People often ask, “How can you write such humiliating things about you and yours?”
Okay, they don’t ask me, but I can see it in their eyes.
Okay, that isn’t true either because I can’t see most of your eyes but I can hear it in your thoughts—the ones that are being transmuted across cyberspace.
Ah, heck! I am the one wondering why I would be so willing to spill my guts and let it all hang out, as it were.
The truth is, when you have a large kid who does things like throw temper tantrums in the middle of church (he once broke The Spouse’s rib just by elbowing him in a quiet but heated dispute—most of the other disputes weren’t so quiet) or lifts his shirt and does a belly dance on top of a marble bench at the cemetery as your grandfather is laying a loved one to rest, so much of life is really just insignificant fluff.
That being said, I refuse to do a meme or a tag, or whatever they are calling it these days, that requires pictures that reveal my house in its true grime-filled guise. Sure, I can say that my house is a mess and I am a terrible housekeeper but for the love of Pete, I’m not going prove it! For posterity! Forever! I especially refuse to show the inside of my refrigerator as Mary of Mary Has A Little Glob so recently did. She, however, has nothing to be ashamed of (except maybe the duck eggs) but I have actual spores that are laying down roots and raising families in mine.
Okay, they don’t ask me, but I can see it in their eyes.
Okay, that isn’t true either because I can’t see most of your eyes but I can hear it in your thoughts—the ones that are being transmuted across cyberspace.
Ah, heck! I am the one wondering why I would be so willing to spill my guts and let it all hang out, as it were.
The truth is, when you have a large kid who does things like throw temper tantrums in the middle of church (he once broke The Spouse’s rib just by elbowing him in a quiet but heated dispute—most of the other disputes weren’t so quiet) or lifts his shirt and does a belly dance on top of a marble bench at the cemetery as your grandfather is laying a loved one to rest, so much of life is really just insignificant fluff.
That being said, I refuse to do a meme or a tag, or whatever they are calling it these days, that requires pictures that reveal my house in its true grime-filled guise. Sure, I can say that my house is a mess and I am a terrible housekeeper but for the love of Pete, I’m not going prove it! For posterity! Forever! I especially refuse to show the inside of my refrigerator as Mary of Mary Has A Little Glob so recently did. She, however, has nothing to be ashamed of (except maybe the duck eggs) but I have actual spores that are laying down roots and raising families in mine.
A while back, when life was much darker for us than it is today and the spores in my fridge were more abundant and inviting friends, the Big Guy had a psychologist who actually came to the house to visit with him. The day the Big Guy invited the psychologist into the kitchen to see something in the fridge was one of the most traumatic of my life. Never mind that said psychologist was privy to all our deep, dark secrets, (the Big Guy and his doings and the aftershocks of said doings being the deepest and darkest) the one thing I would rather die than reveal to him (or just about anyone) was/is the state of my refrigerator.
The fact that I followed the two of them into the kitchen with panic written all over my countenancee (and, let’s face it, body—this was no ordinary panic), threw myself in front of the door and collapsed in a heap on the floor when my efforts proved too weak for the determination of the Big Guy no doubt had Mr. County Children’s Health Center Psychologist thinking there was more than spores growing in that there fridge. In fact, I think I saw a bit of disappointment on his face when he clapped eyes on a rather ordinary fridge with rather ordinary spores growing there-in.
No doubt he was looking forward to calling out the cavalry. He had to make do with pulling out the smelling salts.
Very shortly thereafter, I requested a new psychologist; one for the Big Guy and one for me, the result of which, I am pretty much over it. For which I am very grateful.
This entry was posted
on Thursday, November 6, 2008
at Thursday, November 06, 2008
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I have gotten over myself,
mostly
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