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