My computer won't let me express the profanities associated with my current post. Apparently, when I type them together in a space-less string of words, blogspot thinks I'm posting a website. The frustration of which generates an entire NEW string of vulgar words.
Have you ever made a mess so gargantuan, so varied in the necessary methods of clean up that profane words cannot describe it?
It's that moment when you look around and realize, "that's it. We're moving."
Or perhaps you want to call your mom? And say in your cutest babyish voice, "uh oh. Fix please."
Sometimes, I make these messes when cleaning out closets. In my zeal, I throw clothes and shoes and miscellany all over the place, and then turn from the closet and behold my room and think, oh, yeah. I have to put all that back.
Today, though, I made a mess that was epic. I will be reeling from this mess for several days to come. Its odor will linger, its stickiness stay, its sharpness protrude from my life for a week. It will stain under my fingernails like mustard after a county fair.
Keep in mind that I am on a diet, and during this time, refraining from thinking about food excessively. I pretend the pantry and the refrigerator aren't really there. They're imagined to be filled with something hideous and gross. They are, as the Hawaiians say, Kapu.
So, this morning, I opened the refrigerator to fetch the gallon jug of the skim milk to make a no sugar protein shake. MMM. Aren't YOU jealous?
As I put the jug back in its cubby in the door, the OTHER cubby, the one that holds 2 jars of olives, a jar of sundried tomatoes in olive oil, a mini milk jar of carrot & ginger salad dressing, 2 jars of jelly, a bottle of soy sauce, and one ONE plastic bottle of salad dressing--that it to say, every glass container in the refrigerator itself--comes free from the door and crashes to the floor with an explosive sound and splash.
It was so quick, and so profound a mess, that I believe I stared at it, openmouthed, for more than a moment.
How does one clean this up? There is oil--greasy, jam--sticky, orange puree--stainy, glass--pointy, and its all spreads from a single epicenter to literally, every corner of my kitchen.
I started with the broom and paper towels, smearing sloshing, and trying to bring everything of the chunky and/or sharp variety to the center. Scooping, pushing, dripping all of that into a trash bag. I filled a bucket with all purpose cleaner/cancercauser and handwashed the floor, pausing to pull out little slivers of glass and throw them away.
The carrot puree is on the cabinets, has stained the grout. I then have to scrub those places. Ow, there's more glass.
In all, nearly an hour.
To clean up a mess.
That started when I wanted.
8 ounces of milk.
To make a shake.
That's disgusting.
Because I can't eat.
Unhealthy oily and sticky foods.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
What are Kids DOING These Days?
I just got around to watching the most recent episode of Saturday Night Live. Which, truthfully, has sucked of late. The most recent episode featuring Maya Rudolph, Justin Timberlake and Amy Pohler, was really funny, though. I'm really going to miss Rudolph's Whitney Houston impression, though.
The musical guest, Sleigh Bells, has me a bit baffled however. And, coming on the heels of some strange performances, including the weird Lana del Rey appearance, I'm beginning to think that the musical performances are actually SNL bits.
Perhaps Stefon, of Weekend Update, is picking the musical guests:
"Tonight's guests, PHRISBIE, is the hottest new Swedish rock duo on the New York scene. (Snicker, cover face) They're discorockretrosynth and all the rage at underground midget raves. They perform only on stages made entirely of chocolate and wear vegan clothing that is biodegradable. (Snicker, cover face) Their biggest hit is "I Want to be a Panda Inside Your Brain" is going viral in the Reno club scene."
I suppose the oddness of the band directly correlates with my age. Sigh. Who knew that getting old meant I yearned for such ordinary bands as Neon Trees and Fleet Foxes?
The musical guest, Sleigh Bells, has me a bit baffled however. And, coming on the heels of some strange performances, including the weird Lana del Rey appearance, I'm beginning to think that the musical performances are actually SNL bits.
Perhaps Stefon, of Weekend Update, is picking the musical guests:
"Tonight's guests, PHRISBIE, is the hottest new Swedish rock duo on the New York scene. (Snicker, cover face) They're discorockretrosynth and all the rage at underground midget raves. They perform only on stages made entirely of chocolate and wear vegan clothing that is biodegradable. (Snicker, cover face) Their biggest hit is "I Want to be a Panda Inside Your Brain" is going viral in the Reno club scene."
I suppose the oddness of the band directly correlates with my age. Sigh. Who knew that getting old meant I yearned for such ordinary bands as Neon Trees and Fleet Foxes?
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Fame and Fortune
I got my first, I think, random comment on Cinnamon last night.
Sometimes "Anonymous" leaves notes, but I am pretty sure it's some one I know who either can't or doesn't want to log in to comment. Which is fine.
But last night, I got a comment regarding my bourbon post. OOOOh, and it was ugly. And either came from Ireland, or had a typo:
"I was looking for a remedy for me cold, but I found the diary of an alcoholic."
Oh, SNAP! You went there.
