So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
He's a Keeper
And here's why:
First, the back story.
My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.
My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.
Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.
One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?
Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.
She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.
The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.
Over the fucking tree.
She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.
At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.
I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.
Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.
God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."
After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...
And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.
Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"
Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.
First, the back story.
My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.
My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.
Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.
One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?
Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.
She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.
The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.
Over the fucking tree.
She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.
At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.
I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.
Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.
God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."
After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...
And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.
Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"
Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.
Friday, November 12, 2010
And Another Thing
It's one thing when I make fun of my age. And it's the same thing when someone close to my age makes fun of my age. I earned these gray hairs (and the money I use to buy the hair color to cover them)
I understand that due to many cultural factors, these puke kids don't respect their moms much. I also remember the lack of respect I had, when 20 years younger, I had for people who were then the age I am now. Was I this obnoxious? I hope not, and if I was, I humbly apologize now.
My rant today centers on Special Ed and the wrongness that is Retail Hell. For 10 years I have been the only person with my first name in the place. I was singular. Unique. Now, they go and hire someone with the same first name for exactly the same department. It's just not right.
What makes it more not right, is that Special Ed decided yesterday that it is too confusing for everyone else when we're both (me and the new one) working at the same time--especially since yesterday, we were on the front line. Everyone else is coming up with ways to be sure to not confuse us (although there wasn't that much of a problem when there were 9 Ashleys and 42 Tiffanys all at the same time.) As if confusing me with anyone else would be possible.
Special Ed announces that the new one could have "New" added to her name, and I could have "Old" added to mine.
I tell him--as only I can--that she can very well be "New" but I am not to be designated "Old" EVER. He continues, much like the Howler when she's in her think out loud phases, to explain all the situations in which it would be OK to refer to me as "Old."
I continue to repeat myself. He continues to ignore me.
Finally, I tell him: "Under NO circumstances EVER will the word "old" be added to my name. No how, now way. NOT EVER." Apparently my tone communicated better than the words themselves.
I understand that due to many cultural factors, these puke kids don't respect their moms much. I also remember the lack of respect I had, when 20 years younger, I had for people who were then the age I am now. Was I this obnoxious? I hope not, and if I was, I humbly apologize now.
My rant today centers on Special Ed and the wrongness that is Retail Hell. For 10 years I have been the only person with my first name in the place. I was singular. Unique. Now, they go and hire someone with the same first name for exactly the same department. It's just not right.
What makes it more not right, is that Special Ed decided yesterday that it is too confusing for everyone else when we're both (me and the new one) working at the same time--especially since yesterday, we were on the front line. Everyone else is coming up with ways to be sure to not confuse us (although there wasn't that much of a problem when there were 9 Ashleys and 42 Tiffanys all at the same time.) As if confusing me with anyone else would be possible.
Special Ed announces that the new one could have "New" added to her name, and I could have "Old" added to mine.
I tell him--as only I can--that she can very well be "New" but I am not to be designated "Old" EVER. He continues, much like the Howler when she's in her think out loud phases, to explain all the situations in which it would be OK to refer to me as "Old."
I continue to repeat myself. He continues to ignore me.
Finally, I tell him: "Under NO circumstances EVER will the word "old" be added to my name. No how, now way. NOT EVER." Apparently my tone communicated better than the words themselves.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Special Ed
Where I work, it is getting harder and harder to find "good help." Partly because only those who are insane or desperate willingly work retail, and partly because this younger generation is basically lazy and stupid.
Seriously. I spawned one, and am currently coming to terms with the fact that he ain't never, and I mean NEVER moving out, so I am very well versed in Pukedom when I see it.
The current Puke at work is kinda creepy, kinda dull, and kinda stupid. Now, by dull and stupid, I mean he makes Smiley look like a genius.
Today, I was on the front line, and I watched (while still running a register, no less) the Puke take 3 times as long for each and every transaction as I did. I kid you not--I dealt with 3-5 separate customers with shitloads of merchandise in their carts, while he would deal with one--ONE--freaking customer. Even when he was to the point where the customer was handing him money, it still took him 5 full minutes before he was done with that transaction. God help me, Smiley is faster. She can handle 1.5 customers for each of my 4.
He also has the hideous "Rebel without a Clue" thing going on. He thinks he's sooooooo very much above the rest of us--whether it's in intellect (HAH! I so very much doubt that, you turd) or gender. He's a scruffy little fluffball, and yet again, I say, "If I wanted to babysit, or put up with this kind of asshole teenager, I'd stay HOME with my own children. At least I can beat them when the need arises." So far, I've seen nothing that would lead me to believe he's anything special, except for maybe Special Ed.
At the end of my shift today, he sez, "Well, Mumple, it's about time...go ahead, turn off your light, and go."
