Sucking at life...and laundry

Guys, I really want to write something new and funny. Like, I really really want to. For me and for you. This election cycle and October and just everything feels full of doom and gloom, and dagnabit, I'd like to bring us all a little joy!

Yet it seems that I'm encountering sort of a humor constipation these past two weeks. When I look inward for levity, past or present...I draw a blank. I assume this is a temporary thing. It's got to be.

In the meanwhile, an old story. This happened to me in 2011, during another rough patch in my life, another time I was grieving and floundering-- much like me currently. I've already blogged this story once, in a past blog life, but whatever, I'm re-using, AKA what is now known as "repurposing."  "Repurposing" makes me feel like a cool hipster. Next thing you know, I'll be turning my worn out jeans into aprons and headbands and shit and overusing the word "rad." (No, actually. That's not going to happen.)

****

5/25/2011

In 1969, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross proposed a five-pronged model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Scholars have argued to the moon and back about whether her model is “scientific” and “empirically validatable,” and all of these things that scholars care about. Basically, what they want to know is: does her model actually fit the typical grieving process? Forty-two years later, the verdict is still out on that one.

In spite of this, the verdict is in regarding the first four of MY stages of grief: 1) denial, 2) over-reliance on psychologically numbing agents and behaviors (this is the drinking stage, folks), 3) sublimation, 4) CRANKY, and 5) ?  

Tonight I’d like to talk about stage four, CRANKY, because that’s where I am tonight. I’m actually so cranky that I thought I was too cranky to blog, and wasn’t going to. I was going to put up my feet, continue on in my sixth reread of the Harry Potter series (an attempt at a lateral move to numbing, see grief step 2), and go to sleep early. I know going to bed would be a good choice for me, because part of the reason I’m cranky is because I’m tired. Tired+ me= no good, for anyone, least of all me. Or maybe least of all you, if you're lucky enough to get to hang out with me when I'm tired. You tell me. 

Yet as I prepared to leave my world for Hogwarts, I saw the jeans strewn across my bed and sighed— they’re physically dirty and also starting to have that “reworn one too many times” funk about them. I need them for tomorrow, and there’s no way I could possibly wear them again without offending someone...like myself. Being able to smell yourself is almost never a good thing. So I hefted my damn jeans and my damn dress pants and some damn shirts downstairs to throw in the damn laundry.

I put all of that crap in the washer and dumped in the detergent. Now, Jeb and I got ourselves this fancy new-fangled HE Washer & Dryer set last year. The washer has very specific places to deposit each washer agent—the detergent goes HERE and only here, the softener goes HERE, etc. Well, I’ll be damned if I didn’t put the detergent in the fabric softener hole. SHIT. The other fun thing is that there is no way to dump the liquid back out; the liquid holder is attached to the washer.

To recap: I was already super bitchy, and now I’d irreversibly dumped the wrong fluid into the wrong damn hole (shame on you if you had a dirty thought after reading that line). 

I considered putting the softener into the detergent hole and starting the load up anyway, just to “see what happens.” I considered yelling at Jeb and getting him to fix this issue for me. I considered wiping the detergent out of the fabric softener hole with a cloth and trying again-- but alas, we were down to our last "serving" of detergent, and those damn jeans need to be clean tonight, son!

What to do, what to do?

I'm not sure what made it happen: divine gift, desperation, whatever-- but as I stood there, surveying my wrong-hole debacle, I got a flash of memory from my undergrad freshman biology lab: the time we had to breathe through straws to inflate a rat’s lungs. Second flash of inspiration was the bendy straws that we keep in our kitchen to populate Evie’s spill-proof cups. Eureka!

So how did I spend the next five minutes of my night? Sucking laundry detergent out of the fabric softener hole and spitting it, by blowing it back out of the straw, into the right hole. (I feel that by doing this I may have somehow bastardized my fancy washing machine.)  It was all going so well-- until one overzealous pull left me with a small mouthful of Tide. I rinsed thoroughly afterwards, but I still feel like I could open my mouth and spurt soap bubbles on demand. 

