There were more, but they are currently trapped on my crippled laptop. It’s in a state of suspended animation… a coma, if you will. Surgery is scheduled for 2:15pm CST, Sunday. I’ll let you know if the patient recovers….
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And when I say “blows” I am not thinking about bubbles or dandelions.
Or even that hot guy I saw standing in line at the grocery store the other day. Rawr.
I’m referring more to hairy ballsacks, possibly even diseased ones.
I have a good running list of reasons (39756385 items long, clearly) for this particular brand of Makes You Want To Vomit All Of Your Meals From Ever suckage, but today let’s talk about:
“When Shit Breaks And Doesn’t Get Fixed In A Timely Manner”
When shit breaks and you own your own house, the reason why it sucks is because you have to FIX THAT SHIT YOSELF. So that means, get off your lazy ass and determine the cause of the problemage and then do something about it.
When shit breaks and you rent, you’re often NOT ALLOWED to fix that shit yoself, nor are you allowed to hire someone else to fix that shit for yoself. Because, of course, when you signed the lease you did no less than admit that your judegment is not to be trusted, m’kay? And you signed an agreement that says “I am a dummee and cannot fiss thingies goodlike and also I can not has enough smart parts in my head to find any other good peoples to help me fiss thingies eether. ever.”
I swear that’s what the thing said, and normally I wouldn’t sign a document rife with such horrible spelling mistakes, for chrissakes, but if I remember correctly I had diarrhea that day so I was kind of in a hurry to get things wrapped up, because there is really nothing worse than sitting in a realtor’s office with a hot wet ass that ISN’T just a euphemism for how damn sexy you are.
But I digress.
So, basically, we’re not allowed to fix broken things. Instead we have to call and report them to property management, and they will send someone to the house to fix what’s broken.
Wait, no. I wrote that incorrectly.
They will THINK ABOUT HOW THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO send someone to the house to fix what’s broken FOR ABOUT A WEEK, but they will not do anything about it.
Then when your husband calls them and says, “Uh, did you get my two messages about how the kitchen light is broken and my wife has already set 4 fires in there trying to cook in the dark because she’s an idiot, and could you please just go fix it before she accidently builds an atom bomb trying to make Mac & Cheese in the dark? I know it sounds improbable, but really, you don’t know her. And it is not at all improbable. That kitchen light is SO MUCH MORE important than you realize” they will be like, “Huh?”
And then they’ll be like, “Oh, we need approval from the owner since it’s just lightbulbs.”
This is the part of the story where I tell you how I almost threw the phone across the room when John was relaying things to me. Because I was in the room the day that John called them and left a message, and I heard him saying, “Hi, our kitchen light is broken and we thought it might just be the bulbs, so I went out and bought new ones, but it still won’t turn on, so it’s not the bulbs. We need someone to come out and have a look at it and fix it.”
1) See that part where he said IT’S NOT THE BULBS? Yeah. I HEARD THAT.
2) John hasn’t been home since October 16th. I just want to go ahead and point that out.
3) As I type this, the light is STILL BROKEN.
After he set them straight in a much more polite way than I’d ever be capable of, they promised him someone would “be out tomorrow” to have a look at it.
“Be out tomorrow” in Property Managementese CLEARLY means “sit around with a thumb up one’s ass.” Either that or “laugh at your dark kitchening ass while we pretend like we care about you and your broken thingies, when if fact, we so very much do not. Buy a lamp, asshole.” I’m not sure, but it’s definitely ONE of those.
A WEEK LATER he called again to find out if they would prefer that we:
A) Burn down their building.
B) Set bull weavels loose in their office.
C) Poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
D) Get H1N1 first and then poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
They asked if there was an option E, and while I told John to say, “Yes, All of the above, you sons of bitches,” instead he just asked if they could please come fix the light in the kitchen.
He is such a pussy.
So finally, someone came the next day and looked at the light.
(Technically, they said someone would “be out tomorrow” again and so I got all pissed off because I AM LEARNING THEIR LANGUAGE. But they decided to mix things up to keep me on my toes. I am on to you, anyway, Property Management.)
On Friday, a nice man came to the house, stood on one of my chairs and looked at the kitchen light fixture.
He told me it was broken.
I almost had a hysterical breakdown at the delivery of this news because I had no idea the kitchen light was broken and I thought frantically, “Holy crap, how am I going to make dinner now, in the dark???”
