Well, it was bound to happen...I lost my mind this morning.
Was just a matter of time. A matter of two long months of extreme mental anguish, stress, lack of sleep, screaming children 24/7, premenopause, and Lar buying vanilla frosting instead of dark chocolate -- LIKE I EXPRESSLY WROTE ON THE SONOFABITCHING SHOPPING LIST!
One cannot put vanilla frosting on a white cake. Should never be done, not ever.
One cannot expect a human being to gracefully endure all that I have lately without some sort of repercussions. I am not a robot, despite my stolid exterior. I have tried to hold it together, truly I have. But my God, VANILLA FROSTING???
I believe with all my heart that Lar deserved to be threatened with a cup of Kid's Kitchen Macaroni & Cheese.
Yes, you read that correctly -- I raised the cup of Kid's Kitchen Macaroni & Cheese and threatened to smash it on his head.
I also screamed at the top of my lungs and hurled toilet paper about the kitchen.
I'm a longtime hater of phones -- hate the way they look, sound, feel. Hate using them, hate speaking to disembodied voices, squirming through uncomfortable silences, vapidly staring at the wall while smiling and nodding at air.
Salespeople get to you through phones. Fund-raising hooligans bother you at dinnertime. Your mother calls when you're getting your freak on. Sure, you could just let her leave a message, but she'll keep calling, keep leaving messages, and the sound of her voice will cause your significant other much aggravation, will put a damper on things.
By the forth message, you and your honey muffin will be sober as popes, and the whipped cream will have turned into soup.
Phones are a hideous creation, to be sure. Alexander Graham Bell, I once read, was a disciple of Aleister Crowley.
No, I didn't really. But still.
Phones are evil, evil, evil, and anyone who does not realize this fact -- or worse, disagrees -- is a fool. Satan is reaching out to the masses via phones, he'll grab you with his smoky fingers and choke the life out of you if you're not careful.
And your soul will be his.
Throw your cell phones in the trash, people. Employ only one line in your home, and use it only for emergency purposes. You want to talk to a friend? Write a goddamed letter, like back in the good old days, when folks knew how to spell. Make a date to actually see your friend face-to-face.
Think I'm crazy, do you? Think Ms. Lori has finally lost the last five working brain cells she had left in her slightly misshapen skull?
The following post, along with profanities galore, will be written in short, to-the-point sentences (well, I'm going to try -- you know how I love long, heavily punctuated ramblings) because I am very tired, and the thought of long, heavily punctuated sentences makes my nostrils flair right now...
Aw, shucks, there I go again.
Let's begin anew, shall we? Excellent. All right, then.
I live behind an old hippie and his Amazonian wife. They have one child, a strapping, lovely sixteen-year-old boy. The wife wears a bright orange bikini that I suspect she's had in her wardrobe since 1972. The wife often grooms her lawn with a pair of scissors, and graces us with a view of her behemoth bikinied backside as she bends straight-legged and snips, snaps, snips stray bits of weed and non-existent imperfections.
She is the Edward Scissorhands of Brighton, New York.
She has the personality of a tree stump.
The husband seems like a nice enough fellow. Always pleasant, always busy in his yard, ostensibly for the express purpose of avoiding contact with his dour-faced, Amazonian, tree-stump of a wife.
Thing is, as pleasant as the man may be, he listens to really bad music. I'm talking bad. Like, ancient Grateful Deadish/Country Joe journeys that lead us nowhere else but to nauseating flashbacks of bad brown acid, even if we're too young to recall Woodstock, even if we hadn't been to Woodstock, even if we hadn't yet been born. This music will take you there, believe you me.
Their son, apparently, has been heavily influenced by his parents' musical tastes.
Following me so far? Spectacular!
So last night, round about nine or so, I flopped onto my bed, fully anticipating a rare night of actual rest and recuperation -- something I desperately need, because honestly, I'm near death -- when lo and behold, instead of my head falling into a soft, inviting pillow, I found myself falling into the pits of Hell.
No sooner had I quick-slipped into fuzzy unconsciousness, there was a terrible crashing, a boom, a torrent of indescribable aural assaults that shook me to my very soul.
There were tomtoms, there were morrocas, there were twangs and tweets and blasts of goat's horn. There was hooting and hollering, shrieks and bellows, cackles that swelled with the rise of bass drum.
My first thought was, "My god, we are being attacked by wild voodoo people from parts unknown."
