Easily irritated or justified annoyance? You decide.

Last night, while I rode my exercise bike and concentrated on the tiny print of Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady (which is taking forever to read) I may have been a little snippy when I asked my husband to, “TURN DOWN THE VOLUME!” of the television.  He pointed out that I am easily irritated, which, hey, so sue me.  Perhaps it’s true.  I just want whoever is nearest the remote control to be responsible enough to monitor the volume, turning it down during the commercials and up during vital dialogue.  Is that too much to ask? 

Here’s the thing.  If everyone I live with would just do things my way (ie. The Right Way), I would not be so annoyed. 

For instance, here is the kind of thing I encounter.

Last night, 9:30ish.  I’m reclining in the old green chair, afghan covering my lap, channel surfing, eating fat-free popcorn.  I hear a crash.  I do not even wince.

Moments later, a 13-year old emerges with the remnants of a Mary Engelbreit mug and a half-baked story about its accidental smashing.  Whatever.  I scarcely look up, but tell the boy to get a broom and clean up the mess.  After all, if a busted artery were gushing, he’d be covered in blood already, right?

This morning, while passing through their room on the way to the laundry room, I notice the broom on their floor which irritates me.  Why can’t these children put things away?  Have I done this to them?  Have I taught them to disregard my need for order?  Did I neglect to teach them The Right Way?  I also note that someone has ripped open a microwave popcorn bag, licked it clean and discarded it in bits in a pile on the floor.  This, not surprisingly, irritates me and I make a mental note to rebuke the offender and make him clean up that mess.

A bit later, I’m in the kitchen putting away cooking spray on the top shelf and as I push it in, the bread crumbs container commits suicide, flinging itself onto the kitchen floor where it crumbs burst forth in a vast expanse.

The mug-crusher notices this and retrieves the broom.  I say in a dead voice, “Great, now get the dustpan.”  He disappears into his room, never to return.  I start yelling for the dishpan and the other 13-year old wanders out, claiming he can’t find it.  I say, irrationally, “I don’t care if you can’t find it!  BRING IT TO ME NOW!” 

We never did find the dustpan.  This irritates me greatly and causes me to mutter under my breath, stuff about putting things away and, well, things I ought not to say.  BUT HOW IRRITATING IS IT THAT MY DUSTPAN IS GONE? 

I fashioned a piece of cardboard into a makeshift dustpan and cleaned up the mess, but not before one of my boys stepped in the pile of crumbs while peering into the kitchen and probably drinking the last drop of milk and leaving an empty container on the shelf.

My husband thinks I could fill a whole blog up with all the things that irritate me, which is probably true.  (For instance, at a movie last week, a guy was talking into a lit up, walkie-talkie style cell phone during the movie.  If I hadn’t been concerned about him having a concealed weapon, I might have hollered, “HEY, BUDDY!  PUT AWAY YOUR PHONE, YOU THOUGHTLESS IDIOT!”  What is wrong with people?) 

I must note that my sensitivity to irritation is greatly enhanced one week out of every month and frankly, I find that irritating. 

Rambling commentary I blame on cabin fever.

Do people really lay awake and look at the ceiling at night?  I have never done that.  I might be awake, but I always close my eyes at night, whether or not I’m asleep.

Here’s yet another New York Times article about mothers in which I am not quoted.  It’s just another example of what happens when you don’t drink to cope with your children, I guess.  (Not only are you unpopular among the cool mothers and assumed to be judgmental, but when you use donuts to self-medicate instead of booze, you get fat.  Where is the article about mothers who use brownies to get them through another dreary afternoon?) 

For instance:

Happy-hour play dates are here. Between runs to soccer and ballet classes, fund-raisers and homework projects, some stay-at-home mothers are gobbling brownies at afternoon spa parties, nibbling homemade chocolate chip cookies at play groups and toting pints of Ben & Jerry’s premium ice cream and can of Pringles to parks and friends’ decks while their children frolic nearby.

(See?  So not cool to overeat if you’re a mom.  Much better to get tipsy.) 

