Thinking about it.

My latest and greatest statement (which I've taken to using for just about any occasion, as it fits, truly, any occasion) is: "I'm giving it some thought."

Currently, the rather sizable stack of laundry baskets lining both of the dressers (I'd say all three, but I don't really care about his dresser currently) has, I admit, sort of blocked J's path to the bed. He's been nagging about when we were going to "manage this", one of his favorite expressions (right up there with "business", which refers to damn near anything that anyone could do). Apparently, the fact of the matter is, we shoved all kinds of stuff among our collection of clean clothing baskets awaiting their tun in the "managed business" line, so we could host Christmas Dinner.

We did that after we moved all the furniture around.

All.

The.

Furniture.

We lost a dining room chair in the process; let's just say, that comment I made? The one about Aunt H coming back to haunt us by removing a chair? Even though everyone can admit she was a royal pain in the ass, that went too far. Clearly, I have discovered how to make friends and influence my soon to be MIL. J and I searched the entire house; no chair. C shows up, his brother, the search the house again - which personally, I believe was a deliberate move to avoid participating in any conversation in the living room. Especially after I dropped the H Haunting Chair Stealing bomb; the room became as quiet as a tomb. Wait. That was a bad comparison.

But I digress.

I do not have a problem getting from the door of our room to the bed. I can reach the crib in a moments notice (but I've nearly convinced J he's better at getting her back to sleep in the middle of the night - how's THAT for talent, hmm?) and while I find the trek through the laundry spilling out of the closet a bit of a trial to reach a bathroom at night, somehow, I manage. (There are nights when I have used the powder room, but why admit to that?) The hallway there is tiny, the laundry closet opens into our walk in closet, so the only place to sort (and store) dirty laundry? The hallway. The one leading to the bathroom. The pathway leading to house egress in case of fire or emergency? Goes right past the powder room. That path is always clear. Sometimes more clearish than clear, but whatever.

Right. Back to J.

Tonight went something along the lines of this:

J: "I can't even reach the bed" (use your whiniest voice)

R: "Hmm." (another great expression, by the way)

J: "You don't care because you don't have to do anything to get into bed. I do."

R: "I have to listen to you bitch, so, you know, there's that".

J: "Well, (add in a pissy, yet still kind of whiney voice) what is your plan then?"

Fair enough. I use My Plan quite a bit. I figure, if I have a plan, and it fails, I may fall back on my position that at least, at the very least, I, had a plan. Whereas, clearly, he was simply running around like a chicken without a head.

R: "I'm giving it some thought."

See?

Fabulous conversation ender. Should he ask me what my thoughts are, I simply go one step further: "I'm formulating A Plan. Don't rush me."

Dead freezer, vacuum arriving downstairs DOA, rather sizable pile of crap to go through (distinctly different from the Basket Stack, ps.), that pesky engine light coming on in my car - when do I plan to deal with all of this?

I'll have to get back to you.

Currently, I'm thinking about it.

A reposting.....for someone special.

A reprint....for a very good reason, for a very lovely person, whose heart is breaking, again. Not that I blame her. My heart is breaking again for her.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2010

Note to you....

...and you know who you are. :)

My Very Dear Friend,

I have trouble, finding words, as you know, to express the depth of grief in which you find yourself; dealing with the twin demons of overwhelming desire to hibernate (only I learned something gross: bears reuse their own urine, so I'm thinking? not a good choice anymore) along with the Flogging Rod, we use, on ourselves, for not being the parent we think we need to be: strong, unflappable, there, for our kids, who are also going through this process. How to find the strength, to someday, even take a breath, as your heart, so shattered, fails to beat, your lungs, not even wanting to draw air - only you have to, because there is no way to walk away, for a week, a month, a year, to fold in on yourself, and let that part of you that did die with him, be buried.

You, are, an amazing parent, warm, loving, strong - even when you don't feel it. Beautiful people can and more importantly may have ugly days, so angry that yes, you throw dishes (or in my case, double bag them and bang them against a wall -they were ugly, I wasn't keeping them anyway!), days you're so sad that allowing kids to find their own way into the pantry qualifies as dinner. Put on your After 5's, even if it's only 3pm. Allow your friends voices to wash over you, on the answering machine, even if you don't feel up to answering - because, really, you need to hear: we love you, we'll never know, how it feels to lose your soulmate; only you know that - the parts of grief some of us do understand? It hurts. A lot. Grief rears it's ugly head in the lightbulb aisle of the grocery store, on a random day in July, not just around the holidays, or anniversaries; mourning the losses, all of them - him, you, you as a couple, your plans, your life - know, honey, the light, at the end of the tunnel, isn't the train doubling back to nail you, it's flashlights of your friends, your loved ones, doing the only thing we can: lighting your way to the other side.

We (and yes, I speak for everyone here, rude though that may be) will never forget him; never forget you. Even when you think you've forgotten you - but then, maybe that was just me.

Ah, yes, my point: call. Middle of the night, when you've a moment, alone, to realize you're so blasted angry this happened to you! That it snowed, and dammit, YOU had to shovel, take out the trash, make sure the oil gets changed, the home insurance is in place - all those things that weren't your job. Regardless of how you got here: Welcome, to Single Parenthood - it comes with the Rights To Bitch on the phone, to eat pop tarts for dinner, and to smell socks to see if they're clean enough for a re-wear. Laughing is okay, I swear - even if it's at all the screw ups in the day - or you were screaming so loudly, home alone, you wet your pants. (again, that may just have been me :)

I'm glad you know I called, that I'm thinking of you, often; keep an eye out, I've a book in the mail to you - I love it. It's a total Fluff Read, but in the middle? When she totally melts down? There's a woman there, who tells her:

Honestly, chicken, you don't have to know everything, just what comes next.