I wish I could end this story with saying “And then the whole thing was so humorous that I just started laughing and my bad mood was gone, just like that, POOF, up in smoke! Rainbows and unicorns everywhere!!!”

But nope, double nope. I’m still cranky as hell. I opened up my computer to try to write this post and it was running slow, and I seriously wanted to punch it. I might have thrown it a little jab.

And as I sit here writing in my foul, foul mood, I'm aware of how long the aftertaste of Tide lasts in one's mouth, which was information I could have gone my whole life without knowing. (Was it karma? Is this soapy mouth the Universe's way of punishing me for all of the cursing?)

Also, I'm now wearing my retainer. I wanted you to have the complete image of me just as I am now, with my soapy mouth, and my sulky face, and my big metal retainer in place. Pretty sure I've also got a little zit starting on my chin. I'm not sitting in front of a mirror right now (thank God) but I'm thinking the look is somewhere between deranged sixth grader and Cathy. I have never felt sexier.

And that, my friends, is all. I’m putting my cranky ass to bed. After Ron whisks Harry away from the Dursley’s in the flying car, mind you.

Revised 10/18/2016; Originally published 5/25/2011 here: http://ideclarelifecrisis.blogspot.com/2011/05/sucking-at-lifeand-laundry.html

Dear America, You are Hurting Me

Dear America—

You are hurting me.

I don’t think you mean to. I think you, a young nation, are moving along as best as you can. Trying to figure yourself out. Exploring your identity. Things that adolescents tend to do.

But I have to level with you—your identity crisis is eating me up inside.

You know I’m a pretty sensitive person, right? You’ve seen me—my emotions are right out there on my sleeve a majority of the time. Remember that time a client told me that she hardly needed my words to know how I felt, my face was that expressive? I liked that. I took that as a compliment. (Yet I will also heed your warning to never seek a career in professional poker playing.)

You also know I try really hard not to cry in front others. It’s a vulnerability avoidance thing. Also, usually I don’t want to mess up my mascara. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

But America, if I would let the outside of me match the inside of me…oh boy. Cue the waterworks.

I’m hurting. You’re hurting me, America. Some of what’s going on inside of me isn’t about you, I’ll give you that. Some of it is my own bullshit, and I’m working on it. But even hurting, I want to be a part of you, America. I want to be engaged with you, and from within you, with my world.  So I poke my head out of my own self-absorption and take a look at you, America. And I whisper to you: Here I am. How can I help?

My eyes opened wide, here’s what I see in you, my country, my nation:  

Your ideals have polarized, America. They are polarizing more every day. 

Your sons and daughters are hurling insults at friends, at family, due to political division. Your sons and daughters are dehumanizing each other.

America, your culture somehow seems to thrive on hate and derisiveness. Which confuses me, because very few Americans I've ever met are inherently hateful people.

Your most marginalized people are becoming more marginalized, their voices drowned out by the cacophony of political ire and ideological differences. Their needs and their humanity are being swallowed whole by you, America.

America, one of your daughters is raped every two minutes, somewhere within your borders. You don’t seem to be ready to engage in the process of change that it will take to turn this around.

Your sons and daughters of color aren’t safe. America, your police officers also are not safe. I want to remind you, my nation, that the safety of these two populations is not a mutually exclusive proposition. Please don’t allow yourself to buy in to those who try to play on either/or thinking. This is an and/and proposition.

America, your children are hungry. 13.1 million of them. How is it, that in a country known for excess, your children are hungry?

People all over the world are suffering and dying, America. They are under attack. Babies lay dead in the street next to the bodies of their dead mothers, while we complain about the newest iPhone system update. Are we paying attention? Is there more we could be doing?

Despite the outlets for self-expression-- a privilege that you've afforded us, America-- whether it be via social media, text messaging, etc., we’re all lonely. We don’t feel connected to each other, regardless of all of the ways we have at our disposal for connecting.

America, your culture is one of fear. We are all so, so scared.

When I dare to poke my head out to interact with you, America, the doors of my heart are left intentionally open, all the better to care for the matters and the people that need to be cared for. And I watch and watch and listen and discuss and think. I try to figure out my role—what cog am I to be in this larger system? How can I be an agent of change?

