The girls started school this morning.
I was here by myself and feeling emotional and vulnerable. Well, I was not actually by myself, because Mark was working from home, but he said several annoying things about what useful tasks I might want to accomplish on this first day without the girls, and so I pretended he had gone far away to a place from which I could not hear him. So like I said . . . I was here all by myself with the small rotting corpses of Mark’s directives, feeling vulnerable.
I thought about what I might do with this time alone.
So many possibilities.
I poured myself a second cup of coffee and drank it as I thought.
Hmmm.
I need to pee.
OK, I will do that first, and then I will start accomplishing shit.
Skipping now to the moment after I have peed, I am fumbling for a length of toilet paper. Mark and I have no rhyme or reason to how we put on the rolls of toilet paper, so maybe it rolls under and maybe it rolls over. A small disposable game of chance. I run my fingertips along the roll as I slowly spin it, feeling for an edge. No edge . . . damn it.
I roll it the other way, annoyed to once again lose this game of 50-50 odds.
No edge . . . damn it.
OK, so I give the roll a fast spin . . . first in this direction and then . . . in that direction.
And now I have a voluminous spill of toilet paper at my feet.
Well, that’s just great.
I gather up a tissued bunch in one hand and reach to wipe as I roll the rest of the toilet paper messily back onto the roll with my free hand. A small bit of paper rips and gets caught beneath my foot as I shift and reach, and I start to laugh hysterically. Here on the toilet, on this first day of school, newly alone and emotionally vulnerable, I laugh until I cry.
The other day, we put our boat in the water for the very first time. As we prepared to leave the house and head off on this adventure, I was beyond stressed. What if we can’t get the boat and the trailer backed up and down the ramp? What if we can’t figure out how to get the boat off of the trailer? What if we can’t get the boat into the water? What if we fuck up in some monumental way that results in a huge gathering of more competent boaters laughing and pointing at us as we flounder and sink? What if people laugh at our boat, which is cosmetically not quite up to Lake Oswego standards? What if the boat won’t start? What if there is a hole in the bottom of the boat that only becomes apparent when the water of the river starts to lap at our feet? What if everything goes well, but then we can’t find our way back to the dock? What if we run out of gas? What if we have to be rescued? Ack!
What if . . . what if . . . what if . . . ?
I stared out the window at my daughters, who were helping their daddy clean the boat’s windows and dashboard, thinking to myself, “Oh, please . . . let this go well.”
I was a tiny bit tense as we drove to the dock.
Tiny bit.
Mark spoke reassuringly as we drove. I tried to listen to his words of calm and breathe deeply, but then Mark’s voice suddenly changed, “What the hell is that?” I looked at him, and I saw that he was peering into the car’s rear-view mirrors, “What the hell is flapping off of our boat?”
I turned to look. Maj and Kallan turned to look as well. There was a long length of white fluttering something coming off of the boat, and it was growing longer as we drove. What the hell? Mark slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road.
He put the car in park, and then he said, “I bet we left the roll of paper towels in the boat.”
Oh my god . . . really?
I leaped from the car to go see.
Trailing out of the boat and into the street was a huge white length of tattered paper towels.
Motorists pointed and laughed as I climbed up into the boat and gathered up the paper towels in my arms. I waved happily, my panic of a few minutes ago forgotten. Snort!
I climbed back into the car and shoved the paper towels down by my feet, breathless with laughter. Through my giggles, I managed to get out, “We had toilet paper stuck to our boat’s shoes! We are so awesome!”
The boating went fabulously, by the way.
And now, several days later, newly alone and vulnerable, I am bare-assed and giggling on my toilet. Toilet paper beneath my foot, toilet paper bunched in my hand, toilet paper messily rolled, the memory of toilet paper on our boat’s shoes. Hee hee! I am laughing so hard my eyes start to water and my nose starts to run. I bring the handful of toilet paper up to my eyes and nose . . . I blow my nose as I giggle.
Wait.
As I finish blowing my nose, it occurs to me that I am still holding this toilet paper because sometimes after I am done peeing, it turns out I am not quite done, and then a second wipe is required.
Oh, well that’s just great.
I just wiped my eyes and blew my nose with pee.
I take a moment to consider this fact.
I burst into bare-assed laughter again.
Sometimes, when I laugh really hard I pee a tiny bit.
You would think this would be impossible, what with just having officially peed and all.
Sigh.
I reach to wipe again.
Wait.
This is the same toilet paper with which I just blew my nose.
Oh, well that’s just great.
I take a moment to consider the fact that I have just used a single handful of toilet paper to wipe pee and then tears and then snot and then pee again.
I cannot stop laughing.
I AM AWESOME!
I have no need of Mark and his suggestions for accomplishment.
I am getting shit done!
Wait . . .
I will need more toilet paper.
_______________________
Also, people?
Remember how I shut down comments here on Pretty All True at the beginning of the girls’ summer vacation? Yes, well . . . that has turned out to be the best thing I have done for myself and my family in quite some time. Really.
I have decided not to reopen comments.