Seriously? Like you, you little Sped, are the boss of me? Because you know, due to being older, wiser, more experienced, and mostly just by virtue of being smarter than the bag of hammers you come close to resembling, I'm not taking orders from you.
Seriously. I spawned one, and am currently coming to terms with the fact that he ain't never, and I mean NEVER moving out, so I am very well versed in Pukedom when I see it.
The current Puke at work is kinda creepy, kinda dull, and kinda stupid. Now, by dull and stupid, I mean he makes Smiley look like a genius.
Today, I was on the front line, and I watched (while still running a register, no less) the Puke take 3 times as long for each and every transaction as I did. I kid you not--I dealt with 3-5 separate customers with shitloads of merchandise in their carts, while he would deal with one--ONE--freaking customer. Even when he was to the point where the customer was handing him money, it still took him 5 full minutes before he was done with that transaction. God help me, Smiley is faster. She can handle 1.5 customers for each of my 4.
He also has the hideous "Rebel without a Clue" thing going on. He thinks he's sooooooo very much above the rest of us--whether it's in intellect (HAH! I so very much doubt that, you turd) or gender. He's a scruffy little fluffball, and yet again, I say, "If I wanted to babysit, or put up with this kind of asshole teenager, I'd stay HOME with my own children. At least I can beat them when the need arises." So far, I've seen nothing that would lead me to believe he's anything special, except for maybe Special Ed.
At the end of my shift today, he sez, "Well, Mumple, it's about time...go ahead, turn off your light, and go."
Seriously? Like you, you little Sped, are the boss of me? Because you know, due to being older, wiser, more experienced, and mostly just by virtue of being smarter than the bag of hammers you come close to resembling, I'm not taking orders from you.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Shazaam!
It's come to my attention over the past year that I have actually become the woman I wanted to be 20 years ago.
And I hate it.
I spent the first 10 of that 20 miserably trying too hard. Then, I figured what the hell, and just let it go--stopped trying and decided that I would just be happy the way I was. So I spent the next 10 just doing the best I could, and ignoring the assholes who didn't like it. And saying a lot of the stuff that I thought anyway. Why wait 'til I'm old and senile? Just say it now and get over it.
I actually came to enjoy not having to bother much with all the trappings and crap of being a woman--especially the time consuming uninteresting parts. I especially came to glory in being unexpected.
My Sweetie helped immensely in a lot of that. He's a far better person than I am, and he talked me down from many a bell tower in the beginning. Those bell towers are fewer and farther between now, and I've most recently discovered that the bottomless pit of anger and bitterness not only had a bottom, but it's also run very nearly dry.
I know you're thinking, "Sure, that was all fine and sometimes it was dandy, but isn't it better now? To realize you've actually become the person you wanted to be..."
Well, that's easy enough for you to say, 'cuz you haven't just spent 20 freaking years gouging a place for yourself where you're comfortable and happy, just to discover that it was a whole lot of time spent for, what amounts to being, nothing. To realize that I am about 15 years too late to my own life.
Frustrating and discouraging. To counter that awesome feeling, I'm working on adjusting my perspective to believe that it wasn't really ME, it's the rest of the world that is just finally catching up to me. 15 freaking years late.
No wonder 80's fashion is back in style.
And I hate it.
I spent the first 10 of that 20 miserably trying too hard. Then, I figured what the hell, and just let it go--stopped trying and decided that I would just be happy the way I was. So I spent the next 10 just doing the best I could, and ignoring the assholes who didn't like it. And saying a lot of the stuff that I thought anyway. Why wait 'til I'm old and senile? Just say it now and get over it.
I actually came to enjoy not having to bother much with all the trappings and crap of being a woman--especially the time consuming uninteresting parts. I especially came to glory in being unexpected.
My Sweetie helped immensely in a lot of that. He's a far better person than I am, and he talked me down from many a bell tower in the beginning. Those bell towers are fewer and farther between now, and I've most recently discovered that the bottomless pit of anger and bitterness not only had a bottom, but it's also run very nearly dry.
I know you're thinking, "Sure, that was all fine and sometimes it was dandy, but isn't it better now? To realize you've actually become the person you wanted to be..."
Well, that's easy enough for you to say, 'cuz you haven't just spent 20 freaking years gouging a place for yourself where you're comfortable and happy, just to discover that it was a whole lot of time spent for, what amounts to being, nothing. To realize that I am about 15 years too late to my own life.
Frustrating and discouraging. To counter that awesome feeling, I'm working on adjusting my perspective to believe that it wasn't really ME, it's the rest of the world that is just finally catching up to me. 15 freaking years late.
No wonder 80's fashion is back in style.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Rescue Me
Tonight I was in lumber. Ugh. I hate it down there- it's dark, and dingy, and well, the customers are often times, believe it or not, bigger assholes than they are anywhere else in the store.
