THE MEMORY
by Robert Creeley

Like a river she was,
huge roily mass of water
carrying tree trunks
and divers drunks.

Like a Priscilla, a feminine Benjamin,
a whore gone right over
the falls,
she was.

Did you know her.
Did you love her, brother.
Did wonder pour down
on the whole goddamn town.

Take that, Ke$ha!

Fine, but I get to be Elly May.

We pulled up to the usual Fourth of July fanfare, screaming kids, sparklers setting blankets afire, cheap foam coolers, mullets, tents under which the greasiest and most sugar-laden concoctions were being purveyed, when it hit me: CASH. We’d forgotten in our frenzy to swing by the ATM. I turned and mouthed “CASH” to Chris who suddenly slumped a little in the driver’s seat.

“Oh well,” I said. I had no intention of spending an arm and a leg at this shindig anyway, so as far as I was concerned not having cash took away the temptation, but the kids, oh dear God, the kids. *heavy sigh* We pressed on.

*     *     *     *     *

Sparing you all the details of Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, and cut to -

*     *     *     *     *

Ten minutes in the kids are begging for food, starving, everything’s-going-dark-type-hungry. Since it’s late and I’ve reached my tolerance quotient for the day I decide that rather than hammer-toss them across the field à la Ms. Trenchbull in Matilda I’d simply ask at the Domino’s tent whether or not they were set up to take a debit card. I stood, shook away the writhing ankle-biters, and walked over.

Who says 'roid rage isn't sexy?

No dice.

I smiled politely and thanked the man, and as I was turning added, “Yeah, we came unprepared.”

I hear another voice ask, “What did you need?”

“I’m sorry?” I respond.

“What did you need?”

“Oh, I was just checking whether or not you accepted debit-”

“I know, but what did you want?”

At this point I admit I was mildly confused. “Uh, I was just gonna get a couple slices of pizza for my kids.”

“Pepperoni or cheese?”

“Cheese?” *incredulous look*

“Here you go, and here’s a couple bottles of water – no charge.”

“Oh my gosh. Thank you so much, how kind!” I scoop everything up and walk back over to the blanket where my children’s faces are beaming at the sight of pizza. As they dig in Chris says, “Cool – so they take debit?”

“Nope.”

“Then…how’d you get the pizza?”

“I guess there are some kind people still left in the world, dear. “

Ethan chimes in, “You used your girl walk, didn’t you? Could you use your girl walk to get us some ice cream, Mom?”

“What?!? What is my girl walk?” I ask.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the Inimitable Ethan Hornfeldt and his rendition of “The Girl Walk.”

I’m not sure what bothers me more, the fact that Ethan is a burgeoning sexist, or the fact that I am (evidently) a whore for food.

Fruit flies rank pretty high on my list of things to hate. They barely beat out Nancy Grace for a top three spot and are only surpassed by pedos and Nazis. I couldn’t tolerate my kitchen being overrun by them. I opened a cabinet today to put away glassware and there was a fruit fly chillin’ like he owned the place. *retching noises* The proverbial last straw came when I was forced to pour out a perfectly good glass of Cabernet Sauvignon because a frat-boy minded fruit fly decided to plunge to his untimely spring-break-style death in my freshly poured libation.

As I wasn’t keen on the idea of running around the house all day repeatedly clapping my hands together like a moron to try and smash the little bastards, it was time to get smart.

It only looks stupid if you don't have cymbals in your hands, idiot.

Here’s the solution:

So beautiful, so wicked awesome.

Red wine vinegar also works but there was none to be found in the pantry, so I begrudgingly sacrificed some of my red wine: pour it into the bottom of a glass, tape on a paper funnel, voilà. The fruit flies find their way in but cannot figure how to GTFO, you know, like that creepy guy at the party who tagged along with your “buddy” even though you specifically said, “Don’t bring that guy who threw up in the toilet tank last time then tried to make out with my cat.”

Hey, when it’s my time to go I can only hope it’s in a pool of red wine. I could do without the pointing and laughing from three young boys though.

Was it because I now had someone to curl up with every night, someone upon whose chest I could lay my head and listen to his heart beat?

It was in our wedding vows, swear to God.