If you miss talking to me, I can always be found on Twitter (I answer all messages directed at me), and on Pretty All True’s Facebook fan page (where I also generally respond to comments in timely fashion).
I started writing a long explanation of all the reasons behind this decision, but then scrapped those words.
It boils down to this:
My writing here on Pretty All True now stands alone.
That works for me.
Accomplishing shit
The girls started school this morning.
I was here by myself and feeling emotional and vulnerable. Well, I was not actually by myself, because Mark was working from home, but he said several annoying things about what useful tasks I might want to accomplish on this first day without the girls, and so I pretended he had gone far away to a place from which I could not hear him. So like I said . . . I was here all by myself with the small rotting corpses of Mark’s directives, feeling vulnerable.
I thought about what I might do with this time alone.
So many possibilities.
I poured myself a second cup of coffee and drank it as I thought.
Hmmm.
I need to pee.
OK, I will do that first, and then I will start accomplishing shit.
Skipping now to the moment after I have peed, I am fumbling for a length of toilet paper. Mark and I have no rhyme or reason to how we put on the rolls of toilet paper, so maybe it rolls under and maybe it rolls over. A small disposable game of chance. I run my fingertips along the roll as I slowly spin it, feeling for an edge. No edge . . . damn it.
I roll it the other way, annoyed to once again lose this game of 50-50 odds.
No edge . . . damn it.
OK, so I give the roll a fast spin . . . first in this direction and then . . . in that direction.
And now I have a voluminous spill of toilet paper at my feet.
Well, that’s just great.
I gather up a tissued bunch in one hand and reach to wipe as I roll the rest of the toilet paper messily back onto the roll with my free hand. A small bit of paper rips and gets caught beneath my foot as I shift and reach, and I start to laugh hysterically. Here on the toilet, on this first day of school, newly alone and emotionally vulnerable, I laugh until I cry.
The other day, we put our boat in the water for the very first time. As we prepared to leave the house and head off on this adventure, I was beyond stressed. What if we can’t get the boat and the trailer backed up and down the ramp? What if we can’t figure out how to get the boat off of the trailer? What if we can’t get the boat into the water? What if we fuck up in some monumental way that results in a huge gathering of more competent boaters laughing and pointing at us as we flounder and sink? What if people laugh at our boat, which is cosmetically not quite up to Lake Oswego standards? What if the boat won’t start? What if there is a hole in the bottom of the boat that only becomes apparent when the water of the river starts to lap at our feet? What if everything goes well, but then we can’t find our way back to the dock? What if we run out of gas? What if we have to be rescued? Ack!
What if . . . what if . . . what if . . . ?
I stared out the window at my daughters, who were helping their daddy clean the boat’s windows and dashboard, thinking to myself, “Oh, please . . . let this go well.”
I was a tiny bit tense as we drove to the dock.
Tiny bit.
Mark spoke reassuringly as we drove. I tried to listen to his words of calm and breathe deeply, but then Mark’s voice suddenly changed, “What the hell is that?” I looked at him, and I saw that he was peering into the car’s rear-view mirrors, “What the hell is flapping off of our boat?”
I turned to look. Maj and Kallan turned to look as well. There was a long length of white fluttering something coming off of the boat, and it was growing longer as we drove. What the hell? Mark slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road.
He put the car in park, and then he said, “I bet we left the roll of paper towels in the boat.”
Oh my god . . . really?
I leaped from the car to go see.
Trailing out of the boat and into the street was a huge white length of tattered paper towels.
Motorists pointed and laughed as I climbed up into the boat and gathered up the paper towels in my arms. I waved happily, my panic of a few minutes ago forgotten. Snort!
I climbed back into the car and shoved the paper towels down by my feet, breathless with laughter. Through my giggles, I managed to get out, “We had toilet paper stuck to our boat’s shoes! We are so awesome!”
The boating went fabulously, by the way.
And now, several days later, newly alone and vulnerable, I am bare-assed and giggling on my toilet. Toilet paper beneath my foot, toilet paper bunched in my hand, toilet paper messily rolled, the memory of toilet paper on our boat’s shoes. Hee hee! I am laughing so hard my eyes start to water and my nose starts to run. I bring the handful of toilet paper up to my eyes and nose . . . I blow my nose as I giggle.
Wait.
As I finish blowing my nose, it occurs to me that I am still holding this toilet paper because sometimes after I am done peeing, it turns out I am not quite done, and then a second wipe is required.
Oh, well that’s just great.
I just wiped my eyes and blew my nose with pee.
I take a moment to consider this fact.
I burst into bare-assed laughter again.
Sometimes, when I laugh really hard I pee a tiny bit.
You would think this would be impossible, what with just having officially peed and all.
Sigh.
I reach to wipe again.
Wait.
This is the same toilet paper with which I just blew my nose.
Oh, well that’s just great.
I take a moment to consider the fact that I have just used a single handful of toilet paper to wipe pee and then tears and then snot and then pee again.
I cannot stop laughing.
I AM AWESOME!
I have no need of Mark and his suggestions for accomplishment.
I am getting shit done!
Wait . . .
I will need more toilet paper.
_______________________
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