My second thought was, "Those are actual instruments being thumped and blown in that there backyard. Actual live drums and horns and things of that nature. Things that belong in a basement or garage, things that should not be outside on a lawn, at night, behind my home. At night. When it's sleepy-time. Evening. Behind my home."
My third thought was, "Why, those miserable fuckers. They shall die now."
Being the tolerant shrew that I am, I lay for quite some time, hoping against hope that the cacophony soon would end. Tossed and turned. Poked Lar in the ribs, just because. Fretted and fumed. Became insane.
Ten o'clock, and I couldn't bear one more second. My kids had woken, terrified and confused. Lar continued snoring. I was on the verge of hysterical laughter, which is never a good sign.
I rose like the living dead from my Hellpit, grabbed my smokes, and went outside. I wanted to make my presence known. Wanted the child, that sixteen-year-old, lovely boy, to cease and desist, wanted his friends to shut the fuck up, the drums to go away, the goathorn to stop its bleating.
I walked across my damp, dark, recently pesticided lawn in my bare feet and nightclothes, cigarette ember my only light, and waited by the privacy fence that separates me from them. What to do? What to do now? I can't make my presence known behind the eight foot tall fence, now can I? Should I mosey on over to my next door neighbors' backyard, a backyard sans privacy fence? I could certainly make my presence known then, could pop my head over the short picket fence and say, "Hey, could you please stop being assholes? We're trying to sleep here!"
But that wasn't possible because my neighbors have a motion light, and a frisky little beagle who alerts her masters to intruders, and I had visions of the husband, A.K.A. The Squirrel-Slinging Firefighter, running out into the backyard with his ax and chopping me into bits.
I walked back to my patio and sat there for a long time, just sat and smoked and thought of awesome things to scream at the dingdongs across the way, things like "Did you know that it's extremely difficult to walk with a bass drum up your ass?" and "What the hell's wrong with you people?" (Fine, that last thing wasn't all that awesome, I admit, but I was tired. Very, very tired. Too tired for witty, veiled threats, I suppose.)
I felt better, though, having had my imaginary verbal confrontation, and went on back to bed.
I sometimes speak of you, but not enough Sometimes I mention your name Usually when dusk begins to settle down Around my shoulders, soft and gray And your grandchildren are close to sleep It’s strange that I summon only misty bits Like remembering a painting seen long ago A portion of shadowed forest, a corner of sky A flicker of sunlight warming one single rose
And they ask me who you are, and I cannot recall The entire picture, just a fraction of your profile While you drive and pump your hand against the wheel Off time to The Cars Your laugh, oddly high-pitched and infectious When the dogs all jump in your lap The sound of ice, like Christmas bells Against your whiskey glass
I tell them snapshots, I sometimes speak of you But not enough, sometimes I mention your name Spin stories from raw wool, color them with comfort Weave you from diaphanous thread, present you As I see you on Sundays, hot summer days The wind tumbling through your hair, the scent of Conesus lake, the dip of red and white bobbers Blue and gold dawns, omelets, Atlantic-colored eyes
Atlantic-colored eyes, closed, the corners of your mouth Turned down, white T-shirt, always With your novels, and your first prize ribbons Scattered amongst your other treasures as you nap I tell them parts, but never the whole, I offer them Heritage unfinished, and loss, and Elvis-like sideburns Your Dress Whites, stark against the gunmetal ship Dogwood, poplars, the yellow roses you sent I keep those fragrant petals still, dewy, fresh, alive
I sometimes speak of you, sometimes I mention your name If the night is deep into its journey, and neglects to Bring me along, the walls hear me tell Of grand days, Fourth of Julys, Buicks and ducks, of Ports of call, good steaks, bad rhythm, Cindy Who lay her head on your chest and passed into Forever, you who never cried, wept that August day I recall every detail then, left behind to face dawn alone, I see the whole Of you, as if in a hologram -- I see you best in the dark, but Not enough
Makes a woman do odd things. Makes an already loopy woman even loopier.
Case in point: A certain someone you all know has been dealing with stress in her usual atypical way -- no overeating for her, no valium jonesing, no nail-bitey, fidgety, explosive ragey shit for this chick. No, this certain someone that you all know, this magnificent, goddess-like albeit kind of stupid (in an endearing way) woman deals with her bottled-up feelings of hate, resentment, sensory overload, and quiet despair by pulling out her eyelashes. At night. When she’s asleep.
Fine, now that you know of whom I am referring, please allow me a moment of tender reflection, a small mental health intermission , before I continue.