Anyway, Nub, aka the Gnome, was in rare form. I ask a simple "yes" or "no" question and his utter inability to answer it led him to complain that I wouldn't go away. How hard is this math? Sheesh. One of these days, I'm gonna step on him like he's a little, moustached, bespectacled bug (which he is, but that's not the point.)
I have decided that I'm throwing insanity pheromones because a chubby, gray haired old biker dude decided to chat with me, for 20 minutes at least, about the state of the union, and Santa Claus.
Now, sure, lots of these people want me to agree with them on politics. And don't even get me started about the God Squadders. But Santa Claus? Seriously?
Oh, yeah. It's gotta be a pheromone. Please tell me it's a pheromone.
Anyway, Nub, aka the Gnome, was in rare form. I ask a simple "yes" or "no" question and his utter inability to answer it led him to complain that I wouldn't go away. How hard is this math? Sheesh. One of these days, I'm gonna step on him like he's a little, moustached, bespectacled bug (which he is, but that's not the point.)
I have decided that I'm throwing insanity pheromones because a chubby, gray haired old biker dude decided to chat with me, for 20 minutes at least, about the state of the union, and Santa Claus.
Now, sure, lots of these people want me to agree with them on politics. And don't even get me started about the God Squadders. But Santa Claus? Seriously?
Oh, yeah. It's gotta be a pheromone. Please tell me it's a pheromone.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
A Slippery Slope
I've struggled with depression for most of my adult life. It sucks. My entire history of it is long, and boring, and filled with stories of ridiculous reactions to medications--side effects ranging from hair loss (Sasquatch showered at my house) to a terrifying loss of words (I couldn't answer the question, "So what does your husband do for a living?") Most recently, the Cymbalta for the fibromyalgia gave me insomnia for the first 10 days, then, when that wore off, I couldn't find the door to take my daughter to school (and yet, I got behind the wheel of my vehicle and took her to school.)
I've spent the better part of the last 18 months struggling to not get lost in the depression. It's occasionally made me weird, and the accompanying mood swings have been dizzying.
Mostly, the past 6 months or so have been a roller coaster, all inside my head. I'm sure the people I work with have enjoyed it--the preoccupation with keeping the crazy contained has kept me about 80% quiet and moderately subdued at work. I'm sure they'll agree that it's been a blessing.
The worst part of the past 6 months is that I hadn't realized I was worse than I was. And unfortunately, I kept it pretty well hidden--even from myself. That sucks, too, because, well, I got sucker-punched and I reacted very very badly. A lot in Old Mumple Character, and not so much in who I really am now. It was abundantly clear, though, when the Doc was really really serious when she said it was time to consider trying yet another antidepressant. Which, of course, being the stubborn thing I am, I refused. (Yeah, it certainly helped my "I'm OK" when I started crying in the office.)
It was then that I realized I was on that Slippery Slope, and seriously headed for an all-out attack of Crazy.
It bothers me that I let myself get to that point, and it bothers me that I didn't realize how much I was sucking at being a decent, self-aware person. I was being a self-involved spaz. I want to cower behind the depression, and the fact that, depression aside, I've never been very good at self-censoring what I say.
I'm not going to cower. I'm going to eat crow, and be the kind of person who says, "I was an ass. I'm sorry." Thank God the majority of those who deserve the apologies are still speaking to me.
I've spent the better part of the last 18 months struggling to not get lost in the depression. It's occasionally made me weird, and the accompanying mood swings have been dizzying.
Mostly, the past 6 months or so have been a roller coaster, all inside my head. I'm sure the people I work with have enjoyed it--the preoccupation with keeping the crazy contained has kept me about 80% quiet and moderately subdued at work. I'm sure they'll agree that it's been a blessing.
The worst part of the past 6 months is that I hadn't realized I was worse than I was. And unfortunately, I kept it pretty well hidden--even from myself. That sucks, too, because, well, I got sucker-punched and I reacted very very badly. A lot in Old Mumple Character, and not so much in who I really am now. It was abundantly clear, though, when the Doc was really really serious when she said it was time to consider trying yet another antidepressant. Which, of course, being the stubborn thing I am, I refused. (Yeah, it certainly helped my "I'm OK" when I started crying in the office.)
It was then that I realized I was on that Slippery Slope, and seriously headed for an all-out attack of Crazy.
It bothers me that I let myself get to that point, and it bothers me that I didn't realize how much I was sucking at being a decent, self-aware person. I was being a self-involved spaz. I want to cower behind the depression, and the fact that, depression aside, I've never been very good at self-censoring what I say.
I'm not going to cower. I'm going to eat crow, and be the kind of person who says, "I was an ass. I'm sorry." Thank God the majority of those who deserve the apologies are still speaking to me.
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