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Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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8:41 p.m. - 2005-01-03
The word of the day is: ‘meh’. If taken on the whole the day evens out to ‘meh’. Up, down, mopy, manic, powerful, and victimized by the entire world. I de-bumpfed the downstairs. I cannot tell you how much I HATE picking all the bits of crap my family spews. Rip Taylors, all 3 of them. “Whee!”, they say as they fling their handfuls of slob confetti. Deposit slips, coins, receipts, wadded tissues, business cards, rolls of tape, videos out of their sleeves, lollipop sticks and wrappers, socks, juice boxes and their $%&*# teeny straw wrappers. I have spoken to all of them. Many, many times. They’ve seen me burst into tears upon re-entering a freshly cleaned room only to discover the man-zoo had obliterated it. I hate that they make me the bad guy. I’m a bad guy for shouting. I’m a bad guy if I make them pick up their own mess. I’m a bad guy for making them go back and finish picking up their mess. I’m a neurotic nitpicking bad guy when I make them go back and really pick up their mess finally. As resident Mommie Dearest, I get to stand there and point and say things like, “Yes, that dirty sock. Then you can pick up the one RIGHT NEXT TO IT!” (insert visual of LA with cords standing in her neck and bulging eyeballs pressing against the inside of her glasses) “Popcorn! The lumpy white stuff! The rug is navy blue. Do NOT tell me you can’t see the popcorn.” I am so coming back as a childless lesbian in my next life. I’ve had it up to HERE with the Y-chromosome clowns. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Giggling nostalgia over my newest jeans. Dig this, I bought a pair of carpenter pants. So 1977. Sam’s had a huge table of them. $9. Today after my shower I dug out a leotard, put on my new jeans, threaded them with a skinny silver belt and slipped into my clogs. Then I stood in front of the full-length mirror and laughed my butt off. Only the glasses and the hair were wrong. Everything else might have been taken from my 8th grade handbook on how not to be a dork. That particular ensemble was THE height of fashion at Hometown Jr High. The hair, of course. Chicks didn’t do crewcuts back then. We did this instead. Ick. I’ll stick with the crewcuts, thanks. The glasses? Let’s see, by 77 I’d become a big friend of Mary-jane. I dumped the John Denver specs and traded up to a pair very similar to Hyde’s on That 70’s Show. I wore them for the same reason Hyde does, gradient tint oversized lenses. Excellent coverage and no one can get on your case for wearing sunglasses indoors. Quite necessary, enough Maui Wowie and NO amount of Visine will take the red out. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Weepy several times for several different reasons. The death of Jerry Orbach. Feeling guilty because his death is somehow real-er than the tsunami victims’. Discovering the Little Petunia That Could had given up the ghost. There was a petunia in one of the outside flower boxes. Everything else shriveled up back in October. This one petunia kept going. It bloomed in the snow. Froze solid and bloomed again. I thought about bringing it indoors, but worried that transplant shock would kill it. The irony would be too sit-com to tolerate. So I left it be and cheered it on during my school bus vigils. I cried because the valiant little plant was dead. Felt guilty for shedding more tears over a petunia than I cried for Jerry Orbach and more for him than the staggering death toll in Asia. Got soggy when a Sim died. He died of old age. The first death in my Sim neighborhood. More guilt. I mourned a Sim over a petunia over Jerry Orbach over the dead Asians. Cried some more because I am proved to be the shallow noogie I’ve denied all these years. Later on I started sniveling while singing aloud to the CD player. Somehow I discovered the hidden genius of Laura Branigan and the heartrending truth of the lyrics in Gloria. Sheesh. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sat in my usual place on the cellar stairs and stared at the wall. Thought about what a failure I was. Not a single one of my childhood ambitions stayed with me. I’d let them go. Cowardice. Impatience. Lack of confidence. I concluded that I’m a loser who cries over Sims and petunias. A waste of resources who should have been smothered at birth. Then realized that if she could have gotten away with it, my mother would have. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yup, a very meh day indeed. I swear, I am going to gouge my ovaries out with salad tongs. This whoopsie-doodle shit has got to stop. Flipping out as only middle-aged broads can, ~LA
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