But really, he said the ballast is fried and that he’d have to remove it and replace it. Then he took it off the fixture and he left, saying, “If I don’t see you again later today, I’ll see you Monday!”
It’s Wednesday. I have not seen the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy yet.
I’mma gonna go into the kitchen later and whip up that atom bomb.
Hope you fuckers liked your lives. Some shit’s ‘splodin’ tonight.
UPDATE: So after I wrote this, but before I could publish it, the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy actually showed up, except it was the same guy who came before and told me the ballast was broken, so I was a little bit disappointed. I was hoping for something with wings and a tutu or at least a glittery wand or a Pegasus waiting for him in backyard while he was inside working. Regardless, he had a new ballast with him and the knowledge necessary to install it.
Fortunately, while he was working, Braden made sure to point out loudly to me that “that’s not Daddy!” saving me from making the horrible mistake of pestering the poor guy to rub my feet. Of course, this is nothing new from Braden; he’s always screaming that information at random times, like when I’m on the couch making out with boyfriends, and also sometimes when my pimp comes to collect.
Duh, Braden, DUH.
Oh, but apparently the Ballast Replacing Fairy IS a fireman. Braden said so. Which clearly means he needs to be reported to the fire chief for his Fairy Side Gig. I’m 97% sure that there’s a “No Fairies” rule in the Fireman Job Requirements. It’s right next to the part that says you have to have really big muscles and the ability to grow masculine patterns of facial hair on command. I’m not sure whether it’s more or less important than looking sexy while you slide down a big metal pole in a hurry. Anyway, he’s breaking the rules.
PS: You’re a bunch of lucky bastards. There’s light in the kitchen now, so I probably won’t be blowing up the earth tonight.
So, I have a confession: I have been having a hard time keeping my shit together lately. See also: Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis (fatigue, joint pain, muscle weakness, hair loss, and more!), See also: Miscarriage Anniversary Looming, See also: Financial Distress, See also: Marital Issues, See also: I’m a headcase.
And it is true that I have had something like Writer’s Block for some time. I have long spaces of time when I believe I have nothing to say that you will be interested in reading. I sit down and think, “Surely I can come up with something!” And I open a text file and I stare at it, thinking. Nothing comes. Nothing is worth coming.
Then, other nights, I write things, posts, in text files and then I do not publish them. Because they suck. You would think they are stupid. (So I tell myself.) This would be more like Sharer’s Block? Blogging Anxiety? I Suckaphobia?
And then there are all the things that won’t come when I sit down to write them to you because there are other things that block them – things I can’t talk to you about. What I mean by that is I have issues I WANT to share with you, but it feels weird to talk about this thing when I know I haven’t told you about thoooose things.
Do I write about those things? Hell yes I do. Is the writing good? I think so. Will I share it with you?
Some things you just can’t post to the world because they aren’t only yours to post, does that make sense?
But the more of those things that I have, the harder it gets for me to come here and talk to you about everything else, like my friends. That’s kind of how I’ve always felt when writing these posts. I know it’s somewhat silly to think that way, and I’m not trying to be mushy and sentimental to win you over. It’s just the tone I always feel inside when I write to YOU.
This is not an academic essay I’m writing – though I can write those, I’ve completed tons of them in my time, and none too shabby, I’ll have you know. It’s not a performance piece, where I just need to elicit emotion with whatever works. It’s not fiction, where I can spin any tale just to delight. It isn’t a review, where all I really have to do is lay out the way it works and what I think of it.
It’s an ongoing conversation I’m having with you about my life.
When there are bumps that invariably happen from my life intersecting with the lives of others, sometimes I can’t talk about those bumps. Because it’s not my place to have the conversation that they might or might not want to have with you about THEIR lives.
So then, I guess I just have to say, Friends, there is(are) something(s) that is(are) affecting me in some way(s) that we can’t talk about. And now I have to find a path around that(them) so I can keep talking to you about my other life stuff.
And that’s hard for me to do. I’m emotional and the things I experience have a way of leaking and spilling out onto the rest of my life. I should learn to compartmentalize more. I don’t know.
