So that funk I was telling you about? Yeah, it’s decided to settle in for a while. I’m still trying to beat back the blues, keeping up with my favorite things, but I’ve hit the wall. I really want to write, and yet, I’ve got nothing to say. I used yo do this exercise in my journals where I would just write, “I have nothing to say. I don’t want to write. What am I talking about,” and inevitably, I would end up with pages of verses and paragraphs that I would string into poems.
I think that’s where I’m headed today.
What started as a”I don’t really have much to say” type of post has morphed into a “Let me tell what happened to me” type of post. So, let me tell you what happened to me. I sliced off the tip of my ring finger cleaning the tub. Yes, if you draw blood with doing housework, it’s time to get someone else to do the housework.
Yesterday, in a fit of insanity, I decided to clean the bathtub. I was already wiping down counters, vacuuming carpets and sweeping floors like my name was Cinderella. I was in the girls’ bathroom, scraping dried toothpaste from the sink and turned to give the tub a wipe. Then I took a good look at the shoddy lick and a promise method I’d previously employed and decided to get serious with the Soft Scrub.
As I ran my cleaning rag around the rim of the tub, where the tile meets the tub itself, I felt a sharp stab of pain in my finger. Then, I noticed red spots dotting the newly cleaned bathing surface. I looked down at my hand. Hmmm, you’re missing part of your finger there, chief. What the what? Turns out, a piece of tile close to the faucet some how cracked and separated from the wall. In my zeal to clean, I just ran my hand around and basically scored the top of my finger off. Nice.
Still, I’m not going to let a missing fingertip slow me down. I’m not Jamie from Top Chef. I had a lot of momentum going behind this cleaning binge and it was going to happen now or never. I grabbed a washcloth, wrapped up my finger and kept on cleaning. The bleeding eventually subsided, but I found myself in a situation like when I sliced off the tip of my other finger using that flipping mandolin to make onion rings. Yes, there is a lesson to be learned in all this.
I need a housekeeper.
And a chef.
Oh, and a transcriptionist (yes, that’s a real word) to get all of these thoughts down while I tape up my finger tips.
As I finish up saying my good-byes to 2010 and to the first decade of the millennium, I’m left with one burning question. Did anyone else think we’d have flying cars by now?
I’m just saying. . .
So here we are, on the eve of another new year. It’s a true sign of getting older when you wake up on New Year’s Eve and think, “Really? Wait, what just happened?” A whole whopping 365 days have flown by in record time. Last year, I resolved to keep my expectations lo and maintain the status quo. So much easier than trying to lose that last five to fifteen, or stop cussin’ or whatever other over-inflated promise I made to myself.
This year, though, I have one resolution: Be nicer to myself.
I’m such a bully to Me sometimes. I gossip about Me to others. I don’t give Myself enough credit. I rush Myself through things and then berate Myself for not enjoying things. I ask Myself what happened to the girl I used to be instead of loving Myself for the woman I have become.
Talk about time and energy better spent.
I may not stay up to watch the ball drop.
I may not get up to work-out in the morning.
But, whatever I choose to do — today, tomorrow and the days ahead — I’ll think of Me and play nice.
If someone asked me if Coever was potty-trained, I’d say “Yes.” It wouldn’t be an emphatic “yes” with a fist pump or some praise dancing, but it would be an affirmative answer. It wasn’t that she was tough to potty train, it was just that potty training is a tough business and I am glad to see her get the hang of it. For the most part.
Sometimes, Coever still needs some ass-istance when it comes to cleaning herself off after a trip to the bathroom. I’m sure there are some grown adults with that same problem — think of anyone you know whose nickname is “Skids”. In order to avoid literally leaving her mark in her pants, Coever will ask for help. Let us rejoice in the little things.
The other day, she stood up in the middle of the Barbie/My Little Pony/Lego flotsam of the living room and said, “I haveta go potty!!” and bee-lined it to the toilet. After a while, when she still hadn’t come out, I called in to see if she was alright.
“Ugh! Yuh. . .yuh. . .yeaaahhhhhssssss”, she strained out.
A few more minutes went by. Again, I called out to see what the status was.
“Mommmmmm-eeeeee!” she bellowed. “I need you to wiiiiiiiiiipe meeeeeeee.”
Mmmmkay. . .
I go into the bathroom and really and truly, I thought I had entered the Molly Pitcher toilets off Exit 8. Good gracious, that child has a healthy digestive system.
“Geez, Coever!” I said, as I took care of her buns, “That is some kind of poop!”
“I know,” she replies, not missing a beat. “I worked really hard on it.”