No. It’s because one night the thought occurred to me that sleeping with my head between 2 pillows made it much more enticing easier for Chris to smother me in my sleep. Not that my husband is necessarily homicidal, but come on. I’ve seen a not-so-nice look in his eye before, like when I break into my Edith Piaf inspired version of Flo Rida’s “Shorty Got Low” for the third time during foreplay. (Yes, there are accompanying dance moves. Yes, I will show them to you.)

"The fuck you got against my song, Chris?"

No way I’m letting Chris get the jump on me. In fact, I’m considering removing all potentially dangerous objects from our bedroom, but I’m pretty sure none of our boys want me sleeping in their rooms either, so…

Our doctor said there are a couple of wonderful books he can recommend and Chris, without batting an eye, interjected, “Books? What, you mean to beat him with?”

Thank God our pediatrician shares our sense of humor.

Yes, I love that man of mine.

Hells naw. Since I was not about to spend three-friggin-hundred-dollars on a piece of foam and cotton I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to suck it up, bust out the sewing machine and bourbon, and go all Project Runway on that bitch.

Then I went to Big Lots.

Skulking down the aisles snatching precious, precious crap off the shelves I passed the lawn chair cushions. Could it be they were the same length AND width as my window seat?

I pulled out my tape measure (yes, I carry a tape measure in my purse cause I am that OCD when it comes to decorating) and checked. Too long but the exact width I wanted. Also problematic was the pillow portion, a seam that separated the foam of the cushion into  1/3 and 2/3 sections. But…the seam was easily removable, the fabric was wholly intact, foam can be cut, and I’ve got some big ass scissors, so I bought it for $35.

Got home, removed seam (easy to do but somewhat time consuming: use small scissors to cut exposed thread and then use a toothpick to remove thread from fabric a stitch at a time), cut off one end of fabric, trimmed cushion, and (get this) since busting out the sewing machine to fix the end I had amputated would pretty much negate all of the effort I put into NOT getting the sewing machine out, I just folded the end and hot glued it all together, sorta like wrapping a present. All in all, the whole project took about 20 minutes, 5 of which I spent dicking around on Facebook while waiting for my hot glue gun to heat up. And here are the results:

Note the indoor/outdoor fabric easily wipes clean for those unexpected chocolate milk spills and "Oops, I dont have a tissue so Ill just use whatever is in sight and still," moments.

All tidied up. Best part is that if it opens, I just glue that mofo right back.

And there it is. Just need to find a few accent pillows and it’s done. And now, I can spend all that money I saved on fried food and Us Weeklys!!!

They had no idea what I was doing, or why all my answers to their questions were muffled and thick.

I got this parenting thing.  

The day we were to celebrate Christmas with my dad’s family Chris and I were running around the house, late as always, trying to find socks, presents, diapers, what-have-yous. As I rushed out of my bedroom half-dressed, hair in rollers, I heard my oldest son, Brian, screaming up from downstairs.

“Mom, quick! This is an emergency! Hurry!”

Chris darted past me to check on our 2 year old, Kiran, while I threw on a robe and strained to listen. Silence. More silence. Then the defeated groan my husband gives when one of our kids has done something really heinous.

I slowly tiptoed downstairs, not really wanting to see but propelled by overwhelming curiosity: What was it this time? Brian and Ethan were playing Wii, Kiran was watching them from the couch when I had gone upstairs just 5 minutes ago. But I know my children, and I know never to underestimate their propensity for trouble and/or mild destruction.

Before I could get halfway down the stairs Chris flew past me, arms outstretched and holding Kiran like a sick friend’s used tissue one’s left to dispose of.

“What happened?”

“Well, someone forgot to flush the toilet again.”

“Yeah?”

“And so, Kiran made a masterpiece of the bathroom, finger paint style.”

“ETHAN!!!”

*cue sounds of running water in the bathroom*

*          *          * 

Hours later we’re unwrapping gifts with family. Shredded paper is raining down in every direction, children are foaming at the mouth. In the midst of the chaos I hadn’t noticed that Ethan had left my parent’s basement and gone upstairs. Truthfully, I was mostly concerned about losing a finger in the ensuing melee until  the sound of my sister’s voice broke my concentration from my appendages.

“Leigh Anne?”

“Yeah?”

“You might wanna come up here. Ethan is in the bathroom yelling for you.”

“Oh, ok. Thanks.”

