Streak-O-Lean

Part 6: Scattered and Smothered

Curtis had women trouble. He didn't expect to cheat on May but he did. And now he'd really screwed up. May wasn't some girlfriend that he could shrug off. This time he cheated on his wife. He wasn't going to be able to walk away from this one unscathed. He was going to have to either patch it up with May or get a divorce and all that entails. Unable to approach May due to cowardice, he found himself in a new relationship with Twila. Twila just assumed that since they shared a half a pound of spit in his office that one afternoon that they were now boyfriend and girlfriend. Curtis' MO for life had always been to take the path of least resistance and that meant letting Twila think they were in a relationship (with all the perks that involved), and avoiding May at all costs (with all the perks that involved as well). But for some reason, he couldn't get May out of his head. There was only one thing he could do. He headed to the storeroom to hit on Brandi.

Curtis pushed through the swinging doors that led to the back of the store where pallets of Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms sat waiting to be the catalyst for the next mother-toddler standoff. Sooner or later, mother would convince herself that 4 dollars for a box of cereal would be a small price for finishing her shopping without incident. Toddler: 1, Mother: zip!

"Brandi?" Curtis said in a slightly raised voice. "Brandi? Where are you Sweetie?"
"I'm here Curtis and don't call me Sweetie!" Brandi replied in a most disgruntled fashion.
"Where?" Curtis said impatiently.
"I'm here near the splendid new shipment of Idaho potatoes. It would seem that 13 bags of these beauties have better things to do than show up here at the Piggly Wiggly in Carrington. Shall we send out the lynch mob for the rascals or wait and see if they come home on their own?"
"Ahh Damn! Did they shy us some bags again?" Curtis asked while silently hoping that Brandi wore those low rider jeans with the sequenced hearts on the back pockets. The hearts were a bonus. Like little bull's eyes, those hearts were beacons that lassoed his eyes and brought them to lay quite obviously on Brandi's behind.
"I would answer your question if I knew what 'shy us' meant. If you are referring to the fact that we are short again on the shipment then yes, they 'shy-ed us' Curtis." Brandi retorted in her most I-am-far-more-educated-at-the-10th-grade-level-than-you-will-be-in-your-whole-life voice.
"Well, I'll be damned." Curtis said scratching his head and ignoring her insult. "Guess I should make a call." He walked gingerly toward the teenager sitting on a pallet opposite the potatoes. He sat next to her, opened his legs into a comfortable position and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you think I oughta do about this, Miss Smartie Pants?"

My Heart Says No... Not Yet.

She's two now.

She's not content to play by herself.

She wants to know everything and none of it is on PBS.

She can construct full sentences.

She needs two cookies instead of one.

She can release the belt on her car seat and open the van door.

She knows it's blue and not green.

She knows on Thursday morning that we will "go to Hennin's house."

She watches Coraline everyday.

She can do it herself.

She tells me to sshh!

She needs to play with other kids and grow.

I need time to put myself back together and heal.

But I just can't do it.

I can't drop her off.

I can't start that part of her life yet.

I can't let her run and color and play with strangers.

I'm not ready to make cupcakes for her class parties.

I can't kiss that little face and say good-bye not even for two days a week.

I want to stop time and watch her sleep.

I want all of her kisses and "hucks".

I guess I'm not the grown up after all.

She's only two.

Life is a Journey, not a Destination. Are we there yet?

I am 39 years old. When does the whole grown up thing kick in?

I am at a loss for pinpointing exactly what it is I want to write here. I guess I could say that my post has a certain je ne sais quoi, but my writing doesn't hold the chic mystique that that phrase implies. What is certain is that there is something inside of me that needs to escape and I haven't found the right venue for it yet. Will it be in writing, or art? Or perhaps housework? Maybe I just need to sit down with a friend and blab until whatever it is comes tumbling out.

It's 6:30 am and the house is quiet. But I still feel the crushing force of everyday life all around me.

