I love to shower. I love my showers so hot as to melt my skin off, or so my husband believes. Taking incredibly hot showers is one of the few personal pleasures that I still indulge in…daily. Scalding hot showers, in my humble opinion, are one of the greatest luxuries to being a middle-class American. This, however, is in direct conflict with my smoke/heat detector's opinion though.
This morning started off like any other. Wait. Not right. I was off of work. I had the day and the house to myself! I decided to take a shower so long & hot that I might just end up turning into a baked prune by the time I opted to get out. …And it was fabulous. Glorifying, that is – until I opened my shower curtain and started to dry off. The haze of the hot fog drifted from my bathroom where the door was open, and wafted into my bedroom. The smoke detector, of course, went off.
Now, see…this is a problem because my smoke detectors are wireless. When one goes off…they ALL go off. My house turned into a smoke detector rave. Loud beeping resounded through the master suite in my house (which is a Cape Cod – so, it takes up the entire upstairs). It was deafening. Here I am, soaking wet and being blasted by the heinous beeping of a smoke detector – all before 10AM. Wrong. Just wrong.
I quickly wrapped my towel around my dripping body and attempted to sprint to the smoke detector to shut it off. For those of you who know me, you know I’m a clod. Oh, I can be graceful – I typically wear stilettos, remember? My problem lies in that I attempt to do one tiny thing…and this whole calamity of errors follow thereafter. The rest below is what ensued on the day in question, Officer…
I quickly hopped over the edge of the tub, forgetting that I had removed the bathmat to wash it the day before. My wet foot hit the floor. I slipped. My loud curses were added to the incessant beeping. I picked myself up, and rearranged my towel where it would do me the most good – around my head. I NOW streaked across my bedroom to where the smoke detector is: mounted. on. my. ceiling. WTF?!?! I reach up. Just shy. DAMN! I jump. My still wet foot is probably going to slip on my stupid Berber carpet. [sigh] I quickly assess the situation, and realizing that my husband and his gangly 6’ 4” frame is not around to disarm the unwanted intruder in my morning of serenity; I need to find a way to do this myself – you know, before the neighbors call the fire department - the windows are open throughout the downstairs.
Looking behind me, I finally see something that will support my weight when stood upon, but stands the least chance of killing me in return [this whole thought pattern has already ruled out the computer chair on wheels]. Sadly, this “thing” is my daughter’s cedar hope chest. FULL of goodies (you know since I’ll never be able to afford that 13th goat). That blasted thing has to weigh close to 300 pounds. Shit. I decide to heave it over anyways…I only have to move one end about four feet.
I bend down. I grasp hold of the side handle. My towel begins to fall off my head. [Strangely your mind never seems to work properly in a moment of duress…this being no exception, I opt to save the towel amidst that beeping.] I move to salvage my turban. I bash my face on the top of the hope chest. A litany of swear words that would probably send my mother to an early grave, escape my mouth.
Finally, I get the hope chest dragged over. I climb up. I turn off the smoke detector. BEEP! “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I got a text message. I reach for my robe. Hobbling downstairs on my probably sprained ankle, with my broken ribs, what I am sure is a black eye and the giant goose egg on my forehead…I pick up my phone. My husband texted me to say, “Hope you’re enjoying your day off. I love you!” Impeccable timing as always, BJ. In my now surly mood, I have resolved to burn dinner and to punch him in the neck when he comes through the door…purely blaming my previous episode on his approval of the smoke detector location with our electrician. [sigh]
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I’ll filth your foul, foul filth…
A few afternoons ago, I took my daughter to get her hair cut. It would be a nice time to talk to her about going back to school, calm any nerves and generally have a quaint mother/daughter moment. We were driving along down the road…
“Excited about going back to school?”
“Yes, but not really about getting up early. I like to sleep in. Although, I won’t have to eat breakfast with Noah anymore.”
This thought puzzled me. My kids are six, four and two-years-old, and are being raised as if they were all the same age. They enjoy nothing more than each other’s company. In fact, when they are apart, they’re kind of miserable; all mopey and asking when so-and-so is coming back…I waited a few beats, thinking she might elaborate. She did not. Her face was marred by this frightening scowl.
“Honey, why on Earth would you not want to eat with Noah?”
“Well, he gets in trouble every morning. He makes potty talk. He’s always saying things he shouldn’t and getting in trouble for it.” She starts gesturing wildly with her hands (their Nanny is Italian, so as assimilated by osmosis, my children believe they are Italian as well and constantly wave their hands about like mad little people). Her voice rises to a crescendo that reminds me of dog whistles. [Apparently, a distraught child’s voice can penetrate the parental lobe on a level that no one else can. My ears are starting to bleed…]
Somehow, my bloodied ears perk . I’m getting valuable intel! I’ve never heard that there was a problem at breakfast from our Nanny. Also, I don’t eat breakfast, so on the weekends, I’m not overly privy to my “sweet” son’s behavior. “What do you mean potty talk, baby?”
She sighs. Loudly. I can now tell she’s more than upset by this whole line of questioning. I urge her forward once more… ”It’s ok, sweetie, you can tell me. What does he say?” I’m slightly ashamed to think that I am terrified of what she’s about to say.