One of the advantages of being with someone for over 8 years is that all it takes is brief eye contact across the room to communicate the following, “You’re closer to the stairs than I am, and there is no way in Hell I am stepping into what I can only assume is a swarming pile of finger nails, teeth, and Toy Story figures while I am wearing these new boots.”

Chris disappeared up the steps.

About 5 minutes passed before the pair of them came back down, Chris laughing to himself and Ethan bursting to get to his pile of goodies.

“What happened? Why is Ethan wearing different clothes?”

“Mom, I was so excited when I opened my Toy Story set that I pooped myself.”

“Wha-”

“I pooped myself, Mom. It happens.”

And off he ran to play with his new hoarde of toys, leaving us all cracking up in his wake.

Honestly, I’m kinda jealous. Just once I would love to be that excited about something.

*          *          *

The next day we are home playing with new toys and just generally enjoying the laid-back,  happy Christmas feeling. I’m chasing Kiran around the house tickling him into hysterics every time I get close enough. He ducks into his new blow-up ball pit to hide from me. I creep around the edge of it, trying to sneak up on him from behind when I catch the strong smell of a fresh poop. It’s bad. Bad. Making me gag bad.

Kiran scrambles out of the tent and in a very distressed voice tells me, “I poo-poo. I poo-poo.”

“I know. It’s oka-”  ::gags uncontrollably::

“I poo-poo, poo-poo!”  ::crescendoing voice that signals impending go-to-pieces::

“Kiran, how did you get poop on your knees?” (There appear to be two perfectly round dookie knee pads on his new pajamas.)

“What the Hell?”

I look inside the tent and there it is: poop smears everywhere and one particularly large steamer right in the center.  A personalized gift from our thumb-cat, who we’d forgotten to let into the basement the night before.

“CHRIS!”

*cue sounds of running water in bathroom*

Well, Hi-De-Ho, neighbor!

 

Fo real.

Sure, sometimes arguing (when done fairly; yes, there are ways to fight fair in marriage*) is great. Sometimes blowing your lid at your poor, unsuspecting mate when they ask if you want cheese on your tofu burger is just what you need – wait, what? Oh yeah…that’s not good, and that’s also my point:

Keep it to your self sometimes, asshole.

Everyone knows it isn’t really about the cheese, so instead of saying whatever ebil, ebil remark you’ve been carefully constructing with Doozer-like accuracy, try this:

STFU. Go to bed mad. Don’t snuggle with your partner. Lay in the dark. Clench your jaw. Fantasize about being married to Clive Owen. Stare at the wall. (This next part is important.) Wake up late in the morning because you were too busy being a douche to get any sleep. Jump out of bed. Scream, “Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuck! I’m late! Can you iron my pants for me while I’m in the shower?” Stub your toe on the bathroom door for good measure.

When you come out and your pants are ironed, (shirt too even though you didn’t ask), coffee is made and poured into your favorite mug, stop and have a moment of gratitude. Gratitude and anger are mutually exclusive. Think about what could and would probably have happened had you opened your mouth about the cheese. Have an epiphany: “A lot of the so-called issues I become angry about aren’t really problems with my partner…they’re…about…me…”

You are really dumb.

 Have you ever been knee-deep in an argument only to realize it’s one you can’t “win” (and wtf does that even mean, btw) because you aren’t really fighting your partner? Get a clue, Matlock: you’re fighting yourself. So, yes, go to bed mad. Wake up and see if you still feel pissed. You do? Cool – have words. You don’t? Good for you.

Did...did we just get mentioned in a blog? Holy shit! Someone remembers us?!?

*Please tell me you clicked on this link. Trust me, it’s the best thing you’ll watch today, maybe even this week.

Wooo.

Now, I have no desire to use this blog as a platform for my political views. Too messy. Of course, I have opinions, but they aren’t particularly funny, and many of them may make you want to punch and/or hurt me. This is where I come to have fun, so I’m gonna skip the possible negativity and subsequent crying in the shower when I think no one can hear me but then opening the curtain to find my cat sitting there wondering what’s wrong but how can I make him understand when even though I love him like crazy and one time let him lick tuna off my lip it feels like we’ve grown apart so much in the last six months with me always working and him out late at night but I never say anything and instead just hand him his nipball and act like nothing’s changed even though we both know it has and go straight to the analogy.

Here’s what filling in the ballot on Tuesday was like for me personally: