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Hey Poopface, It’s Your Birthday

22 Apr

It seems like the blog post writing went by the wayside around the same time the hubby went into remission and I promptly started menopause. I was thinking the other day about how, on a warm summer night, I’d pour a glass of vino and head out back with my laptop to craft up a humorous take on that day’s shenanigans. But then. It seemed like things weren’t quite as funny anymore. I think cancer (or teenagers?) took away my humor nerve. At least that’s what I’m going to run with. It certainly won’t be that whole tired “I’m too busy” refrain. Or that I’m just not funny any more. But, since I’m here again — wine in hand — I’ll have to let you decide. And you can keep your opinion to yourself. Thankyouverymuch.

And I really couldn’t resist taking this week by the balls and squeezing the ever-loving humor out of it. Here’s why:

On Monday, the landscapers (aka the YARD ELVES) came and magically whisked away winter. At some point, the hubby went outside to inspect (they are new) and then… 

OHSHITWHYISTHATRATTRAPOUTFROMUNDERTHEDECK!!!

(We live in BOULDER and rat poison is VERBOTEN and we will have to move after this is published…but the 2013 flood unleashed the masses from the rocks and crevices and we felt we had no choice. Yes. I do feel awful about any harm to nature. I just fucking hate rats — especially ones that live under MY DECK.) 

Which morphed into: 

CALL.VET!>DOG.IN.CAR!>DOG.STOMACH.PUMPED!>MUST.EAT.CHARCOAL!>TAKE.THIS.VITAMINK!>PLEASE.GOD.DON’T.LET.HER.DIE! (ALSO: LESSON.LEARNED.RAT.POISON.TO.NEVER.RETURN>RATS.SAY.YAY! AND.MOVE.BACK.IN)

Then it was Tuesday. The dog was acting okay with the exception of the stink eye she was giving the hubby. She was shooting him DAGGERS. And I am not exaggerating. She said, “Bitch! You got the LEASH like you were taking me for A WALK! And then… THAT SHIT?!?!” She was ready to knock him one.

Since the week had started out with trauma, I got it into my head that I was going to turn the hubby bday week around. So the minute he left with the girls for the dentist, I jumped into the car and raced to Party City. My plan was to transform the damned house into a birthday wonderland, including a custom song I had made for him (and also my brother, who was the original recipient when he was like 6 and 45s were still the go-to medium), and prosecco on ice. I was going to blow him away. But then.

Mother Nature decided to blow us ALL AWAY and blew in some freaking 100 MPH winds that toppled TREES and SEMIS just as I was heading to the… wait for it…BALLOON STORE.

I was determined though. Went through that store on a mission. Grabbed decorations, candles in the form of a FIVE and a TWO, then went up front and ordered the FIVE and TWO, three-foot high balloons. Then. “OHMYLORD. Wait! He’s fifty-ONE! I need a ONE not a TWO!” “Really?!?” “Really. I’m so sorry. Almost 25 years married and 32 together and I can’t remember how old he is.” Quickly swapped the TWO candle, smiled at the bewildered cashier, paid and opened the door to the parking lot.

I make it to the car. Open the hatch back. Whew. I made it. Then. Shithead WIND whooshes.. WHIPS and throwing the stick out of my bun hair, my Persol sunglasses off of my head and into the sky, hooking the arm on the balloon string. Thereby launching approximately $370 into the ether. I start flailing as my sunglasses flip skyward and eastward and westward and everywhere-ward as I jump and grab and try to catch them without sending said revised FIVE and ONE balloon shapes into the stratosphere. 

I did it. And if that parking lot video isn’t viral yet, keep an eye out. I was lost in the super store parking lot. “Lady with Volvo Goes Beserk with Balloons and Sunglasses in 1 Million MPH Wind.”

I also made it home, decorated the WHOLE FUCKING HOUSE (sweating and swearing) and was on the ready with a smile, prosecco popped, and custom birthday song cued. (Damn, I’m good.)

Then it’s Wednesday. Actual birthday of the hubby. And all I have to do is get a 600-piece mailing campaign print bid approved and off to print, an email campaign finalized, a con call made, an electronic newsletter template proof to a client, another newsletter written, another email campaign written, a red velvet cake made/baked/iced, a hubby birthday hike squeezed in, a shower, another con call or five to negotiate that print bid, and a dinner reservation reached by 5:30 (we’re old, we have kids and this restaurant ain’t easy to get into).

Voila. Did it. ALL. (Even made sure the hubby got to the vet with the dog for rat poison follow up bloodwork.)

Dinner is incredible, gin and tonics delish, view amazing – YES! Get thyself to Corrida. STAT.

