wounded butterfly

if ever i was going to become a serious alcoholic/drug addict, this week would have been the time i started my new career.

early in the week i had this to clean up. ethan, aka the golden boy, found an ink pad and decided it was a good idea to rub it all over himself. he was left unattended for about 4 minutes and came into the kitchen saying, “i sorry mama.” i looked at him and screamed. he was covered, head to toe (including his TONGUE AND TEETH) in gold ink. i screamed again and he continued, “i sorry mama. i no do it again.”

you bet your ASS you won’t do it again. then i heard a scream in the other room. riley yelled, “mom, do NOT come in the front room. i’ll take care of it. just promise you won’t come in here.” holy shit, what was happening?

turns out the golden boy left his ink covered hand prints all over the leather chair in the tv room. riley happened upon it and, because she’s smart, decided she better clean it before i see it.
in the meantime i picked up gb by his feet (only body part NOT covered in ink) and carried him upside down to the bathroom where i attempted to scrub him clean. luckily for him, the ink washed off his body and the leather chair.

on thursday, not only did we have two soccer games in dallas (i didn’t get home until 11pm!) but we also adopted a new family member. meet cooper. i’m not sure how old or what kind of dog he is (he appears to be shy and hasn’t talked much yet. hopefully soon he’ll feel comfortable enough to share his life story) but he’s so freakin cute. i especially love his little under bite. so now we have buddy the storm trooper, leona the chupacabra, and cooper.

thursday night, i couldn’t sleep. every time i would move or turn my head, i felt a sharp pain that would radiate throughout my entire body. i got up around 4:30 because i couldn’t take the pain any longer. my neck and left shoulder hurt so badly that i considered self amputation but then realized if i cut off the left side of my body my clothes would fit weird, so i decided against it. as the morning progressed, so did the pain. i went to the doctor where she prescribed a muscle relaxer and pain medicine. then i went to see my massage therapist who worked on the area for an hour. by the time he was finished the medicine had kicked in and thinking back now, it probably wasn’t a good idea that i drove home. i was high as a kite and i had no movement in my neck which made changing lanes a challenge. so basically i was comparable to one of the really old ladies who still has her driver’s license but shouldn’t. i made it home, laid down on the bed and passed out.

three hours later i woke up in pain again. couldn’t take medicine this time though–had to go to dinner with a friend of tommy’s and his wife. i was so groggy and had that medicine head thing going on. i didn’t want to ask tommy to reschedule because i already had once. i would just have to power through. we got to the restaurant 30 minutes early and tommy (not fully knowing how still totally fucked up i was from the controlled substances i took earlier) ordered me a glass of wine. i drank it and within a few minutes was nodding off–at the restaurant bar. he noticed i was asleep sitting up and he nudged me. “hey, are you all right?” i tried to open my eyes but it was rather difficult. it was as if someone had glued them shut! i mumbled something not of my native tongue and then realized my actual tongue felt really weird in my mouth. like it was swollen–or had doubled in size. for a minute i thought, i have someone else’s tongue in my mouth. i panicked. i wanted to scream, “help tommy, someone took my tongue and replaced it with a gigantic one. call the police!” but i couldn’t get those words to come out of my mouth. all i could muster was, “water please.” tommy waved down the bartender and then turned to me and said, “i think we should go home. i’ll call (insert any name here) and tell him you’re not feeling well.” hallelujah! yes, that’s a very good idea. just as he was getting out his phone to call his friend, he and his wife walked through the door. well, he would just have to tell him in person. i knew i should get up and introduce myself, but i couldn’t figure out exactly how to do that. i motioned for tommy to help me off the barstool. he did and we stood there making small talk–well, they were talking–i was fascinated by a fly that kept buzzing around me–it seemed to be taunting me–i can’t be sure, but i think it even told me i sucked.

anyway, i kept waiting for tommy to say something about how i was not feeling well and that we were sorry but would have to do this another night…but he never did! in fact, just the opposite happened. he said, “well, are we ready for our table?” or something like that. i wanted to curl up in the corner in the fetal position. i gave him a look and he shrugged his shoulders and i was like, “yeah, fuck you too.”

i staggered to the table and sat down. while the others ordered wine i ordered coffee. if i was going to do this, i needed to be sober. my neck was killing me, i was completely out of it, and dinner lingered on until 10 o’clock. normally this would be fine, but the whole time i sat there i kept thinking i was not in my body, but hovering above, looking down at myself. one thought came to mind while i was floating above my head–i really need to get my roots dyed.

i survived dinner but there’s no telling what those people think of me. i’m sure i made the worst impression possible. they probably feel sorry for tommy. whatever. i made it through without passing out in my salad–so the night was a huge success.

saturday…soccer gamessss. 3 of them in fact. i’m afraid harley has gone to the dark side. she did score her very first goal and was super excited. so it looks like she’s drinking the cool aid and is going to be playing for awhile. the taste of victory was too much for her and she wants more. traitor!

so, how was YOUR week?