Like putting on your After 5s, popping in a movie with the girls around you, opening up a fresh box of pop tarts, served with those fabulous Fruitables juice boxes.

Love you.

Always.

Chatter up someone else please. Anyone else.

No one has listened today.

They've been too busy speaking.

I've repeated myself so many times I might as well have graduated from journalism school; stop that, knock off the rough play, listen please, I don't want to have to repeat myself....again.

It's not nearly as bad when they take turns being the Total Ass of the day; when all three decide to do it jointly?

Well.

That's an ass of a different color, now, isn't it?

Let me assure you, it is. It means, one of you, that when you narrate the entire damn day, even after I've asked you, then told you, then yelled at you to not do that, when you do it again? Thank your lucky stars we don't live fifty years or so ago - I would have landed you into the middle of next week. All three of you, stop horsing around at Grandma's, listen to your sister when she asks you in a very whiney voice that goes up me sideways to stop being ugly with the doll house furniture because if I need to be involved?

You. Won't. Like. It.

Do not, under any circumstances, get into a beyond stupid argument while leaning over the half wall in the loft over whether or not someone said something on the bus or not. Especially when I am a, trying to get Gillian down, and b, am in the same room as you.

Yep, I realize, my patience has snappeth; I'm allowed to have a day when everyone around me annoys the living daylights out of me to the point when I wonder why on Earth I wanted this life. (yeah, I really do love my life, for the most part. you know, my X notwithstanding. oh, right, and the two ho bags, Fuck Me Pirate Barbie and Emmy who slept with my other X) All three of them have been so irritating, my palms itch to plant one on them. I don't really care where: swing a wide left hook and nail and ankle? Fine with me. Whiff past the hair with a backhand? Good with that too. Throw them out in the cold to watch them shiver out their energy until they shut up? OMG. That might be the best idea I've had in a long time.

All the kids are currently eating "treat", something that came with J, and his kids, so they alternate which night of the week is treat night, and which isn't.

Were it treat night for me?

They would shut the fuck up. All of them. The dog. The baby. The triplets. The phone. The moaning fridge. Even J's voice.

Just. Shut. Up.

Up to brush teeth? Talking wafts down, loudly, from their bathroom. I reminded them (sort of) gently, to brush, not talk. Whispering began. Jonathan yelled up in his I Mean It Voice to brush; they got a bit quieter. I threatened to come brush their freaking teeth myself, which would be when the water turned on. Brushing for a nanosecond commenced. I'd be upset with the length of time spent not brushing, were my nerves not soothed by the fact they had shut up at all.

Sure, it could be PMS. It could be, I'm tired, overwhelmed, under-xmas-shopped, stocking stuffer short, with frayed nerves too boot. Or, it could also be the three of them have managed to reach critical mass in the time it took me to climb out of bed (at 7:30am...on a SUNDAY), walk into the kitchen, and pour a cup of coffee.

I was patient.....then.

I am not patient....now.

I'd go kiss and hug, say goodnight....only no one is listening.

They are too busy talking.

The Ice Man Cometh. And Leaveth.

With a very heavy heart we discovered that there is indeed a life expectancy to the ice crushing motor in one's ice crushable fridge. Evidently (as with, alas, most of my motor-operated machinery) in my home, being owned by moi significantly lessens that life span. Not only am I in no-crushed ice agony, but the entire fridge is beginning to make horrendous groaning noises.

I have noted, from great personal experience, this is not a good sign.

No, I'm not terribly proud of this knowledge, being able, that is to distinguish between Regular Wear and Tear of a motor operated item (any motor operated machine, ps.) and those in any stage of The Agonal Stages Of Death. First, as with the fridge tonight, the settling in moan turns ever so slightly to a far more sinister groan. Even the water, as it lovingly enters into my much loved ice making feeziery part sounds tortured. When the entire thing sort of shifted it's weight, settling into the floor with a death rattle, much akin to say, my rotund dog digging her heals in, refusing to do anything, unless she wills it, the poor bastard I believe, has crushed it's last cube.

Much to my dismay.

And Danielle's.

Since it will be to her house where I will find myself, at the wee hours of the morn, (read: ten am) to fill 'er up. Her crushed ice, by the way, should you be curious, remains far superior to mine. We have similar models, however, her ice has a greater trapped air quantity, making it the perfect edible crushed ice submerged in water, devoured with a spoon. I've kept my maker on Quick Ice, with the hopes of repeating this amazing frozen feat; I've come close, however now, the bushings (weird motor holding piece thingies) are not handling the ice correctly, thus jamming the blades.

My standing there, swearing, shoving at the ice tray, bouncing it up and down is not helping. Or so I've been told.

This whole enigma with freaking motor operated stuff in the house (or, perhaps, best said, my possession) annoys the living daylights out of me. The blender? Overuse. Same with two of the Blackberry cell phones. The little bally mouse thing broke. Twice. One of them taking a spin through the dishwasher did not help. The car? Totally Mother Nature on that one. However, I can say, with incredible certainty the Carpet Cleaner was murdered. In cold, soapy blood too.

I'd know by whom, but I'm still awaiting the results from the fingerprint lab.

A washer died, two years ago, from some sort of weird ailment, beginning agin, with a funky noise, followed quickly on the heels, by the death rattle.

The "all appliance insurance policy" the current condo owner purchased apparently didn't cover whatever killed the washer.

I don't even dare call regarding the little matter of the Groaning Fridge.

I'd simply replace the parts, but doing that is damn near three quarters of the fridge itself! And that is simply not in the budget.

I suppose, (sigh), for the time being, I'm going to have to put the thoughts of a new fridge, on ice.