“HE SAYS POTTY WORDS!” she blurts out. I brace myself for the worst. [See, I have the mouth of a truck driver, one that I’ve been told would make a sailor blush, but I’m pretty good at containing it in front of the kids. I’ll admit, I’ve let a few f-bombs drop recently, but in my defense, I really, REALLY meant it.] I urge her once more to divulge what he says, wondering to myself – What hasn’t the Nanny told me?!? Finally, understanding she won’t get in trouble, she breaks down.
“He talks about poop. You know: poo-poo, pee-pee, doo-doo, crap, poopin’ (her voice is starting to pitch. drastically – almost bordering on hysteria), CRUD, DIARRHEA, POOP TOWERS!!!” I lost it. In my head, I can imagine my naughty little blonde boy with his Mohawk and animated grin calling his sister a “poop tower” and wildly flailing his pop-tart about. I stifle a giggle, which actually ends up coming out more like a suppressed snort, as if I’m drowning in the front seat. Thank God she is so upset she doesn’t notice my blunder. Ahhh, my informant - this kid needs to lighten up & laugh at poop humor…she’s got the rest of her life to be a stuffy adult who can’t take a joke.
“Honey, honey – what on God’s green earth is a poop tower?” I ask as seriously as I could under the circumstance.
“Well, IT’S A TOWER MADE OF POOP, you know?! He’s …so gross!…like - who would live in a tower of poop? I don’t want to smell it!” At this point, I’m also picturing her displeased and motherly face – you know, everything I’m not at the moment.
Luckily, I’m able to hold it together long enough to find a parking spot. I open the door for her, “Come on, Poop Tower – let’s go get your hair cut,” I say as I take her hand. Wow. From the look on her face, I can tell who’s currently been relegated to the "poop tower" in my house. Nope…this is never going to get old.
“Excited about going back to school?”
“Yes, but not really about getting up early. I like to sleep in. Although, I won’t have to eat breakfast with Noah anymore.”
This thought puzzled me. My kids are six, four and two-years-old, and are being raised as if they were all the same age. They enjoy nothing more than each other’s company. In fact, when they are apart, they’re kind of miserable; all mopey and asking when so-and-so is coming back…I waited a few beats, thinking she might elaborate. She did not. Her face was marred by this frightening scowl.
“Honey, why on Earth would you not want to eat with Noah?”
“Well, he gets in trouble every morning. He makes potty talk. He’s always saying things he shouldn’t and getting in trouble for it.” She starts gesturing wildly with her hands (their Nanny is Italian, so as assimilated by osmosis, my children believe they are Italian as well and constantly wave their hands about like mad little people). Her voice rises to a crescendo that reminds me of dog whistles. [Apparently, a distraught child’s voice can penetrate the parental lobe on a level that no one else can. My ears are starting to bleed…]
Somehow, my bloodied ears perk . I’m getting valuable intel! I’ve never heard that there was a problem at breakfast from our Nanny. Also, I don’t eat breakfast, so on the weekends, I’m not overly privy to my “sweet” son’s behavior. “What do you mean potty talk, baby?”
She sighs. Loudly. I can now tell she’s more than upset by this whole line of questioning. I urge her forward once more… ”It’s ok, sweetie, you can tell me. What does he say?” I’m slightly ashamed to think that I am terrified of what she’s about to say.
“HE SAYS POTTY WORDS!” she blurts out. I brace myself for the worst. [See, I have the mouth of a truck driver, one that I’ve been told would make a sailor blush, but I’m pretty good at containing it in front of the kids. I’ll admit, I’ve let a few f-bombs drop recently, but in my defense, I really, REALLY meant it.] I urge her once more to divulge what he says, wondering to myself – What hasn’t the Nanny told me?!? Finally, understanding she won’t get in trouble, she breaks down.
“He talks about poop. You know: poo-poo, pee-pee, doo-doo, crap, poopin’ (her voice is starting to pitch. drastically – almost bordering on hysteria), CRUD, DIARRHEA, POOP TOWERS!!!” I lost it. In my head, I can imagine my naughty little blonde boy with his Mohawk and animated grin calling his sister a “poop tower” and wildly flailing his pop-tart about. I stifle a giggle, which actually ends up coming out more like a suppressed snort, as if I’m drowning in the front seat. Thank God she is so upset she doesn’t notice my blunder. Ahhh, my informant - this kid needs to lighten up & laugh at poop humor…she’s got the rest of her life to be a stuffy adult who can’t take a joke.
“Honey, honey – what on God’s green earth is a poop tower?” I ask as seriously as I could under the circumstance.
“Well, IT’S A TOWER MADE OF POOP, you know?! He’s …so gross!…like - who would live in a tower of poop? I don’t want to smell it!” At this point, I’m also picturing her displeased and motherly face – you know, everything I’m not at the moment.
Luckily, I’m able to hold it together long enough to find a parking spot. I open the door for her, “Come on, Poop Tower – let’s go get your hair cut,” I say as I take her hand. Wow. From the look on her face, I can tell who’s currently been relegated to the "poop tower" in my house. Nope…this is never going to get old.
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