Tender Reflection #1: Newborn kittens make me happy. They smell like Necco wafers.
Tender Reflection #2: The first time I was introduced to Godiva chocolates, my tongue actually leapt from my mouth, hopped onto the table, and did an erotic bump and grind.
Tender Reflection #3: The Marie Collander chicken pot pie I ate a few months ago was really, really good.
And now a few seconds of self-pity.
SELF PITY SELF PITY SELF PITY
All better now. I shall continue.
So last night I woke up pulling out my goddamned eyelashes, a hideous behavior I thought I’d kicked some two years ago. ‘Course, my stress level has climbed to an all-time high of 17.5 on the Richter-Hades scale, so I shouldn’t be surprised by the return of this abhorrent nighttime OCD thing of mine, but I am repulsed.
Oh, this has SO been a month of cruel, totally not funny jokes….Screw my lashes -- it’s a wonder I haven’t pulled my damn lips off.
Couple-few (charming Dansville, N.Y. colloquialism, “couple-few”) random yet soul-killing thoughts for your dismissal (seriously, please do dismiss them -- I'm just whining out loud here):
I’m so sad that I had to let a dear, dear, DEAR friend down recently…She understands why, but that doesn’t ease my guilt and disappointment.
My guilt and disappointment are exacerbated by my reluctance to learn how to flush the chemo port in my mother’s chest. My brother and I are going in today to watch, listen and learn, and honestly, I’d rather eat a pile of bunny pellets…But it must be done.
I feel like screaming obscenities at my mother, for reasons I shan’t express.
I feel like the worst person that ever walked the face of this godforsaken earth.
I still hate Tim Allen. Why am I thinking about Tim Allen? Well, I don’t know. I just am. And I hate his guts.
1) Love it or hate it, The Sopranos finale was something, wasn't it?
Not sure what that something is, exactly, but it certainly was...Something.
2) I love James Gandolfini, always found him sexy, but DEAR GOD, what's up with his nose lately? I have to watch the finale again because the first time around, I couldn't keep my eyes off of Gandolfini's disturbingly expanded nose and missed quite a bit of dialogue.
But forget the nose for a second, and hear me now -- the last five minutes of that finale brought about a horrible feeling of unease and sadness, and I still can't quite shake it.
3) I kept waking all Sunday night with this running through my head: "Just a city boy/Born and raised in South Detroy-oit/She took the midnight train going aaanyyywhere..." (Yes, wrong lyrical order - I never hear or remember lyrics correctly and often murder them, much to my kids' delight.)
4) "Standing in line to see the show tonight/Leave the light on/Heavy load" (Sincere apologies to Anthony Kiedis and the rest of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.)
5) Seriously, that was some kind of finale. WHY WON'T IT LEAVE ME BE?
I am haunted.
6) Today is my husband's birthday. Which has nothing to do with James Gandolfini's curiously expanded punching ball nose, of course, but I thought I'd mention it nonetheless.
Happy Birthday, Lar. I love you, stoopie-head.
If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and Just forget the world
Would you just stay here In our bed Chasing cars Around my head
Addendum: I think there may be some grammatical errors in this post, yet I do not care enough to fix them.
Here's a fine example of my warped sense of humor.
I watched this three times in a row -- not for the lyrics, and not because I thought it particularly clever, but for the ridiculous expressions on their faces.
Will continue to be infrequent. As some of you know, my life has been, um...Interesting...To say the least.
And I thought last year was bad...I haven't even told you the half of it. Don't feel insulted, though -- I am, if you're not yet aware, one of the original See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys (yes, there were four of us at one time, but I evolved beyond my brother monkeys some two hundred years ago). I was known as "Spew No Evil," my place being to just sit there and internalize everything my fellow monkey brothers ignored (Speak No Evil actually did speak, but only in my ear). My monkey brothers jokingly referred to me as "The Robot Monkey About to Blow a Gasket." Which is amazing, really, considering robots hadn't yet been invented.
Anyway.
I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically, and my circuits may be shorting out. Probably due to the mass quantities of light beer I've been consuming lately.
The upside to this current personal hell of mine, however, is that by this time next year I fully expect the following to occur:
1) I will discover ancient tablets buried in my backyard that prove the existence of a tiny race of people that once ruled the universe.
2) Some anonymous benefactor will write out a check in the sum of one million dollars to cover the cost of my four kids' Harvard education.
3) I become head writer for "Late Night With Conan O'Brien."