To be fair, that entry might SOUND like an alcoholic's, but we all know that I can't commit the whole way. The addiction spectrum covers a bunch of issues, I believe, ranging from the obvious drug and alcohol to the famous sex and encompasses food, gambling, and other 'vices' of which a person is compelled to overindulge.
I simply do not have the personality for addiction. I know this, because I tried to be anorexic, and that didn't work AT ALL. Before all my psych friends leave more comments, I do know that anorexia is not a non-addiction to food. But my point is that I'm not prone to, shall we euphemize, over-enthusiasm. If the bourbon were on a high shelf, I wouldn't stretch to reach it. If I were out, I would not go out in the dark to a scary package store to get some.
I just want Anonymous to know that I appreciate his/her concern, but am pretty sure I'm okay. I over serve myself sometimes, but not that often. Besides, the medication I take for all my other, REAL issues has decided to interact with alcohol after all these years. After 2 drinks, I grow intolerably sleepy. Not pass out-sleepy, mind you. Like holy crap, I hafta sleep right now sleepy. Like, who slipped me the drugs sleepy. Like, I'm feelin' good and social, and we should do thizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
So, dear Anonymous, thanks for your heartfelt words. I do hope you found some comforting online remedies for your cold. I do hope you know, however, that none of those is as effective as bourbon.
Sometimes "Anonymous" leaves notes, but I am pretty sure it's some one I know who either can't or doesn't want to log in to comment. Which is fine.
But last night, I got a comment regarding my bourbon post. OOOOh, and it was ugly. And either came from Ireland, or had a typo:
"I was looking for a remedy for me cold, but I found the diary of an alcoholic."
Oh, SNAP! You went there.
To be fair, that entry might SOUND like an alcoholic's, but we all know that I can't commit the whole way. The addiction spectrum covers a bunch of issues, I believe, ranging from the obvious drug and alcohol to the famous sex and encompasses food, gambling, and other 'vices' of which a person is compelled to overindulge.
I simply do not have the personality for addiction. I know this, because I tried to be anorexic, and that didn't work AT ALL. Before all my psych friends leave more comments, I do know that anorexia is not a non-addiction to food. But my point is that I'm not prone to, shall we euphemize, over-enthusiasm. If the bourbon were on a high shelf, I wouldn't stretch to reach it. If I were out, I would not go out in the dark to a scary package store to get some.
I just want Anonymous to know that I appreciate his/her concern, but am pretty sure I'm okay. I over serve myself sometimes, but not that often. Besides, the medication I take for all my other, REAL issues has decided to interact with alcohol after all these years. After 2 drinks, I grow intolerably sleepy. Not pass out-sleepy, mind you. Like holy crap, I hafta sleep right now sleepy. Like, who slipped me the drugs sleepy. Like, I'm feelin' good and social, and we should do thizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
So, dear Anonymous, thanks for your heartfelt words. I do hope you found some comforting online remedies for your cold. I do hope you know, however, that none of those is as effective as bourbon.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Sleepus Interruptus
I've written about sleep before. In fact, I think about sleep often. I try to nap every day at 1:30 for thirty minutes. Just like they taught me in Kindergarten. Sleep is precious. But in different ways for different people.
I think of new moms, and hell, for them 3 hours in a row of sleep is magical.
I have friends who are insomniacs, and that seems hellacious. For them, it's not so much the going to sleep, it's the staying asleep that is elusive.
I think of the elderly, and their remarkable ability to fall asleep any time any where, like in the middle of one of my sentenc--zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
When I'm sick, and sleep is threatened, I do everything I can to preserve it--bourbon, Nyquil, Advil, all three--sometimes if I have a head cold, M thinks I'm trying to off myself with all the stuff to just sleep through it.
Sleep with school aged children is more or less normal. The occasional nightmare or thunderstorm sends pitter-pattering little feet into my side of the bed, but mostly, they sleep fairly normally. (Once I actually can get them in bed. Apparently, S caught an episode of "Are You There, Chelsea?" along with the end of "Whitney" last night) So, when my sleep is disturbed, it's a big deal to me.
So. At some point this morning, M's alarm goes off. I have an iHome alarm next to my bed, but I keep the digital screen dark because I don't like the glow. Last night, my phone wasn't charging in it, either. But, the alarm goes off, and E comes in for a snooze button's worth of dozing in our bed.
He does this every morning. And every morning it annoys me. Not because of his ice cold feet, or his rancid morning breath, or his endless chatter, but because it's my morning, and I feel entitled to wake up at my own pace. I have personal space issues, and a third person (FIFTH creature, given the cat and dog are already in the bed full time) REALLY cuts into my space.
So, E is in the bed, the snooze button has been pressed, and M and I moan about the shortness of sleep and the relentlessness of every workday morning. After nine minutes, the alarm sounds again, and M announces to us that it is time to get up.
I get out of bed, stretch a little, potty. The bathroom seems unusually dark. (I do not turn on the lights in the morning until I reach the kitchen.) Granted, the weather's been grey lately, so I figure it's about to rain again. But then, I go to the top of the stairs, and consider waking S. I look outside, and something is just not right.
