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My Profile
Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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1:36 p.m. - 2004-08-02
The Return of Felix Ungar Yup. Been cleaning like a damn-fool. I couldn’t stand it anymore. My house is gross. My office was grosser. The mini blinds were disgusting with smoke residue. This morning I took them down one at a time and dragged them outside. Laid them down on the grass and hosed them off. Then scrubbed them with a soapy brush. Rinse. Shake. Drape over church pew. Wash window inside and out. Re-hang blind. I also washed all the rest of the glass and woodwork (door frames, doors, pictures, window sills). Took all morning. And now I’m a shaky pukey mess. I’d like to feel happy about making such a dent in the cleaning, but all I feel is upset. I’m disappointed I couldn’t do more. I’m not pleased that the blinds are still yellow. Guess they make mini-blinds out of tooth enamel for they are surely just as stained as my teeth. But mostly I’m wigged out because Mike is on the warpath. You see, he’s the ONLY one who does any work around here. It’s true, ask him. He’s taken to glaring at me anytime I’m sitting. If I don’t have a cleaning rag in one hand, a mop in the other and a feather duster sticking out of my ass he gives me The Face. I get nasty asides about how HE has soooooo much to do. He sighs and trudges away muttering about everything from not having any clean jeans to installing windows in MY garage so he can then install MY hot tub so I can sit around on my ass some more. I’m guessing my recuperation period is over. Dr Mike the workaholic has prescribed a regimen of vacuuming, laundry doing, and toilet scrubbing for me. If I go AMA then I will hear it. Trust me, doing the cleaning is a hell of a lot easier on me than dealing with a pissy Mike. Cleaning is only physically exhausting. Mike pushes my guilt and fear buttons so hard and so accurately that after a few hours I’m frantic enough to have nose bleeds. That night I will be sunk in a swamp of nightmares. I cannot help this. No matter how hard I try to intellectualize the situation, 99% of the problem is beyond my brain’s ability to settle. I can’t bear his brand of disapproval. It is too close to my mother’s. Sitting was a huge no-no in my mother’s house. It was clean, cook, mow, iron every waking hour or be beaten. The first time she dislocated my shoulder was when I was 7. I’d forgotten to do the crisper drawers in the fridge when I scrubbed it out. So you can see why being sneered at for being lazy will send me around the pipe. Fortunately, if I exhibit any signs of nervousness or fear Mike will go into a towering rage and tell me what a evil person I am to treat him so shabbily. How DARE I associate him with my mother? He’s a wonderful person who doesn’t deserve my shit. I must be seriously fucked in the head and he is an absolute saint to have put up with my ‘abuse’ and ‘cruelty’. Helps so much, you know. Helps me keep that smiley face firmly in place. I’ve asked him in calmer moments why he gives out to me for having feelings I cannot help. Why he insists on blaming me for making him ‘a bad guy’. If he knows my reaction is irrational why doesn’t he help me and calm me instead of getting mad and giving me MORE grief? His response is always the same. I do not understand what it’s like to be blamed for stuff that wasn’t my fault. Yeah. I wouldn’t know about that AT ALL. Everything is back to normal here. Bugger it all. ~LA
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