We head home with visions of icing and birthday toasts in our head. Open the front door. And WHOOSH. The smell of dog shit is so ripe and so vile that I nearly puke in the bushes. And said dog has her head hung so low in shame that her chin is scraping the floor and she will not make eye contact. 

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

The ‘Not I, said the cats’ came so fast and furious that the birthday boy was knee deep in shit before he even knew what hit him. And it’s not that we didn’t feel BAD. It was just a firm HELL NO. This is the boy’s job. Feminism be damned. (I mean, at least FOR NOW. And I still had ICING to make fershittinsakes.)

The evening came to a screeching halt as the bloody shitstorm was slowly eradicated from the living room rug and we all started to cry because there was BLOOD and SHIT everywhere. And the dog was going to die.

We half-heartedly lit the FIVE and ONE candles on the newly iced cake. Watched as the hubby made his wish and blew while the scented candles flickered around us to cast away the stench and we cast furtive glances at the dog. Who was dead man walking. 

I’m gonna throw in here that this is a family who is very familiar with their shit. It’s been a reluctant focus ever since COLON CANCER 2010. Shits are analyzed, discussed, mulled over, pondered, and shared. So when it is bloody and voluminous and everywhere, we take it seriously.

That night, we slept nary a bit. The pup was up like clockwork. Puking, pooping, whining, pacing. At least every couple of hours. She was miserable. We were worried. We are tired.

The vet is called back on Thursday morning. They tell us that the blood test came back normal. No evidence of rat poisoning. So we breathe a teeny-tiny sigh of relief (and try to figure out how to take a nap in the middle of another balls-to-the-wall work day.)

Thursday night, I go to book group. Discuss Pachinko. Come home to more shit and up all night to more shit.

Friday, I try to plan an impromptu hubby birthday happy hour. No dice. Spontaneity is dead. (Mostly. Two people out of 12 said yes.) We go to dinner with two people. Stop for wine at the the other two’s house. Get home to… yep…MORE SHIT. Teen Queen made it home before us and, heroically, cleaned it up — save the carpet (which is totally impractical WHITE SHAG from Ikea). Score 1 million thousand for TEEN QUEEN!

Friday night, shit show on repeat. I almost throw out a hip leaping out of bed when dog JUMPS up and runs out of our room. This shit is NOT for old people. 

Saturday, vet is called. AGAIN. Dog is barely moving. Turns her head from CHEESE (which she normally explodes from deep sleep IN THE BASEMENT, IN THE DARK for if she just hears the CHEESE DRAWER in the fridge open. Yes, we have a CHEESE DRAWER.). She isn’t eating. Not drinking. It’s pitiful. We KNOW she’s dying. Think we will wake up to dog dead at any moment. 

Vet prescribes meds. The good shit. Dog gets meds SHOVED DOWN HER DAMN THROAT since she won’t even look at HAM.

Approximately 1.25 hours later? Dog is up. And HUNGRY. AND LORD JESUS IT’S A FREAKING MIRACLE.

It’s snowing. There is mud everywhere on the hardwood floors. But DOG is alive. We nearly weep in relief and decide to watch Netflix all day, order in from DoorDash (Yay for Post fried chicken delivered to your door) and rent that stupid Vince Vaughn movie where he fathers 533 children through 693 sperm donations. You know, your typical, family-friendly, warm-fuzzy, feel-good flick.

So, dudes. I’m here to say that when it’s Sunday and it’s sunny. And your beloved dog is barking again and putting her head in your lap for scratches and the floor has been mopped and you’ve just slept a solid eight for the first time in four days…that’s cause for freaking celebration AND a blog post. Amirite?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Kenny, Captain Zoom. My name is Zoom and I live on the Moon, but I came down to Earth just to sing you this tune, ‘cause KENNY, it’s your birthday TODAY!

LISTEN NOW!

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GREAT expectations.

8 Feb

It makes me tired to have to think so hard all of the time. It takes so much work to take the right path and do the right thing. To think the right thoughts. To eat all of your veggies (and compost what you don’t).

I knew I was in trouble just a few shorts months after our escape west. We’d plotted for months and were so relieved to have finally shed all of those expectations. To have the right job. Live in the right neighborhood. Join the right country club. Play the right sport. Wear the right collared shirt. Host all the right parties (on the right serving pieces). Only to land ourselves smack dab at a campfire in Moab. We’d spent the day being expected to land the right jumps, scale the right rocks and survive the right trails. ON A MOUNTAIN BIKE. And we’d made the the fatal mistake of bringing our trusty styrofoam plates camping.

Damn if those plates weren’t better. Nothing soaks though. No folded-plate-in-lap mishaps. Seriously. So when we were done eating the right camp food, we tossed that damned plate right into the fire. Just like everyone did back home.

