Saturday Morning Self-Pity

Lucy pooped again on the carpet, then Jelly went down and cleaned it up. Not so much to clean up because Lucy eats it, but still, there is residue. She just went outside, peed, and then had a bath. She was dry and happy and her life was good. Boxes of buttons and Tacky glue sit on the desk. A Women's Press calls out to me some of women's favorite service places in the TC. A cold half-drunk Caribou vanilla latte stands beside the dead plastic container of Samoas, many of which I purchased so Shelly's daughter's troop could make their trip to Ireland. The deck collapsed from rotted boards exasperated by the weight of 2' of snow. The rail now leans in at an odd angle and the whole backyard is transformed into a visual statement that says "Dysfunctional, sloppy, drunkard, backward people now live here. The normal people who took such good care of everything changed and life became overwhelming and they couldn't keep up - they fell behind." Over the years little odd jobs left undone piled up to become a mountain of failures. The pills need refilling by tomorrow, the kids haven't had their teeth cleaned for two years, nor have I. There is a gray matte layer of dust on all of the horizontal surfaces in the house. There is a dead mouse in the trap in the basement. The legs are rusting off of the washer so now it leans backwards, lower in the back than in the front. The washer door is rusted and crunches when I open it. The gate to pen off Lucy's area in the laundry room has pulled away from the wall and the small pieces of gravel that we track in from the garage litter the floor and stick to the bottom of my socks. My daughter's butt crack peeks above the top of her jeans as she dusts some furniture, which she is only doing because, 1) she wants to go to the MOA, and 2) she is mildly concerned that her mama is going crackers. A sneeze coming on, she turns toward me and sneezes, not into her hand or her sleeve, the way her kindergarten teacher taught her, but one of the unbridled, let-er-fly types of sneezes, and small droplets of saliva and mucus sparkle in the sunlight as I am showered with them like a spring rain. My head is pounding and I want to close my eyes because of the bright sun and the pain. Should I take four ibuprofens? The doctor says not to..that that's why I have the headaches--rebound headaches--from taking too much Ibuprofen. Should I take the Advil or will the sugar-free vanilla latte with whipped cream, the giant chocolate chunk cookie, and the row of Samoas do the trick? The fabric on the expensive couch that's four years old is wearing through and needs to be recovered. The frame is beautiful, but the fabric, which I knew wouldn't wear well, has indeed, worn flat spots and threads of the fabric are thin and show batting beneath. The office is a cacophony of stacks of receipts, beads waiting to be strung, yarns, and crochet hooks. The laptops sit on the desk waiting a visit by the Geek Squad--the secure wireless connection won't stay secure no how many times I do it, and the computer geek-nerd guy at work said I'm asking for a disaster--the whole world is sitting at the end of my driveway using the web for free, and worse, prying into ever private area of our lives---undoubtedly, our money will all be siphoned from our accounts and used to purchase large-screen TVs for people in Jakarta and Botswana. The screen on one computer (the one I use for work) flashes on and off and finally goes black when it is at a 90 degree angle, which it usually is, and the warranty expires in four weeks. The second laptop takes about nine minutes to boot up, and then shuts itself down unexpectedly and intermittently. The bread in the breadbox has moldy patches on it and the food in the fridge from last week needs immediate intervention or should be thrown away within, I'd say, 12 hours. Only the leftovers on the top shelf are consumed as though my family was born not able to bend at the waste. The kiss of death from the food's perspective is to spend its remaining life on the second, or worse, the third shelf of the fridge. When I heat up some mushroom red wine risotto, the aromas that rise as it heats in the microwave draw my family and one or two neighborhood dogs, my family asking where it came from. "Second shelf," I say to my new found friends. There is mulinjon, tortillas, hamburger dills, leftover pha ram long son from Ruem Mitt, cottage cheese, vanilla yogurt for our dog, and a half-filled gallon of milk two days beyond the 'best when used by' date. The apples in the crisper are dimpled and the clementines feel dry and spongy. The celery droops in the plastic as I pick it up, both having grown old, and having been frozen and thawed several times in the too cold refrigerator. The alfalfa sprouts are watery and there is a container of something, I don't know what, covered in soft green mold. A date with the garbage disposal is its destiny. Hell, just throw the container too--I can't bare the thought of ever putting food in that container again. The box of Chai Nog Latte expires in April and the buttermilk starts out sour, so what difference does a couple of weeks make? My permed and dyed hair keeps changing color--last week it was brown with red highlights, only a week later it is red with brown and an awkward shade of green murkiness, especially when it's wet. Should I put another color on it? Even though I just did last Saturday? Can a person color their hair too much, too often? What can happen - Can the depth of the subtle green grow, intensify? Will other people notice or will I be okay if I stay away from green clothing? I'll just go to Hair on Earth and get some Clove conditioner - that can carry for a few inches of growth. There are three mountainous piles of dirty laundry in the containers that need washing, not including the layers laying on the girls' bedroom floors. All told, I'm thinking twelve very large loads might put us in clean clothes for the next week until we do it all over again. The load that sat in the washer for two days now stinks and needs to be rewashed. My daughter's holy pants have now split further and she informs me that she can't wear them anymore. Thank you, I silently pray to God and the Young Person's Clothing Goddess--been waiting for that a long time. With glee, I'll buy her a new pair. Perhaps the new ones will cover the butt crack.