Sometimes I come away with some idea of how to help. Sometimes I pull an Alexander Hamilton (one of your fathers, America) and I “write like I need it to survive.” Earlier this year, I wrote a letter to the paper regarding Syrian refugees, and it made it to press. I forwarded that letter to all of my elected officials. Sometimes I try to get connected with others. Two weeks ago, a colleague and I met with a senator to discuss how to be supportive of a family medical leave legislation that our state is working on.

Sadly, though, most of the time I retreat from you. I pull back into my own thoughts and stay there, stagnant. Helplessness comes for me, like a plague of locusts who feed upon my hope and my drive, and I give in. I let them take me. I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m disillusioned.

Keeping my heart open to you is hard, America. So more and more, you get the me who is cynical, critical. You get the me who will halfheartedly talk about important societal matters but who will eventually divert your attention with self-deprecating humor. You get the me who numbs out and retreats to reading fiction. You get the me who looks away rather than staying engaged.

And part of this is because I fear for my relationships. At the end of the day, my relationships matter far more to me than being right. It’s taken me years to learn this, but learned it I have. I don’t mind sparring with my fellow Americans about the issues we all face, but at the end of it, I want our connection to be solid. I want our base of mutual respect and caring to remain intact. Less and less do I feel that this is possible. I want to be able to talk to people about what I believe, hear what they believe, and keep the conversation going. Yet more and more, every type of social and political discourse feels like the best way to damage a relationship. When did this happen, America? When did we stop listening to each other, trying to find common ground?

In any case: America, you’re hurting me. Please, please try to be better. Please try to remember that people are people are people—we all bleed the same blood, we all carry within us hopes and dreams and fears. None of us has any more inherent value than any other person. And we belong to each other. It seems that as a nation we’ve forgotten, but we’re nothing without each other.

Much love from your daughter,

Allison

The Time I Had a Staredown with a Mouse (while naked)

Tonight I received a much-needed reminder of the virtues of humor. I spent a night out with my ladies--who, by the way, are amazing. I am so thankful for each and every one of them. We went to a comedy show, which was awesome, but I probably laughed just as hard at my friends’ stories throughout the night.

I rarely feel more like myself than when I'm laughing. Equally delightful is when I can make someone else laugh, which is one of my favorite things in the entire world. So tonight, as I laughed and made others laugh, I felt good. I felt like me. It was fantastic.

A few of my friends boosted me up, too, in overtly reminding me that I can be a funny lady sometimes. It felt like a revelation to hear this, as lately I have felt about as far from funny as is humanly possible.

Here’s the best part: These gals encouraged me to be silly. Write down your funny stories, they said. We want to hear about these things on your blog, they said.

I am only too eager to acquiesce, especially if it means I can make someone laugh. Bonus points if it heals me a little in the process.

And so, without further ado, tonight I will retell for you a True Story in the life de Allison—The Time I Had a Staredown with a Mouse (while Naked).

The year was 2007, and the month was October. At the time my husband and I lived in a small, bungalow-type house, and it was old—built in 1921. The one bathroom on the main floor had just a bathtub—a beautiful, deep, clawfoot tub that we’d fallen in love with as young, stupid, first-time pre-kid pseudo-hipster homebuyers—but no shower. The only shower in the home was in the basement—and no, not in a finished bathroom. It was one of those rigged-up standalone stall jobs that sat in a cement-floored room right next to our home’s second toilet. The toilet was extra cool, because it was elevated, situated about a foot off of the ground on its own round cement pedestal-- sitting on it made you feel like you were sitting on a throne. So regal. All of this was open to the rest of the room, which also housed our washer and dryer. The shower, washer, and air conditioner all drained to the same floor drain, right in the middle of that cold, ugly little room. And there were these random square mirrors stuck to the walls, for God knows what reason—I guess so you could see yourself unattractively using all of the various facilities?  The whole setup down there was so, so classy. (Ask my mom. She loved showering down there when she stayed with us. Always a highlight of her visits.)

