••• Sunday, August 21, 2005

Sunday's Child is Full of Rambles 

Wednesday’s Child if Full of Whoa

Thank you for indulging me in my moment of doubt, via my last post. Insecurity happens. And yes, Judith, some days I am a dry rub kinda gal. Unfortunately, it’s usually in the wrong way.

Today is Sunday. ::No shirt, shitlock.:: Wednesday of this week, I return to work, courtesy of two back-to-back days of hours-upon-hours of painfully imposed staff inservice. Talk about your dry rubs. On a humpday. Oh, the whimsy.

And now it’s time to start the annual wail-song.

Summer is done.

Wail over.

Truthfully, I always look forward to returning to work in the fall. You see, if didn’t have a job to go to in the fall, I’d not “have my summers off.” I’d not have opportunity to enjoy the lazy, hazy, days upon days of feeling like a totally indulged, spoiled brat. At 46 years old. I’m tellin’ ya, it's an annual treat, beyond my wildest, exclaimabilities. And neither is it hateful.

::Another benefit of returning to work is access to my dictionary.::

And besides, I love my job. I love the structure and routine, and the kids and the energy and the overall sense of professional competency, a la flight by the seat of my pants. And, my family and neighbors alike, always appreciate the annual return of my daily hygiene practices.

Is That an Elephant in the Living Room, or are You Just Happy to See Me Go?
On Friday, my son leaves for college. I have nothing to say on this matter. No thoughts or feelings. I’m a grown woman. Well-adjusted. Mature.
Sidenote to parting child: My job is done. You have your entire life before you. Godspeed, hey. Just one thing? Please give me a week's notice ,if you plan on coming home for Thanksgiving. This way I can give the new tenant who is renting your room, adequate notice. For the record, sometimes college students get invited home by their roommates for weekends and holiday breaks. I think this sort of thing affords excellent opportunities for interpersonal growth and exposure to other life forms. Just so ya know. See? I'm totally okay with you being gone. From our home. For weeks and weeks. You're grown. Have I mentioned, My Job is Done?

Always, your mother.
And no, I'm not in denial. Because being in denial, would suggest the existence of a problem. An impending loss. A life transition. An "oject-du-deny" or a "deny-ee," if you will.

But not me, man.
I'm good.
The Beans.

Ass Can See Clearly Now
All day yesterday, it was evident that the lease on my contact lenses was up, and it was time to toss. So, last night, while preparing for bed, after brushing my teeth and before the nightly pee, I tossed my contacts in the toilet. (Pee and boobs..)

Then I went to bed. In my nice shortie nightie.

This morning, I got out of bed, pulled on my yoga pants, under my nightie, and went downstairs to face the Sunday. About 10 minutes into the newspaper, my right cheek started itching, a little. In an annoying, poky, itchy kind of way. Being the lazy ass that I be, I shifted weight to the other cheek and kept on reading.

The poky itchy continued. And then I started to worry, a little. What if it’s a bug? Or a spider??!!!?? A half-dead spider, half-smooshed on my ass. No, no...a half-dead, half-smooshed spider who is totally aware of her impending demise and desperately trying to lay her last sac of eggs, in my ass, before taking her last, half-smooshed breath.

Oh my god, I’m thinking, as I run the faster-you-run-the-scardier-you-get-run of childhood. (You remember that one? Running back to the house after taking the trash to the garage, after dark? Every step to safety, making you somehow more afraid?)

Once in the bathroom, I really start to panic. I pull off the pants and start swiping manically at my cheek. Because I was afraid of touching whatever it was, I really did not give this butt whacking my best effort. Instead, I hoped that the “I’m gonna get you,” frenzied, hand job would be enough to scare the half-dead-half-smooshed-lethally-venomous-egg-laying-black-widow off my ass. To make us both feel better, I promised aloud to let whatever-it-was to live, then added that a reciprocal courtesy would be the decent thing, as well.

After the hand-to-ass dance, I scanned the floor for deadly bug debris. Seeing nothing on the floor, I suddenly felt calm and brave and all grown up. And with a burst of additional courage, I rubbed my finger over the offended area. ::I still could not bring myself to look at it in the mirror. I wasn’t ready for what I might see . Besides, I think I might have some legitimate denial stuff going on with the size of my ass, a fret I’ll save for another day.:: As I gently poked at the area, I felt a distinct abnormality on my skin. Something hard and crisp and totally stuck on my ass. Realizing it was too crisp to be a half-dead-half-smooshed spider, I lost all sense of trepidation and ripped the thing from my flesh.

It was a contact lens. Blue and puckered and dry as a witches.... pork rub.

Evidently I picked up a little something off a toilet seat last night.

First I chuckled.

Then I tried to find some mystical message within, such as "What would it look at, if my ass could see?" The answer came loud and clear, "Your husbands ass. While you sleep." As asses go, his is pretty sweet, but not mystically so. Perhaps, if my once seeing-eye-ass could talk....we'd hear a differnt tail?

But for now, that's as far as my ass can see.
And officially concludes today's list of Sunday Sundries.

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