Clean Living in the Great Midwest

                 

by JRM

October 28, 2005

I need to apologize. I haven’t written much lately, and what I have managed to write has been ass. Much like Mr. Kay (except for the part where he mans up and updates anyway), the pay-the-fucking-bills part of my life has taken over the I-wish-I-was-a-real-writer part of my life. Over the next month, I will buy a new house, move to another state, start a new job and probably not send in a lot of reports. To those of you that hate me…you’re welcome. To those of you who like me, hang in there…I will be a weekly again before Christmas. To those of you who don’t care either way, for fuck’s sake, when are you going to develop an opinion about something? Dammit!!

DEAD DADDY WALKING

Aaaah Crap!!  

It's that time of year again.  I was going along simultaneously cleaning up the place and freaking out because our house is up for sale and you never know when somebody's going to want to come look at it.  Of course, the toddler and the preschooler can not possibly comprehend this concept and they just go ahead and do their job...which basically consists of dragging out everything that's been picked up, blasting snot all over it and then smashing it into a billion tiny pieces.  They then complete the ritual by pouring milk on the remains and jumping up and down on the puddle until one of them slips and falls.  Finally, everyone cries at the top of their lungs. Okay, it's not really that bad, but I am pretty sure that the people that made it illegal to beat one's children were not, in fact, parents.

So I finally get them to set down in front of the T.V. for a movie. The older one reaches into his sharp little brain and decides that he and his sister are on a picnic.  It is suddenly very urgent that they have a blanket.  Their mother grabs the closest available blanket and spreads it out to accommodate this impromptu social event.  Of course, the childrens' first action upon receiving the blanket is to spill water all over the blanket and themselves. Their parents remove the now aqueous rug and replace it with a new one.  The children remove their now aqueous trousers and replace them with nothing.

Now comfortable in their underpants, the boy says to the girl, "Okay, hang on...I'm gonna go get some food".  He hops up, runs to the kitchen and expeditiously returns with a carton of eggs from the fridge.  Of course, I continue to freak out and try to explain why it might not be a good idea for a person to eat raw eggs while sitting on one's last dry blanket in one's underwear.  My objections were quickly shouted down on the grounds that the decision-makers did not possess the power of logic.  In fact, at this particular moment, these eggs were 'unbreakable'.  

The word 'unbreakable' gave me an idea.

"Son, do you really want me to make it so that this egg can't be broken?"

"For pretend?"

"No Son, for real."

"Okay."

"I'll need you to give them to me so that I can fix them."

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!"

Eventually I got him to give me the friggin' eggs.  Of course, I went ahead and hard boiled them and gave one to each kid after the eggs had cooled.  They were impressed and fascinated.  Then somebody showed them how to eat them.  Again, impressed and fascinated.  In fact, they demanded more.  While the new batch was on the stove, I attempted to get the girl to take a nap.  I convinced her to lay down on Mom and Dad's bed and watch the movie...she was acting so tired, I was sure she'd be out cold in no time. Instead, she got a puzzled look on her beautiful little face and calmly said, "That egg just hurt my tummy."

Without any further warning, my little princess opened her tiny mouth and began to emit a high-powered stream of churl.  Pillows, bedspread, sheets, that weird stretchy sheet that I can never figure out how to fold and even that pad all the way at the bottom got a coat of egg and whatever else she had eaten that day. You should have seen the thick and even coat that the girl applied. I may feed her a couple of gallons of Weatherbeater and take her outside. She even got the wife's stupid 'decorative' pillows (you know, the ones where you get screamed at if you should happen to put your head on one of them) - I actually thought that part was kind of funny.  Stupid uppity pillows, too good to be used in the manner for which you were designed...

Anyway, we spent the rest of the day crying and barfing...and it sucked.  However, I know two things to be true.  1) Tomorrow the girl will be running through the house as though nothing had ever happened.  2)  By Sunday, I will be so fucking sick that I will begin to wonder whether or not it's worth it to fight through or perhaps I should just go ahead and die.

At least I'm not the type to bitch about it.  Little does she know that I'm going to get the last laugh.  I'm going to wake up tomorrow, call a family meeting and let everyone know the new rule:

For every time you give Daddy the flu, you don't get to go to college. That oughtta learn 'em.

Love,

JRM

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