Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Jab Jab Cross
I don't use this blog very often to bitch about things. I am generally a positive person, who sees the beauty in the world and finds the good in every situation. Where there is despair, I see hope. Where there is suffering, I find endurance, survival. Where people are dying in droves, I see ponies and rainbows and gumdrop kisses falling like rain. I'll say to people "Wow, do you see the rainbow?" and then they usually hit me with something and run. It's optimism bordering on psychosis. It's psychoptimism.
What I try to avoid on this blog is the R-word. No, not "retarded." I say that all the time. I mean "rant." Too many blogs are given over to self-described "rants" which usually just means Andy Rooney-like zero-level observation paired with question mark/exclamation point bundles meant to convey a sense of exasperation.
"The post office, man. Why is the line so slow?!?! It makes me kerrrrr-aaaa-zzzeeeee!?!?!?!"
Seriously, why is the line at the post office so slow? I know it's rant-y, but I'd honestly like to know.
In case you hadn't twigged yet, this post is lurching dangerously toward Pops-spends-three-pages-telling-us-what-he's-not-going-to-write-about-and-then-proceeds-to-write-about-it-anyway (patent pending). It's what I do.
I do want to make it clear that this is not a "rant" in any way. There is no broken system I wish to topple with the power of my words here. This is just me bitching.
Yesterday was the first official day of summer vacation for my boy. My first Monday for a long time with no alarm clock. It's been aaaaaall the way since Memorial Day! And yet somehow I survived.
Remember, we're still potty-training the youngest boy.
So I get woken up at around 7 by the eldest sprog, who tells me the youngest has befouled (he goes to private school, so that's how he talks, "befouled" this and "besmirched" that) his training pants (basically a diaper that looks like chonies) but I shouldn't worry because he, my seven-year-old, has "taken care of it."
This means I'm out of bed like a shot, all adrenaline and annoyance as I start yet another round of the Great Poop Hunt of 2006. Potty-training parents know whereof I speak. These are the times when you suspect something scatologically untoward has occurred, but you're not sure, so you have to comb the house (seriously, I use a comb) looking for offending loose growlers. Ideally, you find them with your eyes first instead of your feet.
That part worked out OK (the seven-year-old, it turns out, has some mad innate shit-handling skillz, which means he has a bright future in either the pig farming or public service industries).
Then at 9 that morning, I settled in to watch the [CENSORED], which, disaster that it was, squashed my mood even further.
I did get to do some fun stuff in the middle of the day like yell at my children and scrub the kitchen linoleum on my hands and knees. That last part was part of my ongoing 19th Century Victorian Washer-Woman Historical Re-Creation Living History Project I'm putting together on spec in hopes of selling it to the Unnecessary History Channel (call your cable or satellite provider today). Sure, the first impulse might have been because I bought these new shoes with black soles that made the linoleum look like Seal's face (yes, it was that handsome), but that doesn't mean the project isn't worthwhile. I watched a four-hour dramatic recreation of how people used to eat with wooden utensils on UHC once. They'll buy anything.
Dinner time comes around and I take the ground beef I bought LESS THAN 24 HOURS BEFORE out of the fridge and start cooking. About five minutes in, I check my feet to make sure I'm not wearing some old socks. That have also been bathed in sulfur. And pickle brine. And set on fire. What I'm saying is there was an odor.
Turns out it was the meat. All rotten and whatnot. After one day. Toaster waffles for dinner again! SHUT UP AND STOP COMPLAINING! YOU WILL EAT THEM AND YOU WILL LIKE THEM!
The only good news was last night was the first night of my new boxing class at the gym near my house. This is part of my lifelong program to become an unstoppable killing machine. As some of you may recall, I had been taking a martial arts class already, but I had to quit. I had run out of students I could safely kill. The only ones left had families or at least someone with whom they lived who would miss them if I were to snatch the life from their bodies in one stealthy yet impressively showy move. So I had to move on.
I did learn one positive lesson from my long day yesterday: never borrow the loaner boxing gloves from the gym. It's bad enough to be in a room with something that smells like that. It's quite another thing to strap them on your hands and then punch things with them. My hands still reek with the funk. Think of rental bowling shoes, but without the handy disinfectant spray. And then stick your naked fingers in there. Not good. But a life lesson.
As bad as yesterday was, I kept waiting for the pirates to ambush me, but they never came. I say that to myself quite often when I'm having a bad day: "All I need now is to be ambushed by pirates and today will be just fucking perfect." And yet they wait. They bide their time. I suspect it's because they're aware of my deadly training and are intimidated. But more likely, I think, they're waiting for me to buy a boat.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0
TOTALLY SKIPPABLE WORLD CUP SOCCER SECTION
I'm very slowly recovering from yesterday's bitter, bitter disappointment. The morphine is helping.
Today's Match of the Day: Brazil vs. Croatia. 3 Eastern/noon Pacific, ESPN2.
Defending champions against the 1998 semifinalists Croatia. From Berlin! This will be quite a treat for those of us who only know Berlin from grainy black-and-white film footage they show on a 24-hour loop on the History Channel. This is everyone's chance to see how the city has changed. Or at least the part of it on which the game will be played. My guess: lots of grass, some seats arranged in a bowl-shape.
Also: the Croatians are sure to break out their traditional red-and-white checkerboard uniforms. I find their fascination with checkers perplexing and confusing, but it makes for some interesting fashion choices.