowl. Everyone eagerly anticipating the end of the week like kids waiting for Christmas. Knowing it's coming, but it's too far off to start celebrating just yet.
There is something torturous about wanting to be home and being unable to go. Longing to complete unfinished business that was missed over the long weekend and now being stuck at work. Time crawling by. People loosing interest and skill. The week started out swimmingly, bright faces completing tasks quickly. Until all of a sudden these simple tasks exploded, sending inefficient shrapnel in all directions: Doubling our schedule's complexity. All sense and caution thrown to the wind and out with the baby and the bathwater. How is it that being relaxed, revived and renewed actually slowed us down? At the end of last week when our hours were long and the nights short we were able to pull it together and power through. But today... the slow dripping... of each minute ticking away in the dark. The monitors repeating senseless retakes and multiple angles. The constant touches and retouches; when all we want to do it go home.
Holy holiday Monday, Batman. It seems we need another break. And this is Roddamn redic! How can a vacation make everything seem so much harder? C'mon! How's that fair? Typically, I work at a high-speed-chase pace. Barely finishing a lap before starting a new one. But when everyone else is working at a snail's pace, it feels like I'm climbing marshmallow stairs, it's a tough day. Amazing how quickly the long weekend enthusiasm fades. The sweet fresh freedom turned into the prison grind. The vacation becomes a distant memory. And I know even though today is dragging; there is a bright side:) The best thing about a 3 day weekend is a 4 day work week. And today is Fri-yay!
Okay, so a recent informal poll I conducted suggests that if there is something wrong with you, you'd like to know. I don't mean if something is wrong with you- in my opinion specifically. I mean- if you have food in your teeth, waving it's spinachy green fingers at me, you'd like to know. Things that are wrong include but are not limited to: ear, cheek and nose hair, downed flys, boogers, flipped clothing tags and other embarrassing but easily repaired esthetic flaws. So, now that we all agree we'd rather know; why do I still worry how you're gonna take it?
Well Doctor, you see that's because nobody likes to think that they have been walking around like an a*hole with their barn door wide open. I might as well take all the confidence you had at that moment, tie it to the biggest anchor I can find and throw it overboard while shouting: 'That'll teach ya for getting too big for your britches. ' cackling all the way back to shore. Pointing out flaws is a terrible feeling for all involved. The victim's "Oh no, I ate 2 hours ago and I've had a hydroponic sesame garden growing in my mouth since" feeling and the messenger's "I wish I didn't have to do this, they'll wish I'd done it sooner." feeling. It stands to reason, you're better to hear it from me, than to head to the bathroom and spot it yourself half a day later. Though reason is seldom applied to vanity.
The strangest thing about this awkward social situation is even if I am part of a much larger group; the responsibility falls to me. I can be at work as the problematic Bat in the Batcave twists in the wind- while the cave dweller tells an emphatic story- everyone sees it. EVERYONE! But nobody says anything... So I wait until the story ends. Either insert a laugh or sympathetic head shake whichever seems appropriate; because I wasn't listening- I was starring at their nose. At the next private oppurtunity I pull them aside and pretend that I just noticed the offense. "You've got a little" *insert the universal signal for get that thing outta there! Don't kill the messenger is an adage quickly brought to mind. Yesterday I found myself in this type of situation; I made the furrowed brow "what is that?" face at my co-worker, with a pinching gesture at the rogue earhair that's been driving me nuts for 30 days. He didn't get it & all I could think was; how universal is this gesture if he doesn't know it...Then I thought maybe it was a familial shorthand, an obsession 4 generations in the mating. Needless to say I gave up on that hair, but only after multiple failed attempts. Hubby says if it doesn't bother them it shouldn't bother me. HA!
Alternatively, I want people to tell me when something has gone horribly array. If I were to arrive at my Momma or BFF's with my fly down, burrs stuck to my shirt and in my hair, dark flapping booger hanging from my nose, white bread mush glued between my teeth and giant eye gunk- they would laugh first; ask me how my night was; then get to work at reno-ing this fixer-upper. As for most other people? I am pretty sure they would let you walk around in that state, assuming it was either a purposeful decision to be a disaster or I was too far gone already to be helped by a Kleenex and some floss. Either way I will keep worrying about you and your fixable flaws and worrying about how you're gonna react, so there's that:)
I jumped out of bed with a smile on my face
Took a big stretch and yelled 'Hello' to my day
Then Hubby said 'shh' cuz I'd all but forgot
He was up late protecting Gotham from a Bot
So I crept to the kitchen to make up some brekkie
When Jilly Bean let out a squeaking 'yep-yeppy'
So I tickled her armpits, took her for a walk
And saw all the vomit people left on my block
I was full of a rhyme, a rhythm and step
So I trotted to work- it's Fri-Yay don't forget.
While sitting aboard a stop and start bus
I saw that a baby was making a fuss
Thinking to myself about what that might mean
I missed my own stop and was stuck in between
Walking back from the north I caught my toe on the curb
And would you believe it could actually get worse?
Spilling my drink down the front of my shirt
Too far to go home and too close to work
So I hummed and I hawed and I wished for a stick
Of orange Tide clean liquid to vanish it quick
Alas I had nothing not even a Kleenex
That's when I saw wardrobe who offered a fix
She gave me an oversized shirt made for a man
But it was clean so I wore it, thanked her and then
Across from my boss I tripped once again
This time I fell, oh the pain I was in.
When I finally got my work Friday to start
My glad Friday feeling was gone from my heart
Sometime around lunch, way deep down in my soul
I knew no matter what I was on a roll
So I rolled along with it and momentum grew
And before I knew it, you know what I knew
The weekend was coming and could not be stopped
By a spill or a trip or a fall on the rocks
So hurry up weekend I might not survive
This Friday is long and I'm barely alive
Long weekend I want to eat hot dogs and swim
So I decided to twirl on a marvelous whim
It was not a good plan I must agree
Because I fell once again on my same old sore knee:)
The moral I guess is that sometimes life sucks
But if you're happy and know it then who gives a... duck?
Happy Fri-yay!
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