There is going to be spillage.
A huge fucking mess.
And even though I know this? I take no steps to avoid the future catastrophe.
Something about the danger of that moment just before the chaos and insanity?
Appeals to me.
That thrill.
In the background as I sip my coffee and contemplate the spillage and the chaos and the thrill of danger?
My daughters are fighting. Chaos of a different kind.
They cartoon fight-ball into the room, rolling and spitting, all pinches and hair pulls and clawed fingertips.
“She started it!”
“Well, she called me a baby!”
“And then she hit me!”
“She pinched me first!”
“I did nothing, and then she just attacked me!”
“Attacked? She flew through the air like a tiger! Plus? She needs her fingernails cut, Mother.”
They both press close to show me their mortal wounds and voice their complaints.
Another better mother? Might be able to get to the bottom of this situation, but I? Just want them gone.
“Ladies? There has just been too much fighting lately! What is wrong with the two of you?”
They stare back at me, united in their defiance.
Maj speaks for the two of them, “This is how sisters are, Mother. If you didn’t want this? You should have thought before you decided to have Kallan.”
Kallan agrees, “Yeah, Mom. You should have thought. This is how we are.”
“AUGH! This is not the way sisters are! Or at least, this is not the way you are supposed to be. Why can’t you keep your hands to yourselves?”
They both look at me like I am an idiot.
Maj speaks, “Because she is really annoying, Mother.”
And from Kallan, “Yeah, she is really annoying, Mom. And so at some point? Our hands are going to be involved.”
Maj nods, “Yup.”
“So despite the fact that we have discussed how you may not touch one another in anger about 8 billion times . . . you are both telling me that you are using your hands because your sister pissed you off?”
They both giggle at the words “pissed off,” exchange glances, and then look back at me.
The word DUH is written all over their sister faces.
“Fine. Both of you go to your rooms for a half hour. Take a break from one another.”
Maj is all reasonable, “Our rooms are right across the hallway from one another. This is not taking a break. This is just sending us away from you.”
“Well, if that is all that can be accomplished? I will settle for that. Go. Away from me.”
They turn to leave, but then Kallan pauses, “You know she’s going to keep yelling at me, Mom. What am I supposed to do?”
“Ignore her.”
She thinks for a minute, “So after this time in our rooms, if she pinches me because she is angry, what am I supposed to do?”
“Walk away.”
“And if she hits me?”
“Walk away.”
“And if she bites me?”
“Walk away.”
“And if she bashes me with a big rock?”
“Lie quietly, as I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“And if she kills me?”
“Lie quietly for a longer period of time.”
She snorts, “You’re funny, Mom.”
“Thank you.”
From upstairs, Maj is screaming, “Do you see what happens? I go up to my room like you told me to, and she is down there doing comedy! She is supposed to be in her room!”
Kallan giggles and runs up to her room.
And there is quiet for a moment.
So I pour myself a second cup of coffee.
Walk over to the refrigerator for the creamer. We have the largest container of creamer imaginable because we shop at Costco. The container is fairly new, and it is heavy. I hold it tightly in my right hand as I unscrew the top absent-mindedly with my left.
And then?
As the top loosens and the pressure of my grip continues?
There is a sickening momentary lurch.
This container? Is flawed. Weakened in some way so that it folds in upon itself as the top is removed.
Luckily, I am able to slip my right hand lower and steady the container with my left.
But it occurs to me?
That at some point there will be spillage.
A huge fucking mess.
And even though I know this? I take no steps to avoid the future catastrophe.
Something about the danger of that moment just before the chaos and insanity?
Appeals to me.
That thrill.
PLUS ALSO?
Guess what?
Since yesterday, Esquire has put up the photo of Violante Placido!
Swoon.
Violante Placido
Plus also?
Spillage.
I used to think that I had sort of a i-wanna-be-like-her crush on you. If you are allowing us to picture you as Violante Placido? The crush becomes infinitely less appropriate.
Foxy. So classic pin-up and yummy!
I need a fan.
What was that about your daughters?
No, no, no . . .
There are different kinds of fantasies.
For naughty ones? I am Violante.
For regular mom/friend stuff . . . I am . . . a grown up Melissa Gilbert (from Little House on the Prairie)
Yes.
That’s the ticket.
Hey, now.
Whose fantasies are these?
Melissa Gilbert’s not who I pictured at all.
Work with me here . . . who would you like me to be?
I say “hands to yourselves” about 350 times a day. I might as well shout something along the lines of advertising my “bodacious ta-tas” for all the good it does me.
As for the photo? She is divinely sexy. As am I.
Snicker.
YAY for divinely sexy!
As am I.
In my dreams.
Ahem.
Sigh.
Mostly? All regular, but with an awesome imagination.
I do love imagination.
I like to think that if it weren’t for imagination none of us, us as in bloggers, would be here. Only we can take the mundane and turn it into divinely sexy, dampish, pelleted fun.
YAY!
You get me!
You really get me!
Love you more now!
I had this same conversation about 1 billion times during our two week vacation. It is exhausting.
Yes.
Exhausting.
Which is why I need a break once in a while.
To flip through a magazine.
Snort!
I thought it was just a boy-thing to fight like that. So glad to hear that you suffer the same fate as I. And yes, she is smoking hot.
My children?
Are annoying.
Girls are supposed to be sweet and gentle.
What the fuck?
Spilling coffee creamer? I would probably cry.
Yes, that would suck.
A lot.
i,m 61 and thought i was straight–maybe not
I am all straight.
But the girl is way hot.
And also?
Hello, you!
Long time no comment!
I knew you were a creamer girl! What flavour??
I’m milk m’self, but I lives me my creamer friends!
I over think coffee, I know.
No flavor!
Just creamer.
And there is no overthinking coffee.
Not possible.
Seeing the photograph makes me forgive you for throwing out Martha.
Cause if I had to choose? I would so choose the hot girl.
And I know you’re trying to butter me up with the creamer and all, but you don’t do flavors so…no.
I am not buttered. At all.
Forgiving, yes. Buttered, no.
You know you are buttered.
You love me!
Even if I don’t do flavors.
You so love me.
I am playing hard to get over here!
I am elusive and non-buttery! And cravable!
I am SO cravable! And unattainable!
That is me…oh yes, indeed it is. Cause NOTHING says cravable and unattainable like being unbuttered.
I do crave you.
But once I get you?
I may pour melted butter all over you.
Just saying.
my mother once offered to let my sister & me go outside with knives & battle to the death so that she wouldn’t have to listen to us anymore. she’s still not sure if she was kidding.
we? took one look at the cleavers she held up & burst into tears. then giggles. and then fullblown guffaws. dad came home to the three girls unbreathing with laughter & knives on the floor.
i’m sure we spilled something.
Oh, how I love breathless gasping laughter!
I would try your mom’s approach.
But what if there was maiming and then death?
Mark would be all pissed.
we *were* always instructed not to maim. i’m sure that was one of the central house rules. that and close the damn bread bag.
I need to write this shit down.
Bread bags
and . . .
Maiming.
Got it.
Why is that so hard, for kids to just walk away? Even some adults have a hard time with it. What is it with always having to have the last word.
I say my shit and then walk away and never look back.
What does that say about me?
That you are more mature than I am, for one.
I always have to have the last word.
Always.