I grew up with strong adults who kept chaos, both material and emotional, at bay. At least that was my perception as a child. In retrospect, I know that life was far from always being a bed of roses for my parents. But they did a great job of dealing with what was handed to them, good or bad. I am not very good at keeping chaos at bay. In fact, I am quite certain that a good portion of this chaos is my own creation.

It's probably not a good sign that I still think in terms of when I grow up... At 39, I am still wondering what I'm going to do with my life. My wiser, older friends would say, Honey you've got time. My younger friends would say, Aren't you supposed to have it together already? I guess I've just hit that middle-aged stride (somewhere between a childish, happy jaunt and a worn out hobble). I don't want to play on the swings anymore but I don't want to talk diapers with the moms on the park benches either. I thought that not fitting in was a pubescent phenomenon. I guess not because I still have the acne to show for it.

The day is coming. What will I do with it? Maybe I'll take a nap.

I think avoidance might be an issue. I might also be overbooked. It's like I've been bumped, but there isn't a later flight. Hmmm... What to do....

AHH the Good Life!

(Love to give props for the photo but don't know who to give it to.  The image ref was confusing.)

I love my porch.  It has peeling paint, dirty furniture, and all the charm to keep the neighbors around for hours.  It has been beautiful lately.  Spring is coming (and in Macon, GA one could probably say it's already here).  Tony and I have been playing Scrabble every evening for the last couple of nights and we end up laughing our proverbial asses off as we usually end up making up words that are entirely inappropriate, profane, or just plain ol' silly.  Combine this with our dear friend who lives across the street and you've got more fun than a buncha' dumb rednecks on a coon shoot wearing Davey Crocket hats.  

So let's talk about my dearest friend, (we were separated-at-birth) SHUG.  Shug (as in "Sugar", and no, that's not her real name) is the zaniest person I think I've ever met aside from my husband.  She is from small town Georgia and (with all of the love in the world intended) is a shit-kicker from hell!  Now for all you out there who are not from the Deep South, that might seem somewhat offensive; but I can tell you that if and when she reads this, she will be most proud to have such a fabulous title.  She's about 5 and a half feet and has a million stories to tell about her life.  Everything from growing up in rural Georgia, to UGA in the 70's, and being married to a roadie for the Allman Brothers Band; there are stories to hear that will crack your ass up (if you need more crack than you already have). Needless to say, SHUG and I are usually laughing when we are together and GOOOD LAWD!  Please don't invite my husband 'cause then one of us usually ends up saying "NO! WAIT! I'm gonna pee in my pants!" And then, as we're running out of the room to pee, we add, "Don't say another damn thing until I get back or I'll KICK YOUR ASS!"  

It's a friend like this that makes the phrase, "You're not a guest!  You're family! Get it yourself!" so very appropriate.  I love it that she's my friend and I really love it that she's right across the street (no designated  driver required).  

So, I am ready for spring.

I Need My Own Personal Stonehenge

Perhaps it's the weather, the change in seasons, or the phase of the moon, but everyone in my life seems to be a bit, well, depressed.  We're all somewhat overwhelmed yet surprisingly nonplussed about it.  I thought maybe it was just me, or perhaps the planets were aligned in a bizarre pattern (something I don't ever think about until I can't find a reason for a puzzling situation).  I guess I need a couple of Druids and some really big rocks (and let's go ahead and throw in the Salisbury Plain 'cause I sure as hell would rather be there than here right now). Perhaps then, I will be able to find the cause of this rift in emotions.

Think about this for a second... Imagine being there right next to one of those enormous rocks (yes, I know it is no longer allowed.  That's why I said "imagine.")  Put your hand on the chilly, bumpy surface of the stone next to you.  The sun is about to come up and you are going to witness it rise above the Heel Stone in the distance and remarkably align itself with the center of the structure where you are now standing.

