My blog is an incredibly popular destination for those who have accidentally eaten mold. Type in “accidentally ate mold” and my blog pops up. I love that people type in “accidentally.” They want to make certain that the internet knows they wouldn’t do such a thing on purpose. Perhaps the search results are different for those who ate mold accidentally as opposed to those who just went and ate mold for the fun of it.
I’ve been grumpy lately. I think it’s because I’ve been changing sh#*&y diapers for the last 7 ½ years.
The town decided to repair our small road. They came and put stones over it and haven’t been back. For three weeks. No other street in the development has been touched. What happened? It’s all very mysterious.
My children apparently had Fifths disease. Their cheeks look pink and chapped and they are sporting unsightly rashes on their arms. The thing with Fifths disease is that you don’t know your kids had it until their cheeks get all red. By then, they aren’t contagious. Fifths disease is bad for pregnant women. I am not pregnant, so we’re all right here.
Last night I didn’t want to be a mom. I wanted to be all alone on the top of a mountain staring at a panoramic view of trees and streams and lakes with the soundtrack to Pride and Prejudice playing in the background. I yelled at Caleb because he keeps wetting the bed. What kind of a mother yells at her kid for wetting the bed? It’s not his fault. I apologized, but the damage was done. Someday, Caleb will be hanging out with friends, maybe at his college’s student union, telling them how his mother yelled at him for things he couldn’t control.
“And she couldn’t cook worth anything,” he’ll also say. His friends will shake their heads. Perhaps his future wife will be among that group. Because of these preconceived notions of me, we will have a tremulous relationship and she’ll be afraid to let her kids spend the night at my house as I might yell at them for wetting the bed, damaging them psychologically for life. And I might feed them hot-dogs for dinner: hot-dogs full of nitrates.
I already hate her.
I’m petitioning my husband to get me an above-ground pool next summer. He seems against it- something about Rochester only being warm two months of the whole year. I’ve always wanted a pool. I’d rather have a pool than a puppy. I might actually end up bartering a puppy for a pool.
My next-door neighbor is retired. All day long he sits on a raft in his pool, sipping a brown beverage and blathering liberal politics on the phone. He used to be in a band with someone famous. Bruce Springsteen? He’s definitely an aging hippie. His wife walks in circles around the perimeter of her house inspecting her flower gardens while chain-smoking. They have a small white dog who is terrified of my kids. I don’t know why.
My neighbors across the street are also retired. They, too, have a pool in their backyard. They are incredibly nice, though they have yet to invite us over to go swimming. This was even after observing me, on one extremely humid and hot afternoon, directing my garden hose down the back of my shirt. I’ve forgotten their names. I know one of their names is Gene or Jean. The trouble is I don’t remember which of them is Gene or Jean.
I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to take a peak at their mail to confirm their names. This is probably illegal. Both of my retired neighbors, however, come and get their mail the moment it is dropped off. While I wait two, maybe three days before unearthing the bills, they bounce to the curb like they’re going to find an ice-cream cone in their mailbox. I don’t get it.
The twins have given up their afternoon nap. Which may also explain the grumpiness. And my staring out the window, watching the neighbors. And longing for a pool. And cursing my future daughter-in-law.
I think I’ll go get the mail.