I was able to sleep in today (until 7:41 a.m., which is kind of funny considering “sleeping in” used to mean something entirely different).  We had a cabin-fever kind of day, stuck inside because of the rain and wind and circumstances.  A child I babysat arrived at 10:30 a.m. and I assumed he’d be with me all day–he left a couple of hours later.  Another set of kids was due to arrive at 1:00 p.m., but they never did . . . to my daughter’s great dismay.  (She didn’t take the news of the cancellation very well.  “When are they coming?” she kept asking, even though I told her they weren’t.)

The afternoon was full of boys.  Four neighborhood boys were in and out, leaving a trail of Douglas fir needles and damp footprints.  One of my boys left at about 4:00 p.m. for a birthday party . . . but still, I had six boys here playing video games and computer games and making so much noise I kept yelling, “CLOSE THE DOOR!  CLOSE THE DOOR!” 

Not that my day was void of accomplishment.  Oh no, not at all.  I cleaned out my laundry room (so that’s where those Judo pants were!) and also the boys’ bathroom.  I know you are impressed . . . and if you’d seen the bathroom before I held my breath and scrubbed, you’d be even more impressed.  (And I have a cold.  Be impressed.  Be very impressed.)

Tomorrow, I’m taking the children out of the house.  The boys don’t know it yet, but we’re going to a big rummage sale.  I may regret this adventure, but at least I will not go insane a la Jack Torrance.

Oh, and I have to ask if anyone else’s kids are ready for Christmas.  My four-year old daughter has a plan.  She intends to give Santa Claus a present (dollies and stuffed animals already stuffed in a festive gift bag), and then ask him if she can go to the North Pole.  “He’ll say yes, Mom.” 

This amuses me because I make a point of never bringing up Santa Claus, never taking my children for pictures with Santa Claus, never leaving any presents under the tree from Santa Claus and never including Santa Claus in any of our celebrations. 

And yet, my daughter follows in the footsteps of her siblings who were all fervent believers in the jolly white-bearded guy.

Finally, this is the stupidest investigation of all time.  Vanessa Minnillo dons a “fat suit”–which transforms her into a *gasp* size 12–and catapults her into the hell of being “Ugly Vanessa” (aka normal life for a great majority of women.)  The fact that they need to do some “investigation” to learn about how people are treated who are not television-beautiful makes me want to slap some producer somewhere who came up with this nonsense.  

And Vanessa certainly didn’t look “ugly” even with the “fat suit” (SIZE 12!  Reality check in aisle seven, please!).  It took her six hours to look like a normal person instead of a thin beauty. 

Get a grip, television-producer people.  Aren’t there some celebrity divorces to cover or something?  Can’t we just hear more about Danny Bonaduce? 

Yawn

My husband flew to Minnesota this morning on business.  He’ll be back Saturday night.

I have a minor cold which I am ignoring.

Today was only a half-day of school and so the neighbor boys spent the whole afternoon here.  They are so loud.

I cleaned out my sock drawer tonight while watching television.

Tomorrow is a no-school day and so I plan to return to bed as many times as possible before facing the day. 

And this concludes the most boring blog post you’ll read today.

My Four-Year Old

My daughter thought 6:12 a.m. was a fine time to wake up.  I thought not, so I rocked her for two minutes and put her back to bed.  I think she woke up because she was cold.  She was cold because she refused a blanket last night because she is four years old and very silly.

She also plays in the backyard without a jacket, even when it’s less than fifty degrees.  How a child with absolute no body fat can stand the chill is a mystery I have yet to solve, but perhaps it has to do with her constant motion.  She is a child who cannot be still.

My other children were so easy to distract with the magic hynoptist, the television set.  She has no favorite show, though she does watch Spongebob every night before falling asleep.  I can’t depend on any show to catch her attention during the day.  My boys were a different story–turn on the television and they’d go into a trance when they were young.