The howl that went up was chorused by the coyotes and I think the milkyway even flickered. “WHAT?!? What is it?!?” The startled faces surrounded us in the flickering glow. Our mortification at being called out hung in the air like the fog from a mosquito spray truck. Our deadly sin? Burning styrofoam releases FLUOROCARBONS into the atmosphere. Which instantly KILLS THE ENTIRE EARTH. (Geesh. Every bonehead knows that.)

Except us.

And that was only the beginning. We had LOTS O’ LEARNIN’ TO DO.

We had racial sensitivity to learn. (From our new friends who’d never even seen a brown face except on TV.) Recycling to do. Water to conserve. Straw to clean from our teeth (because once we uttered a single word, everyone we encountered suddenly knew EVERYTHING THERE WAS TO KNOW ABOUT US SOUTHERN FOLK.)

We did okay. We rounded ourselves out. Went to a you just squat in a field and the baby comes out brand of child-birthing class. We wore our birks and clogs with pride. Went all organic. Backpacked and hiked 14ers. Went to composting class. Learned how to garden organically. Commuted to work on our bikes. Spoke passionately to all of our old friends from home about the importance of sorting your plastics and papers and why YOU NEVER EVER SHOP AT WALMART. (Our audience consisted —in part— of our own parents who used their green curbside bins to store firewood and proudly showed us the small container of organic milk they’d bought especially for us at…SUPER WALMART.)

The accents cleared out just enough to fade into the background of an occasional mention.

And we just went on living. Smacking into a wall or two of ignorance when we’d get called out for wearing leather when we were strictly vegetarian. Or blasting Eminem when it was “how could YOU — being such a femi-nazi — ever, ever, ever listen to THAT?!?”

It was during one of those moments that I first had the thought. “This is too fucking HARD.”

Because I LIKE rap music. I like to RUN to it on my iPOD. It makes me want to wiggle my fat white ass and belt out all the bitches and hoes like I own the fucking joint. (Not that I don’t appreciate bluegrass and Wilco too. I do. I really, really DO.)

Which brings me to Beyonce at the Superbowl. I watched it live. With my 12-year-old daughter (the bean was in the tub). Saw every ass jiggle/lick-my-finger-and-touch-my-breast-cause-I’m-fucking-hot/pelvic thrust to the beat. I thought the dominatrix outfits left very little to the imagination. But I thought it was entertaining. A show. Didn’t think a thing of it really. Except that those women were on fire. Felt their power. Weren’t afraid to shake it for the world to see. No matter their size or shape. Miss-miss and I discussed girl power. How Beyonce’s songs support strong women. And how we are all strong women. (The hubby nodding, “No question there,” thereby admitting his over-powered-out-numbered-maleness-in-this-house defeat.)

And then.

The styrofoam plate hit the fire. (Also known as the social media-o-sphere.) The talk was about oversexualization. Objectification. Appropriateness. Why a woman as talented and powerful as the BEY would stoop to such theatrics. Clearly aimed at playing to the masses of men that this particular audience consists of.

I read. Then read some more. Clicked share on a couple that hit home. Then stopped and hit cancel.

I was conflicted. But mostly just tired (again). The pressure to DO THE RIGHT THING and denounce the performance weighed heavily. I want my girls to grow up STRONG and sure and GOOD. Confident in who they are without the need to play to a target audience or throw their bodies around like a plastic bag in the wind (which aren’t allowed in Boulder anymore anyway).

They should know all that already. I know we’ve raised them right. So why couldn’t we just enjoy a performance by a sick-with-talent woman and clap our hands at the bey-in-the-mirror tricks and fire shooting out of her ass (okay, I made that part up).

Because we have to do the right thing. Teach the right lessons. Model the right behavior. Be the right kind of parent.

So now I am supposed to drink less wine because I am medicating with alcohol. Yell less (or not at all) when those girls drive me ape shit. Drive carpool in a Prius that doesn’t fit my two kids much less the rest of the volleyball team (we went with the Pilot). Skip dessert because I am medicating with food. Rinse out the gag-a-fying wet dog food can so it can be recycled. Live with the fruit flies that are all just a part of the compost plan. Skip TV because it’s selling me the wrong messages. Turn off the A/C because I’m pulling too much from the coal-fired grid.

And SMILE.

I don’t really have a point. Except this: Doing the right thing makes me tired. But I still drag my ass out of bed every morning and give it a go. And if I sometimes misguidedly think that spraying a little round-up on a pesky weed or two is OKAY, just give me some space, mmm-kay? Nobody’s perfect and nobody is telling you to dress in a few spare strips of leather and call it an outfit either. (I wonder if she’s vegan…)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Little Talks. Of Monsters and Men. There’s an old voice in my head that’s holding me back. Well tell her that I miss our little talks. Soon it will be over and buried with our past. We used to play outside when we were young. And full of life and full of love.

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