Cute only goes so far

 For the sake of all humanity, do not say these things out loud:

“I really had a crush on you back in the day.”

 “Do you still have your fat clothes, because I know someone who could use them.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to relax and take a day for myself.”

When you utter these words out loud, they hurtle into the cosmos for consideration.

The cosmos, being the bitch that it is, often lobs back this response on the appointed special day:

  •  You will be awakened at dawn to the sound of a floor lamp stem cracking in half and then falling like a mighty oak in the woods. The sound of metal and glass striking wood and plaster will jar you from your much-needed rest, while everyone else in the house snores away undisturbed. Your wishes lay in shards at your feet. So it is with your favorite lamp. 
  • You will haul a twisted, top-heavy lamp to the basement, to rest next to all the other broken junk that you think you will fix someday when the solution strikes you or an amazing handyman moves in next door. Next, you’ll haul the vacuum up the steps to pick up all the small pieces of glass embedded in the carpet. Muttering under your breath, you’ll put the room to rights and restore your morning. 
  • After coffee, a shower and a few other preparatory measures, you will return to the scene  of the crime  to discover that the four-footed perpetrator of destruction has struck again. This time it’s the potted plant next to the lamp. Except now the pot no longer houses a plant. Or dirt. It’s an empty vessel on its side. The contents are a muddy mix scatted in a wide arc across the carpet. The plant itself, one that you’ve nurtured along for 14 years is in a twisted heap, its willowy branches and leaves splayed unnaturally, exposing pale, tender roots. The whole display is reminiscent of an underage socialite at an after-hours party.  Under the nearby chair, you will see two yellow, unblinking and unrepentent eyes peering out at you.
  • In your haste to get on with your special day to yourself, which is seriously behind schedule and veering off course, you will grab the vacuum still handy from the previous spill, and begin to sweep over the muddy mix. Except the mix does not get sucked into the machinery, it adheres to the wheels and brush plates underneath, serving as more of a frosting knife than suction tool. So now you have transformed the arc of mud into a sunburst of mud. You consider mudding the walls to match and calling it a design concept.

Instead you burst into tears, shout a string of expletives and curse the day you gave up the dream of living alone in a mountain cabin.

Congratulations, your special day of aloneness and renewal include:  one broken lamp, one destroyed plant, one big black mucky circle on your office carpet and one indifferent kitten licking his left paw. Next move?

Trapping and killing the kitten?

Buying a wet/dry vac?

Jumping out the window, hopping into the car and driving to New Mexico?

For it is only through the spontaneous escape, the unplanned departure that you will ever, ever get your special day to yourself.

IMG_1839

See the blur of movement? Notice the trail of destruction? Cute, isn't it?

 

Sunny, with a chance of crabby

muddy

by gothick_matt

We’ve had so much rain and gloom lately — and hello? the heat is still kicking on and it’s June —  that I wonder how I can be so irritable on a day that offers sunshine.

Yet, there it is. It begins as a day with much to do; all is laid out in a tidy plan. Then, like thunderheads overwhelm the horizon, so appears my grand-scale crabbiness. It begins this way:

The gas company has been on my back for  a while now to move our meter from the basement to the outside of our house. Fine. We play some phone tag and finally agree on a time and date. I block off two hours Wednesday afternoon. 

Except the gas company contractors don’t show up at 1 p.m. Wednesday, as per the agreement, and made with the idea that Girl from the East and I would be fed, showered, dressed and happily in the back yard, away from the pounding and drilling and stomping about of heavy-booted workers.

Instead, the door bell chimes at 8:50 a.m. while I am still in my NSFW nightie, Girl from the East is in her Hello Kitty undies and tank top, and I have not yet moved all the boxes out of the way for the men to work.

So I abandon the waffle iron bubbling with batter, run to the coat closet to slip on a jacket, grab Girl from the East and drag her to her room to put on some pants and then run to answer the door.

Except Girl from the East doesn’t appreciate this sudden panic and refuses to get dressed. Now the guys are knocking forcefully on the door. I smell overcooked batter. I leave Girl in her room, pants-less and wailing and open the door to four young burly guys in hard hats bearing boxes of big tools.

The burly worker guys apologize for being four hours early. I don’t want to stand still long enough for them to realize I’m basically only wearing a coat, so I let them in and shoo them down the steps. I attempt to salvage our breakfast  (kind of ruined due to cookus interruptus) and partake in it while simultaneously ignoring hard-hatted, steel-toe-booted, tool-belt-wearing guys tromping from door to basement. Repeatedly.

burned

by yewenyl

I try not to pay too much attention to the muddy footprints trailing on the carpet and hardwoods.The ongoing wailing of Girl in the bedroom nearly covers the sound of drilling through concrete and brick, the pounding of sledgehammers.

We get a brief reprieve. Girl summons enough courage to creep down the hallway during a quiet moment. Then the guys burst into the house again. One of their cell phones bleats a country-music song that bounces off the walls like a stick of dynamite exploding in a canyon, sending Girl into a fresh round of tears and wails.

When it’s all over, in less than two hours, I need to rewash the hardwoods and stain-spray the carpets, and my energy for the day is depleted. At 11 a.m.

Voice of reason: But MomZombie, you knew they were coming, why did you clean all your floors the night before?

MomZombie: All I had in mind is that our in-laws are visiting this weekend.

Voice of reason: They’ve done their work; they’re gone. Turn your day around.

MomZombie: I smell gas.