About 6 times in a row these two topics came up:
The need for love
Thanks topic generator, I will now spend the rest of my day mulling over my life decisions and analyzing my happiness, if that's what it really is.
Where was I? Topic Generator.
Well, guess what? This things a genius. First of all the first 5 times I hit the button it gave me topics that I've already talked about. So, maybe I'm the genius not the generator. Wow. I am smarter than a generator, right? Maybe not.
So, you and your kids do crafts? Garden together? Sew? Well, suck it and BOO! Gotcha.
Me: On date night we should go see Prince of Persia. *inconspicuous drool*
Joe: I really want to see Iron Man 2. I've been talking about it for weeks, you know that.
Me: I know. Prince of Persia seems really good though.
Joe: Why do you want to see it so bad?
Me: You know, it looks good, and all that action and special effects will be great to see in theatres. (Right then I knew I made a mistake.)
Me: ...Jake Gyllenhaal...
Joe: I knew it.
When I was fifteen I was running full speed through our house and stubbed my toe on a chair leg or a concrete block, what's the difference, really, when you're traveling at mach speed. I started howling and mammaw ran out of her bedroom, not nearly as fast as I needed but hey, at least she was on the way. I thought that maybe I jammed it because this definitely felt different from a regular stubbing which I was very used to. I suggested to mammaw that while I sit in the chair that I fell victim to and held on to the seat that perhaps she could pull on my toe...as hard as she can.
Yes, that's right. "Mammaw, could you yank on my toe as if it were a pull-start to perhaps 'un-jam' it? K, thanks."
What did she do? Did she guffaw and refuse my ridiculous request? Did she pat me on the head and suggest a bag of ice?
She did exactly what I asked.
Guess what? Guess! Guess!
I didn't just stub my toe, I BROKE IT. (I of course found this out after I had my grandmother further detach it from my body.)
Almost immediately the entire left side of my foot turned black. BLACK. Awesome.
I was fifteen, born and raised in the South. I was a Southern Belle. Not on that fucking day. I said things that made my mammaw blush and she used to be a bartender. So, for the next few weeks the left side of foot was a virtual rainbow of colors and the colors moved and rearranged. So much fun. It's the best when I stub that same broken toe over and over and over and over again. Absolutely heavenly.
Tomorrow begins another week of toe torture. Bless you all and keep your toes safe and healthy.
I'm sure that at this very moment she is repeating every word that I have said in the past 3 days verbatim and she is revealing all of my deep dark secrets. Like the fact that I haven't done dishes this week, that I scream at the TV when "for eff's sake how many freaking commercials are there!", that half of my bed is covered in clean laundry that I haven't felt like folding, that two night this week she had a bologna sandwich for dinner because I hadn't been to the grocery store yet, that if I'm in the bathroom look at myself in the mirror for too long I start to cry and then I eat a donut...you know the basics.
So, if later on today you find that you have no words to speak, no topics to talk about, just nothing to say, it's because she has used it all up. She has said every word and now you will live in silence.
And, you're welcome.
The words in WHITE will be Madison's and the words in RED will be my mom. Madison was sitting at the counter with Uncle Morgan, my mom was in another room trying to find something on TV and she was just talking out loud. She said something that sounded like "Tink" and that started the following:
Why does she want to watch that?
"Just a little curious..." (singing theme song),
Are those bugs dead?
I look at Morgan and his mouth was agape, he was stunned speechless. Speechless...Madison doesn't quite know what that is yet.
Then in her super-sweet voice she says "Watch the person in front you Amber."
Who was in front of me? Stephanie.
Who fucked up the move beyond recognition? Stephanie.
Who stood there looking like an idiot? Amber.
As she was resigned to the bed for the day I decided to do some chores around the house. I got a few things done, dishes, countertops, dining room table cleaned off, bills moved to opposite side of counter so I could clean underneath them.
Eventually I ran out of steam and used folding laundry as an excuse to turn on the TV. Right now as I type this I am sitting next to said laundry as it sits here on the couch right where I left it. I love to have a clean house, who doesn't? I love to come home to clean everything and a made bed. I only have one problem. I hate to clean. I've tried a few different methods. 1. Clean on the weekend (sometimes if I had no plans on Friday night I would clean then.) 2. Clean throughout the week.
Problem. With one method I spend hours cleaning and was exhausted and I had a messy house all week. With method two...well, I'm cleaning every freaking day, that's the damn problem. Hate.
When Joe is home I give up on cleaning until he leaves the house. In fact, I'll wait for that garage door to close when he leaves and I spring into action. Why? Oh, because if we had to be in the same area cleaning then someone would eventually be forced to call the authorities or the nut-house.
I tried to think back to when I was a kid and what my mom did...I remember. We cleaned every Saturday morning. Saturday morning. The national morning for cartoons. The morning that all kids wait all week for. Me? I would dread Saturday mornings. I tried the "sleepover at a friends house on Friday, therefore not having to clean on Saturday" scheme but that didn't work. Momma would just pick me up bright and early.
This is where I acquired my intense nauseous reaction to the smell of Clorox bleach. At our farm house the floors that weren't bedroom floors were made of linoleum. White linoleum. White linoleum that had to be bleached often to retain it white glowing sheen. Vomit.
Fast forward to my 16th birthday when I had the stomach flu (I always get sick on my birthday, non-alcohol related reasons I swear). I'm puking in the toilet in the bathroom, I had recently puked in the bath tub...um, because the toilet was being occupied. So, I feel like I'm just about done and maybe I'm going to live and my mother decides to waltz in a dump 48 gallons of bleach into the tub. MY GAWD. My name is death and I am near. Holy shit. "WHY!?" I screamed. "Why do you hate me?!" I'm pretty sure that little move she did there added about 18 hours to my sickness.
So, solution to my cleaning conundrum? Hire a maid till the kids get old enough to handle the bleach.
Okay. I just started to write a huge long post about how much TV I have been watching and it was getting to be pretty ridiculous and embarrassing. So I just deleted all of it. Also, it was distracting me from watching the new episode of Supernatural that is on.
Please enjoy this as replacement for my witty words. I’m sure you won’t mind.
Hey, dude at the red light waiting for an effing invitation. In the champagne colored GMC Sierra. With your white baseball cap on sideways. Leaned into a full-reclined position. Radio blaring something unrecognizable because you have some cheap ass sub in a rattling box under your seat which is probably the most action you are going to get.
You’re a douche.