Bent Words

Bent Words

September 16, 2017


Just DUMB.

The antibiotic we used to cure our tiny human's ear infection also cleared out her colon of all the good bacteria thus creating a secondary bacterial infection which is causing her to have, in the words of one of my customer's at the bike shop, "watery stools."

(Thanks for forever sealing that visual in my memory, Diane)

It's way more serious that that but I am currently functioning on my very last, super insignificant, stringy little nerve.

I know this because I went ballistic on my husband when he called me at work the other day.

"Honey, where's my old phone?"

"I don't know."

"What kind of package is it in?"

"In like a grocery bag with a black box," I answered, still clicking keys and getting the mail out.

"What color is the bag?"

"Wha -- well like a white plastic GROCERY bag!"

"What room is it in?"

"I don't know. Did you look on the kitchen table?"



*sounds of paperwork thrashing about*

"It's not there."

"Did you look in the baby's room?"

*sounds of bags thrashing about*

"I see a cell phone box in there..."

"Is it black?"


"Then that's not it."

"Seriously, Laura, we need to get rid of some of this packaging."

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?" I must have yelled because four sets of eyes turned ever so slightly.

"I don't care about the paperwork we need to go through while I'm AT WORK. I don't care about the truck needing to get cleaned out right now because, once again, I'm AT WORK. I don't care about the cats that you want to drown or the floor that needs to be mopped or the fact that you cannot handle it when I put banana peels in the freezer until garbage day because it is HOT and will STINK UP the garbage. I. Don't. Care."

So I seriously thought I was being quite the emotional rock star right up until that conversation.

And I was. I was a rock star despite being sick along with two sick little people during our family vacation to Bay Beach. My husband kept saying, "One more ride!" to a 101 feverish little girl and yet I did NOT lose my shit.

When I had to be one of three people holding down my 14-month-old daughter while Incapable Nurse #4 tried to draw blood from her tiny arm on Wednesday AND again on Thursday without procuring a viable vein, I was a freakin' ROCK STAR. When my kindergartner screamed at me from the driveway IN HER UNDERWEAR after I threw out her toys that she refused to put away, I remained calm. I remained a lovely little rock star. I didn't even have to raise my voice. Mostly because I just said it all by tossing her toys BUT STILL, I did not yell.

Now, however, as my husband tells me that he will be staying even later at work than his usual late to help a co-worker put some wonky, unnecessary piece of additional bullshit on what I can only assume is, without anything additional, a giant piece of bullshit while I spoon diarrhea out of a baby's diaper lined with plastic wrap held on by duct tape, I am LOSING my shit (as well as her shit) and I am NOT a freakin' rock star.

Mrs. Resentment! Your table for one is ready!

And he wants ANOTHER baby...

Clearly we completely messed up the first one and now that our back up baby is out of commission, you want another one?


Ain't nobody got time for that! And when are we supposed to MAKE another baby when our twice weekly "relationship counseling" has been completely STOLEN from us?? Instead of letting the tiny humans rack up a decent sized daycare bill, we now have to meet one of them at home at an early hour so they can get off of the bus and suck the life force right out of us for an extra TWO HOURS during the day.

Did I say we? Oh, SORRY, I meant just me.

Good night 8pm! Good morning 4am! Howdy 6am work schmerk! Buh bye Horny Husband! Hate you guys! You're all dumb.

Now we have to wait until the winter months make his work superfluous again so we can carve out some 'we time' and get our groove back. But until then, yes, I really will be completely exhausted every single time you see me and, no, the 5am showering will not be offering any additional services. But this little story does make sense of our late October procreation station...

Until then, I bid you well.

Now go do something different somewhere else.

And take the tiny humans with you.

Written at 6:43 p.m.