When my daughter takes off her clothes, she is careful to take remove them without turning them inside out.  Then she lays them out on the floor, smoothing them flat and straight.  She even does this with socks and underpants, which is an endearing quirk.  (I also make sure my clothes are not turned inside out when I remove them.  What?  Doesn’t everybody?)

I love to call her “sweetie pie” and “baby girl” but she always corrects me and says, “I am not a sweetie pie!  I am Grace!”  She has no idea she has a middle name or a last name and refused to believe me tonight when I suggested the possibility.

She stopped napping for four months when she was a year old.  That about killed me.  She was the kind of baby who insisted on being carried all the time.  She did not tolerate bouncy seats or swings.  She did not allow anyone to hold her but me.  She cried when people looked at her too closely. 

The fact that she begs to go visit her friends or her grandma is something of an unexpected development.  I never thought she’d want to leave my side, even for a couple of hours.  Then again, I never thought she’d sleep through the night.

But she does.  And one day she’ll know her middle name and she’ll pierce her ears and go on a date and pick a graduate school and buy a house. 

When that happens, I am going straight over where I will ask for a banana, eat one bite and discard it on the coffee table.  Then I am going to yank all the cushions off the couch and jump onto them as if I am a world-class gymnast.  I will also wake her up at 6:12 a.m. and ask if I can watch television and then sneeze in her face and drink her Diet Coke.

Then, maybe, we’ll be even.

No, really? (And a note to Britney Spears.)

Britney is divorcing Kevin.  Big surprise, huh?  Suddenly, I’m a pop-culture blog, determined to be the first to mention it to you.  Ha.

p.s.  Britney, next time around, you might consider not sleeping with a married man who already has a pregnant wife and a child and perhaps even not sleeping with someone unless you are already married to him.  Having sex outside of marriage tends to cloud one’s judgment, if you ask me.  Not that you did ask me, but you should have.  Next time you’re thinking of tying the knot, email me.

Time to Build an Ark

I live in the Pacific Northwest but this is ridiculous!  We’re on our third straight day of heavy rain–all the rivers are swollen and threatening to spill over their banks, puddles cover roadways.  The meteorologists call it “The Pineapple Express,” which apparently means it’s raining cats and pineapples, or something like that.

No, really, it’s some tropical jet stream bringing rain straight from Hawaii.  Or something.

Personally, I enjoy listening to relentless rain.  I opened the kitchen window to the noisy gusts of wind.  I just don’t want to get wet, so I haven’t been outside all day.

The children came prancing into the room this afternoon, telling me, “Mom, we’re pretending to be someone else!” 

I said, “Oh yeah?  Who are you pretending to be?”

The four-year old boy twirled and said, “I am pretending to be a boy who can ride a skateboard!”

And my four-year old daughter pointed to her head and exclaimed, “And I am pretending to be a girl with a heart in my head!”

The boy said, “And I am a boy with a brain in his head!” 

Well.  Okay, then.

My daughter spent her morning taping things to her giant box.  I love how much peace a roll of Scotch tape can buy a mom. 

 

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And then they all climbed inside to giggle and squirm.  This picture was taken in the middle of the day.  See how gloomy it is here?

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And the rain continues to fall.  (For once, I’m happy I don’t live on a river.)

Gloomy Sunday Afternoon

It’s only 4:40 p.m., but night has crept in.  The gloomy skies are calm at the moment, but we’re told to expect raging winds and drenching rain.  Welcome to November.

(Down the street, some guy’s Christmas lights already shine in the night.)

My telephone just rang, but it wasn’t a political call.  My husband called from the church where he’s been since 7:30 a.m.  He’s preparing for a 6:00 p.m. meeting. 

I had no idea he’d be at the church all day–maybe he told me and the information slipped through my brain and fell onto the floor where someone kicked it under the table.  Who knows?  When he called an hour ago to let me know he’d just stay at church until his meeting ended, my fading hope of escape from my pleasant prison home evaporated.  (My daughter just chatted with him on the phone and told him it’s almost her bedtime.  The early darkness confuses her.)

I’m still telling myself with the petulance of a small child that maybe I can still go to a movie.  Or to buy some drain unclogging chemicals to treat our plugged-up shower.  Anything to get me out of this house before the door is nailed shut.

