To say, I have had nothing to say lately, is an understatement. I have had a lot of routine sprinkled with moments of me becoming the old lady that I have always dreamed of being.
Here are some of those moments:
- Over my birthday/memorial day weekend I mixed up my happy pills with my girls fluoride tablets. Needless to say, that after a few days, the crazy train was boarding. I was weepy, anxious, and restless and nearly drove 3b out of his mind. I cried as I made his birthday dinner. I screamed as I served it to him and I cringed as I had to tell him what I had done. In my defense, my girls fluoride tabs are supposed to be tinted orange and my pill are the same shape only in white. I don’t recall the tint. Happy to say, I am back to my toned down, delightful crazy. No one needs to call CPS; my girl wasn’t taking my happy pills. I counted.
- I ran into Professor Important at the Paul Weller show. He walked by me six times until I stopped him and said hello. Fuck him, I thought. He acted as though he just saw me and then said to 3b, “Doing any Billy Squire tunes?” To which 3b, without skipping a beat replied, “How much you paying me?” That is why he is my hero. He is unflustered in the face of man girdle ignorance.
- Capri and I should never be left to our own devices, pretty much ever. On a recent Tuesday, we went to “brunch” at one of our favorite places where we filled up on delicious breakfast sandwiched then hemmed and hawed about getting a cinnamon roll as big an a hub cap ( I kid you not) ate it and then complained about how fat we are. Mind you, she is like a size 6 and I am a tank. To ease our Catholic school guilt, we decided take a couple of laps around the complex. We stopped at three stores and I saw at least two people that I stopped to chat up. The last store we stopped in, I critiqued all the clothes, loudly. I made Capri try on clothes while I took photos and sent them to my oldest niece, Thing one at work. Capri is Thing one’s idol. She love that Capri married a pale, non Italian, and dresses very preppy. An Italian Wasp is what Thing one calls her and reveres her and Martha Stewart as holy women. Don’t ask me why, I did my best to corrupt my sibling’s children and none of it took.
- Capri also told me that I was walking like my mother. I wanted to kill her because of course, she is right.
- I recently purchased a weed whacker (I know they are called “trimmers” but in my day, they were whackers) to go with my new lawn mower. I find things with motorized blades and fishing line to be comforting. I worked out a week’s worth of PMS in about two hours. I felt like a power top as I put the whacker together, plugged it in and had at it. I had no idea what I was doing or how I was supposed to hold the thing. I have several bald spots in the front and back. My girl had locked herself in her room and the beast (my dog) was huddled in a corner of her cage, ears back, wondering when Mommy will stop making all that noise. I had grass in my bra. I took the heads off flowers; I mowed over several of the beast’s toys and had a good time in general. 3b got to my house and just shook his head. I am enjoying yard work more and more.
- I fell on my ass in the Wal Mart parking lot. I parked in a pot hole and slid as I was getting into my car. I fell on my ass and am pretty sure I bounced. Capri is correct with all the comparisons to my mother. It makes me sad and at the same time it is very freeing. I have decided that my black hooded sweat jackets are my version of my mother’s yellow housecoats with the pink flowers on the collar. I like my version better.
I know this is short and (hopefully) sweet but the world is a fucking mess and if I have nothing to say, I am just going to get a cinnamon roll and look at my lawn.