One of the issues with the downstairs shower situation (among many) was that sometimes you’d forget your towel, and since we didn’t keep the towels in the basement, you’d be shit out of luck. On that brisk late October morning, I walked my still sleep fuzzy self into a steaming shower and sighed with relief—only to summarily realize that I hadn’t grabbed a towel. Damnit.

I was wet but not uber-wet, and so before things got too serious with hair washing and leg shaving and whatnot, I hopped out to run upstairs for a towel. I shook myself off like Golden Retriever does after a dip in the lake—pretty sure I was less graceful than a Golden, but you get my drift. And then I lumbered up the stairs, water still shaking off with each step.

Did I mention that I was eight months pregnant?

My cold, dripping, naked, pregnant, unassuming self schlepped up those stairs, which landed me in our kitchen.

And that’s when I saw it.

And it saw me.

And it saw that I saw it and I saw that it saw that I saw it. 

An effing mouse. Sitting on my stove. Holding a piece of dry macaroni in its stupid little front claws.

We’d had a mouse infestation that year—prior to that day, in late October, we’d already caught four or five. Keeping the mice at bay was always rough in that old house, which we’re guessing had multiple tiny holes and spaces to the outside, created over years of wear and settling. (Also, one time there was a snake in my basement. And no one believed me until years later, we found snakeskins in the storage room. The day we found the skins was one of the most vindicating days of my life. Also one of the grossest.)

So on the day of the naked staredown (mice are always naked, right?) with the mouse, I’d had enough. I was up to here with those little fuckers.

Neither me nor the mouse wanted to make the first move. I was frozen— right foot in the kitchen, left foot still on the second stair, arms suspended in motion, hardly able to blink. Not taking my eyes off of the vermin. The eye contact was intense. We may have seen into each others' souls. 

I’m also not sure who was more freaked out—it or me. Didn’t matter that I’d already seen a ton of those little guys, living and dying and dead—every time I saw one was slightly terrifying.  Which as I sit and re-read sounds pretty lame for a grown-ass woman, and one that could grow an entire child in her womb, but hell, honesty is always a good policy and mice sort of scare me because they’re fast and gross and ew.

I’m not sure how long we stared at each other without moving—could have been two seconds, could have been ten, who knows. Without breaking eye contact with it, I started a slow, sneaky walk into my kitchen, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. In the moment I felt like a panther, gracefully stalking its prey. Yet when I look back on it and think of my awkwardly lumpy pregnant naked body trying to do an elegant prowl, I just laugh. Had to look more like a not-so-sneaky hippopotamus.

Anyway, I’m “sneaky walking” towards my kitchen table, upon which I could see, out of the corner of my eye, sat an empty pot.

But my graceful hippo walk was too much for the mouse-- it dropped its contraband macaroni and ran. And I ran. I scrambled for the pot, grabbed it, and made chase. The mouse flew over the counter, me after it, slamming the pot indiscriminately down. Maybe bashing a few dents into counter, I didn’t know, I didn’t care, I just wanted the mouse.

I didn’t get the mouse. It was too quick, too wily. I blame pregnancy reflexes. And also the fact that I kept slipping on the linoleum, because I was still dripping wet.

After the mouse had disappeared into some unseeable, unreachable corner of my kitchen, I stood there, heart pounding, breathing heavily from anxiety and exertion. I was cold, wet, and I’d just been bested by a rodent. What do you even do after that? 

I sat down the pot, got myself a towel, went back downstairs with my effing towel, took a shower, got ready and went to work. Like my pregnant ass hadn’t just chased a mouse around my kitchen naked. No big deal. It was all very anticlimactic.

But I shit you not: from that point on, every time I came up the stairs after a shower, I was vigilant. The song The Eye of the Tiger was lodged in my head as I made my daily ascent, and I kept my pots, pans, and reflexes at the ready. Being bested by a rodent was a shame that I could never, ever let happen again.

And then a year later, my husband installed a shower in our claw foot tub and my basement-showering days drew to a close. Over the years, my mouse PTSD has ever so slowly died away.

The End.