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Open Letter to the Husband (and I say The husband instead of My husband because really, this could be for any one of them)

Dear Kind Sir, (I find it’s best to be respectful before publicly bashing a loved one)

I don’t remember you telling me you were raised by a pack of wild dogs. No, I’ve been to the house in which you grew up and in fact, I know your parents quite well. They appear to be civilized people and cannot (in my humble opinion) be the reason you drive me crazy to the point of distraction—or, in other words, make me want to kill you and then myself—or maybe just you. I mean really, if you’re dead, there’s no reason for ME to die too, right?

I also don’t remember you doing some of the things you do now that send me running to the closet where I bury my head in a stack of sweaters in order to muffle my blood curdling screams. It also explains why I keep a bottle of wine and a box of Twinkies hidden in the closet—for just such an occasion. There’s no reason for my suffering on an empty stomach or completely sober—now that would be desperate and a sign of weakness on my part, not to mention lazy and unproductive. Could it be that you feel you no longer need to impress me? Because if that’s the case, we can revert back to the days before I was a “sure thing.” And we can start today.

It’s not like I keep track or have an alphabetized list of the things you do that annoy me—ok, scratch that. I totally have the complete collection of your annoying habits running through my mind, like a DVD set on ‘repeat.’

My intentions are not to point out these “quirks” or “nuances” that make me question my faith in humanity, but rather…ok, that’s not true either. My intention for writing this letter is do exactly that—point out all your obvious flaws.

On a somewhat regular basis, you bring home speeding tickets, parking tickets, and news of what you call a “misplaced” credit card—which is really just a prettier word for “lost.” I don’t mind paying the tickets and cancelling the credit cards. I don’t mind when you come to me complaining that you can’t find your belt, or your wallet, or your Ipod. No, I take pride in the fact that I can offer my investigative services. But, just so you know, all of these things can be easily found if one looks for longer than 10 seconds—or on top of the dresser.

You stand at the window and watch as I lug the trash cans to the street for the next morning’s pick up. You would think that a college educated man with several degrees would be able to remember after eight years of this same routine that the trash men come every week on the same day. Ever thought of lending a hand? No? Well, just so YOU know, during the walk from the garage to the street I fantasize about my new husband, George Clooney, and how he wouldn’t dream of letting me do such a menial task that was created solely to give the husband something to do. In fact, George Clooney would insist that I relax in the bubble bath he just prepared for me. I’m not saying I would leave you for George Clooney, it’s just that…shit. I can’t lie to you. I would totally leave you for George Clooney.

On days I come home from the grocery store you tend to stand in the middle of the kitchen, typing away on your blasted PDA, never stopping to ask, “can I help you with the fourteen bags of groceries you just purchased to sustain my very life?” No. That never seems to cross your mind. In fact, you almost act annoyed when I ask, “do you have to do that right here?” You usually leave the room, defeated and pouting, but never taking your eyes off your 2” screen. This is probably why you’ve never seen me flip you the bird.

Gravity seems to have taken its toll on you too. It’s almost like you’re being held down. I especially notice this when you walk. I don’t think you’ve lifted your feet higher than 1” off the ground in years and it would explain why you SHUFFLE YOUR FEET! I always know when you’re coming because I hear SSHH, SSHH, SSHH on the hardwood floors. It’s the worst in the morning when I haven’t had my first cup of joe. When I hear you shuffling along my eye begins to twitch and my hands start shaking so badly that I’m afraid I might drop the carafe, sending it and its contents, aka hot coffee, crashing to the tile floor. I often excuse myself, walk into our closet and scream under my breath. And once I may have even opened the wine I have hidden in there and taken a swig—right out of the bottle. I’m saying I may have. I can’t remember because I was drunk…at 7 o’clock in the morning…on a Tuesday.

Probably your most annoying habit is the farting. I know, everyone farts. It’s a natural occurrence in humans. I get that. But what I don’t understand is why you wait until I get in the bed with you to cut loose—like a Goddamn symphony. I’ll tell you this—your farts are the worst smelling farts in the history of farting. And I’m sick of being exposed to them! It’s not how I want to end my day! Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t have it listed anywhere on my TO DO list! After soccer practice and before read with Harley is not listed enjoy the sounds and smells of hubby’s farts. The worst part is it doesn’t seem to bother you—farting in front of me. You seem to take great joy in expelling noxious fumes in the presence of your beloved. I, on the other hand, work really hard not to pass gas in front of you. I actually care about your comfort. If I feel the urge to…you know…toot…I get up and leave the room. You could take a lesson or two from me.

I could go on, but frankly, I’m exhausted. And writing it all down has only stirred up more hostility toward you—and the truth is, I really like you—when you’re not annoying. When is that exactly?

You know what I think? I think you should buy me something. Like flowers. Ooh, or even better, a Cartier watch. Yes, I think you would be less annoying if you were to do that. In fact, I’m quite sure that’s true. We could leave right now and drive to the jewelry store. Oh wait. Shit. That won’t work. You lost your credit card the other day and the new one hasn’t arrived yet. And to think, we almost solved the problem.
Wait. What’s that smell? DID YOU JUST FART?!

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drunk in the a.m.