I go BACK to my nightstand and press the light on my alarm clock. 1:58 AM. What the what? I look at my watch laying next to the clock: 2 AM (I set my watch fast, since I'm always late. It actually doesn't help my punctuality, but it does set up a wormhole between the clock in the car and my watch.)
E is in his room, staring at the closet, preparing to dress. M is begging for 3 more minutes. I check a third watch--just to make sure--and lo, it is only 2 in the morning. I go back to E's room and tell him to sleep for 4 more hours. I come back to the snuggly bed and tell M to sleep for 4 more hours. I snuggle down into the covers and try to rediscover sleep after going through my Pavlovian wake-up moves.
Everything is screwed. It takes FOREVER to go back to sleep, and when I did, my dreams were weird, XMen mutant type sagas. (Laugh it up, once you have 2 boys, your dreams are no longer the workings of your own imagination. It's been a while, for example, since George Clooney has paraded through my subconscious. Unless he guest appears on the "Clone Wars," or Lego makes a minifigure of him, I suppose he won't be flitting back into the dream machine anytime soon.)
This morning, I ask S if he tinkered with Dad's alarm clock. I got a firm denial, but you never know with that kid.
In the end, I got back probably three hours of sleep, but those were not nearly as indulgent as they should have been.
I will be storing this little prank in the crevices of my mind, and when I have a teenage S who wants nothing more than to sleep 'til noon, I may pull out this bad boy on him. Maybe on a Saturday.
In the meantime, I dream of revenge.
I think of new moms, and hell, for them 3 hours in a row of sleep is magical.
I have friends who are insomniacs, and that seems hellacious. For them, it's not so much the going to sleep, it's the staying asleep that is elusive.
I think of the elderly, and their remarkable ability to fall asleep any time any where, like in the middle of one of my sentenc--zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
When I'm sick, and sleep is threatened, I do everything I can to preserve it--bourbon, Nyquil, Advil, all three--sometimes if I have a head cold, M thinks I'm trying to off myself with all the stuff to just sleep through it.
Sleep with school aged children is more or less normal. The occasional nightmare or thunderstorm sends pitter-pattering little feet into my side of the bed, but mostly, they sleep fairly normally. (Once I actually can get them in bed. Apparently, S caught an episode of "Are You There, Chelsea?" along with the end of "Whitney" last night) So, when my sleep is disturbed, it's a big deal to me.
So. At some point this morning, M's alarm goes off. I have an iHome alarm next to my bed, but I keep the digital screen dark because I don't like the glow. Last night, my phone wasn't charging in it, either. But, the alarm goes off, and E comes in for a snooze button's worth of dozing in our bed.
He does this every morning. And every morning it annoys me. Not because of his ice cold feet, or his rancid morning breath, or his endless chatter, but because it's my morning, and I feel entitled to wake up at my own pace. I have personal space issues, and a third person (FIFTH creature, given the cat and dog are already in the bed full time) REALLY cuts into my space.
So, E is in the bed, the snooze button has been pressed, and M and I moan about the shortness of sleep and the relentlessness of every workday morning. After nine minutes, the alarm sounds again, and M announces to us that it is time to get up.
I get out of bed, stretch a little, potty. The bathroom seems unusually dark. (I do not turn on the lights in the morning until I reach the kitchen.) Granted, the weather's been grey lately, so I figure it's about to rain again. But then, I go to the top of the stairs, and consider waking S. I look outside, and something is just not right.
I go BACK to my nightstand and press the light on my alarm clock. 1:58 AM. What the what? I look at my watch laying next to the clock: 2 AM (I set my watch fast, since I'm always late. It actually doesn't help my punctuality, but it does set up a wormhole between the clock in the car and my watch.)
E is in his room, staring at the closet, preparing to dress. M is begging for 3 more minutes. I check a third watch--just to make sure--and lo, it is only 2 in the morning. I go back to E's room and tell him to sleep for 4 more hours. I come back to the snuggly bed and tell M to sleep for 4 more hours. I snuggle down into the covers and try to rediscover sleep after going through my Pavlovian wake-up moves.
Everything is screwed. It takes FOREVER to go back to sleep, and when I did, my dreams were weird, XMen mutant type sagas. (Laugh it up, once you have 2 boys, your dreams are no longer the workings of your own imagination. It's been a while, for example, since George Clooney has paraded through my subconscious. Unless he guest appears on the "Clone Wars," or Lego makes a minifigure of him, I suppose he won't be flitting back into the dream machine anytime soon.)
This morning, I ask S if he tinkered with Dad's alarm clock. I got a firm denial, but you never know with that kid.
In the end, I got back probably three hours of sleep, but those were not nearly as indulgent as they should have been.
I will be storing this little prank in the crevices of my mind, and when I have a teenage S who wants nothing more than to sleep 'til noon, I may pull out this bad boy on him. Maybe on a Saturday.
In the meantime, I dream of revenge.
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