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Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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6:24 p.m. - 2005-08-24
A couple minutes ago a squirrel went by carrying an entire pear in its mouth. I'll bet the pear weighed as much as the squirrel did. Because of its load the squirrel was moving slow. For a squirrel, anyhow. Tick- the mighty hunter, eater of tiny birds and tormentor of ancient decrepit Polly went into stalk mode and followed after the squirrel. They both went around the corner of the garage and out of my sight. Tick just reappeared. He looks confused and grumpy. I'll bet that squirrel kicked his ass. Sure, Tick is Chief Big Kitty when pouncing on Tweety birds and rheumatic old man cats, but a squirrel defending a windfall (and likely fermented) pear? No way, man. I've seen our squirrels take on groundhogs 5 times their size over the windfall pears. Tick, like all bullies, melts into a wussy pussy when confronted with something that fights back. And from the way his ears are cocked I can tell he's sitting there thinking, "What the hell just happened? Did I really get knocked around by a squirrel??? Well, shit." Today is a three day. Do a chore. Play the Sims. Hang out with Wolf. Do another chore. Play some more Sims. Hang out with Wolf. I find if I rotate my activities in a set pattern it helps me keep my emotions in check. Right now the need to withdraw is intense, and as much as I'd like to disappear into my favorite Sim neighborhood and stay there in its comfort, I can't. (Oh so safe in Buntytown and Pirate's Cove! No bad things ever happen to my carefully tended Sims.) The selfish part of me which just wants to pout and hang out with my pixel people in their tidy little universe is warring the Mom part and oddly, my pride. The Mom part is obvious. I can't just abandon Wolf. Even on a regular day he needs attention and fun, on the day after his big brother leaves for school? Poor kid has been hanging on me like a limpet. Alex is the best of big brothers. Tutor in the ways of Nintendo. Partner in crime- the ice cream and potato chip lunch is not unheard of around here when Chef Alex is in charge of the menu. Music teacher- this summer Alex taught Wolf to read sheet music, guitar tablature and how to honk out Twinkle Twinkle on the trumpet. Alex takes his kid brother to the arcade and suffers through the worst kind of kid movies. Alex will take his brother to matinees of such lame dreck that even Mike and I refuse to take Wolf to see them. Serious snaps to my elder son for sitting through Racing Stripes and the Pokemon Movie. Is Wolf missing Alex? Does the Pope work on Sunday? The pride is funny, though. I want to keep chugging along for me. I want my house to stay shiny. I want to keep up my momentum. It feels good when my life is in order. There is much satisfaction in the gleam of chrome and the freshness of towels. For many years I did the work around here simply so I wouldn't get bitched at. However I finally figured out there could be no house orderly and perfect enough that Mike couldn't find the cheap shot. If the house were 99.98% spotless, Mike would find that .02% and dig at me about it until I bled. So this wanting to keep my house for ME is new. I call it pride, but maybe it's just self-respect. I'm not 'proving' anything. I'm not scuttling around removing possible marital canon fodder. I'm keeping on keeping on because I like doing it. Feels good to know my life doesn't have to fall to bits just because I'm upset. Also, now that I've become a neatnik I can't bear mess. Mess preys on me. It's way harder for me to fall off the tidy wagon than it is to fall off the diet wagon. It's easy enough to pick up my fork and start shoveling it in again. Even the subsequent weight gain doesn't bring me as low as a grimy kitchen floor will. When stuff starts piling up and I'm tripping over shoes and having to shove things out of the way so I can sit on the couch, I don't feel the comfort of familiar chaos anymore. Clutter fucks with my mind. It diminishes my well-being. Somewhere along the line I joined the cult of the FlyLady, I guess. I like to disparage this. As I do with all my accomplishments. It still feels dangerous and biggety to speak well of myself. It feels wrong to the right thing. How dare I? Who am I to be a success? Who do I think I am going off and doing positive healthy things? "Excuse me, but you're a loser, remember? Losers do not have the right to bust their buns and make good lives for themselves. You are asking for it by just thinking about it." It's not so much that I fear success, but I feel like I have no right to try. Going for it would mean I am a whole enough person to warrant success! And that just won't do. Or it didn't. But the defeatist days are over. These days I've adopted a Stuart Smalley philosophy. "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!" I think I like me too. ~LA
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