Can't be depressed watching that, can you?  It's a spiritual moment... a personal moment.  Yet, you are sharing it with others.  A bit like our modern day going to church except, at least for me, church is not as spiritual, nor as breathtaking, nor as communal.  I think spiritually, modern day man (for the most part) has forgotten how to be "moved."  Oh, sure, we're moved occasionally... but on a daily, weekly, even monthly basis? We are over stimulated by the digital world, underfed emotionally in our relationships, and all without a Stonehenge to gather and get back to the basics of life. How do we get there without giving up all that we as humans have acquired through the ages?  Or, is it a trade off?

Hot Water Heater 1: Checkbook -850

Hot Water Heater

Hot Water Heater age 13 passed away peacefully at home on Wednesday, February 18, 2009. Heater was known throughout the Harris home as a fun loving tower of warmth and hard work. He supplied hot water to all faucets in the home and was generous in serving Dishwasher and Washing Machine as well. Many guests to the Harris home found that Heater was far too hot and often referred to him as an overachiever. This fueled Heater's work ethic even more, providing hot water even after Troll One Harris would take one of his infamous hour long showers. Heater is survived by his owners Tony Harris and Stacie Harris; and his trolls,Troll One, Troll Two and Troll 3. Funeral services will be arranged by Waste Management and visitation will be held at the White Goods Pile at the City Dump. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the Harris House from Hell Fund.

One of those MEAN Mommy Days

There are some days when I absolutely, 100 %, totally, and completely HATE being a wife and mother. For all of you out there that are gasping in shock and disgust I say "Get over it!" and "I am just sayin' what every mom feels but most don't say." I am hoping that someone out there feels like I do...or maybe I AM some kind of monster.  

I have good kids...really good kids.  I am lucky and blessed that they are healthy and happy.  I feel unbelievably guilty because there are so many people that can't have kids or have sick children. When days like this arrive, I know that this is not who I am but a passing feeling; that a lot of this is my illness speaking (depression) and that I have good reason to be overwhelmed and ready to escape.  That is logical Stacie speaking.  The not-so-logical Stacie will continue to snap at her family all day, tear herself apart for doing so, be somewhat VERY cranky with her hovering worried husband who wants to "fix it", and think of fantastic ways of escaping alone to some exotic destination preferably Mediterranean (but I'll take my dear friend's kitchen table across the street).

I am sick of doing housework, laundry, keeping up with toddler, grocery shopping, keeping up with pets that seem to have every effing illness in the world, paying the bills, running every freakin' errand imaginable, picking up Troll Two from school and all that that involves (signing agendas, reviewing Wednesday folders, fussing because she didn't have her violin for class for the 3rd time), homeschooling Troll One, maintaining the car, worrying about the house that is  falling down around my ears, keeping my artist husband on track (sometimes he needs a little push to get him to the drawing table), PICKING UP EVERYBODY ELSE'S CRAP CONSTANTLY... wait, I need to repeat that one, PICKING UP EVERYBODY ELSE'S CRAP CONSTANTLY... and the list goes on and on and on and on.   And the most frustrating thing is that I'm not doing one thing on said list well.

 I, YOURS TRULY, NUMERO UNO am EXHAUSTED, DONE, THROUGH...at least right now.  I can't remember the last time I was totally alone in my house...I can't remember the last time I was totally alone ANYWHERE.  And they, as in the group of aliens I live with, want to know "What's wrong?" and "Why are you so bitchy and assey, MOMMY...Oh and MOM ?I don't have a uniform for tomorrow?" No, they aren't allowed to cuss but that's the jist.  In my mind's eye I am throwing things... like vases, dishes, the cat.  In my mind's eye I am grabbing my keys, my purse, and walking my tired ass outta this house and driving... somewhere... anywhere that doesn't involve anything.

Okay, so I've said all of the things I shouldn't.  And I know that tomorrow or the next day hopefully, I will be in love with my life once again... well, at least "in like" with it again.

Well, better go.  Here comes hovering husband again... Where's that coat hanger???