I look ahead to this week and feel suffocated and trapped–like an claustrophobic contemplating a long sit in a closet or a wild dance in a mosh pit.  My husband’s going out of town for three days, including Saturday (aka as Set Mel Free Day) and if you add in Judo on Monday and Wednesday, that leaves Tuesday night free. 

Look for me Tuesday out in public wandering the streets.

Oh, on a positive note:  only a half-day of school on Thursday and no school on Friday, so theoretically, I could take the children someplace on a pseudo-field trip and I would if I were Mother of the Year. 

But I’m not.  (I am, however, the reigning Lazy Mother of the Year, though.  My lucky, lucky kids!)  

[And just so you know:  yesterday, I spent three hours in the morning running errands . . . then I took my 8-year old to a birthday party.  After checking out the party-situation (a pool with two lifeguards and only party-goers in attendance), I went shopping for two hours.  See?  I’m just a big whiner.  It’s never enough, the time-off I have!  I want more!]

I already voted. Stop calling me.

P1010006_2.JPGThis picture does not illustrate my post, but aren’t they cute?

*  *  *

I brought home two refrigerator boxes for my kids to play with.  Last night, they built a hut out of a Papasan chair turned upside down and tonight they mentioned that they needed a way to make another room.  I thought of the refrigerator boxes I’d left at church when we didn’t need them for Vacation Bible School last summer.

So I went to church tonight to skulk around the storage room to retrieve the boxes.  They weren’t there, so I tried all the other nooks and crannies in search of them.  I ended up in the church garage and stood in one spot scanning in vain for the boxes.  Then, just as in a horror movie, I looked up and spotted the refrigerator boxes directly above my head, lurking like some monster in the rafters.

I’m a relatively tall girl, so I managed to finagle them down without breaking my neck.

My family room floor is now wall-to-wall cardboard and I can see that the weekend will be filled with flashlights and pillows and hiding spaces, which is a perfect way to spend a rainy weekend if you are a kid.

*  *  *

For the record, if I get another recorded political telephone call I may scream.  Why do politicians think they might influence my vote with a recorded telemarketing call?  I already voted anyway–in my district, we vote with absentee ballots.  So stop calling me!  I am also sick to death of political ads on television.  I can’t wait until the election is over.  At this point, I don’t even care about the outcome.  I just want the ads to stop. 

And with that, this comes to an abrupt end.  I am so happy the weekend is imminent, even though rain is destined to fall endlessly and I will spend two hours at a chlorine-scented birthday party.

My Talking Phone

My phone woke me last night at midnight.  Only it wasn’t ringing.  It talked in a bossy woman’s voice, something about resetting the time.  Earlier in the evening, we’d had a momentary power outage and that provoked the phone.  Sure, I noticed the blinking “CL”–whatever that means–but I didn’t think it would wake me up by speaking in a woman’s voice.  But it did.

I woke with a start and flapped around, slapping all the buttons, poking around at the handset and finally settling back to sleep.  Then it happened again at 3:00 a.m. . . . and I repeated my stellar performance, blindly swinging at the base before flopping back on my pillow.  I spent the rest of the night in anxious suspense, waiting for the phone to demand to be reset.

I read a book (Derailed) the last couple of days.  The story was fast-paced and sleazy, really, but what really bothered me was the author’s frequent use of sentence fragments.  For instance, he’d end a paragraph with something like this:  “Waiting for the train to pull into the station.” 

I find that sort of writing so distracting.  (Because I am such a famous published novelist, I can judge these things.  Ha.)

Anyway, it was a quick read.  I thought I’d improve my mind by reading Henry James’ “Portrait of a Lady,” but now I’m worried a little because the introductory notes are complicated and I feel like I’m a high school sophomore facing required reading.

All the same, I’m going to read on.  But not tonight. 

Tonight, I have muffled the phone–well, pushed a button that made the “CL” stop blinking–and hopefully, we’ll have a silent night.