And maybe this whole thing seems STUPID to you, because “DUH, LOTUS. We ALL have things we keep to ourselves. We ALL have stories we don’t tell everyone. Hell, most people don’t feel the need to tell everyone half the shit you think the world needs to know. I mean, really, you tell us practically every time you have your period. GET A FILTER.” And OKAY, FINE. But the thing is, I’m still developing as a writer and a blogger. This place defined itself to me from the start as My Blog: Where I Tell You What Runs Through My Head. My idea of “what this is” has changed. I can’t tell you what runs through my head when I’d have to tell you that Mr. C did horrible thing Y and I want to strangle his face until it turns blue and falls off. Because you know, Mr. C has privacy rights. I can’t tell you that I have a constant issue with Problem ABC and I think it’s because Mrs. W did batshit crazy thing X and it impacted me in a really profound way.
I can tell you about how I feel, but I can’t always tell you why. And that’s kind of douchey. But Mr. C and Mrs. W own their own stuff, and I can’t tell it for them.
My family and friends have privacy rights. Those assholes.
So let’s just say, that among other things, it’s taking me time, in fits and spurts to keep telling you my stories without telling you their stories.
Maybe one day there will be a time to talk about those things. Perhaps there never will. I’m trying to find a way to be okay with that and hoping I can just move past it.
I’m learning that it IS okay not to tell you everything (zomg) but I have to say it out loud for some reason. I think, if I say this out loud right now, it’s going to help me move this block.
For now, maybe just saying to you that I’ll tell you most of everything, but not some stuff, will help me climb over this boulder, that mountain, and occasionally kick those rocks out of my way, so we can keep walking this path together.
I mean, it would be such a shame to miss the colors this season with you. The foliage is so beautiful just up ahead.
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream
John is gone and has been for weeks; he won’t be home still for some time. It’s okay. I miss him and Braden misses him, but the truth is that we’re used to him being away a lot. We have a rhythm we get into while he’s away.
Of course, after a while, Mommy gets a little cranky and somewhat tiredish. Braden and I do get along well. We have fun and I laugh even when he’s a turd. When he’s a brat, I am firm and I’m not afraid or unable to administer discipline. But it gets hard sometimes for me to reel in my anger when he’s really difficult, especially when I’m particularly, ahem, hormonal.
I’ve gotten to that point this week, and I’m needing some time for a break, a bit of quiet, and oh yeah, I have work to get done! I get frustrated at the lack of time for myself. I get Teh Selfish on me.
Today is rainy, again. Today is a bit colder again. He is annoyed that I am staying on the couch a lot this morning because my uterus is once again suffering for the sins of Eve (Hey, Eve, ya bitch, apples aren’t even THAT GOOD. I mean, I could understand if it had been friggin’ TIRAMISU or something, but really? Oh well.) and I’m Grumpy Tired.
He’s spending the morning running around the room throwing toys at me. He’s asking me to come outside. I’m being a jerk, telling him Mommy is too tired. We play ball while I sit on the couch. It’s fun, until I get hit in the titty. Then it’s hilarious. But painful. Ouch.
Naptime comes and I can tell he’s not ready; he’s too wound up. I let it slide for an extra thirty minutes. Then I pick him up and he whines. There are protests. I meet them with a favorite book and he slumps in my arms, tension flowing away, talking about Fluffy and Baron in excited anticipation.
We read and then the lights go out. We snuggle under a blankie and I rock as the lullaby CD plays in the background.
I wait for him to fall asleep so I can get some things done.
He is restless. He talks and I remind him that “naptime is quiet.” He whispers.
I wait for him to fall asleep because I really need to get some things done.
I close my eyes and rock, holding him close, feeling the tension in him as he moves around trying to find a position that feels sleepy, but it’s not coming to him.
I will never get things done!
I am frustrated. The minutes are stretching into forevers and I have work to get done. I want him to stop wasting my time. I want him to quit being annoying and just go to sleep.
I open my eyes and look down at his little face. His head is resting in the crook of my left arm and he is looking up at me. He is grinning to himself over jokes in his head. I feel annoyed because he does not look tired at all. I look at him with disdain. His eyes sparkle back at me. For a moment there is a new tension in his small body and then there is the undeniable sound of a toddler fart above the enchanting lullabies.
For a split second, we are frozen, eyes locked, our faces inches away from one another.
We both burst into laughter, giggling madly, still close to one another. He is delighted that I am laughing with him. I am defeated that he broke my quiet naptime stoicism, but in a pleasant way. The unexpected mirth feels good.
It falls quiet again. He is whispering to himself. He snuggles closer and traces the letters that stand out on my shirt. I close my eyes and rock as the lullabies keep drifting around us. His fingers fall on the hollow spot right at the bottom of my neck, tapping.
They become still and I open my eyes. He is looking up at me and suddenly his little palm rises from my chest and warmly rests on my cheek. He presses lightly and murmurs a cooing sound of “mmmmmms” that has always meant “i love you,” since before he could say words.
That feeling that comes right before an emotional sob rises in my chest, blurs behind my eyes. There is love and regret and guilt. It recedes and I just look at him.
His little hand slowly drops back to my chest and curls there. I put my palm on his cheek – something that has always calmed him.
His eyes are heavy and his lashes flutter like butterflies that can’t find the courage to land.
They finally rest and I listen as his breaths grow deeper and longer.
He is asleep now. I touch his soft chin with my finger, and I linger in the chair.
Suddenly there is no work and I lose track of time just staring at him.
I can’t think of a thing I really need to do right now.
Thanks for making every day harder. You’re a dick.
I do not like you. You do not actually make me more powerful, you just make me want to break people in half all day long. You do not help me deal with my emotions more effectively, you just make me cry at things that should not be cried at (the fight scene in Ice Age? Really? No. Really?) You do not make my son’s toddler habits easier to deal with, you make me want to run screaming from his presence. You are like a disorder all unto yourself. I am tired of you, officially.
Yes, it’s true. Your “farts are stinky like poopoo,” indeed. The amount of joy you bring into my life with simply silly things like that cannot be measured. Oh, but please don’t kick me in the eye again. That was the opposite of joy.
I see you lurking there. I know, I know. I’m almost officially a whole year older. It’s really not even exciting anymore. It just validates the white hairs and the callouses. If you were really as awesome as you claim to be, you’d give me my old bewbies back. Now THAT’S a happy birthday.
I know you miss being at home. To make sure you feel welcome upon your return weeks from now, I am saving you all sorts of chores to complete! Nothing says loving like that, right?
Dear Debt Collectors,
Thank you for the recent letter demanding the thousands due in medical bills, immediately. The way the entire sheet of paper was pink truly made me feel the threat inherent in your message.
Dear Property Management,
I’m guessing the magic number for phone calls before you come and fix the light in the kitchen is something higher than 3. Even if you have promised “someone will be out tomorrow,” they won’t. You don’t really mean it. It was a joke – you were just kidding! I get it now. I hope you get explosive, burning diarrhea on your birthday.
Dear Jillian Michaels:
When I do the “butt kicks,” instead of holding my hands in fists in front of me, I hold out both my middle fingers. It totally helps me make it through. I’m not flipping you off, though. You are the toughest bitch I’ve ever not known but loved. In a completely platonic, non-I think of you naked when I’m in the shower kind of way. (Really.)
Dear Mexican (our dog),
Please just stop being gross. Seriously.
PS: I know. Watch your back.
I know that you are tired. I know that you hurt. I know that it’s not your fault. I know that you feel bad because I always hate you. I am sorry. I’m still pushing and I’m trying really hard to get you healthy again. Please hang in there and work with me on this, damnit.
Did you hear what I said to Body? You are leaving me, and it’s making me frantic. I know you are just really tired of the antibodies in my bloodstream and the Hashimoto’s that is the result. I feel embarrassed that you are so important to me, in a way, but it’s true. You are important to me and I have cried several times already now, noticing how you are taking leave of me steadily. I do not like to see my scalp. Please reconsider. Please stay.
Dear Health Care Industry,
Please just fix it. Please stop telling me there is nothing you can do to help me. I am broken and you are supposed to be able to fix me.
You are supposed to.
So when I come in this next time, please do not turn me away again, telling me to keep waiting. I am done waiting. Ok?
Dear Reality Television,
You are still really, really stupid. Stop tricking people who I know are otherwise really smart.
I hate the temptation of your endless bags of delicious candy. I love your ghouls and goblins, witches, werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. I delight in feeling your spirit as I watch horrible movies about undead monsters. As you approach, I tilt my head back in the dark and utter a high pitched cackle. When you are gone, please make any leftover candy disappear. My ass does not want to be dressed up as an elephant for the rest of the year.
Dear People Who Drive,
YOUR BRAIN. USE IT.
Dear You Guys,
Thanks for still coming here.
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream