Friday, July 25, 2008

Post revisited


I've recently (as of last night) decided that I need to hire a nanny for myself. For a long time I thought I needed a wife, which doesn't sound half bad, I like girls, I could use a house manager, and we could use the help, but now I think I need a soft spoken European au pair with flaxen hair and a sexy accent. I clearly need someone to take care of me and tell me when to go to bed and fix me healthy meals and take a lint roller to my clothes because I'm eternally covered in cat hair and I JUST DON'T CARE anymore! It's pathetic.

I'd still need to manage my own toys and be free to have a few tantrums and a nanny would be able to handle that. That's their forte. Although I probably wouldn't take so kindly to being put in the naughty chair, and if you go by the educational standards of a minute for ever year I'd be sitting there for an episode and a half of The Two Corey's and that would be a fucking crime. But I like the idea of Supernanny being my pseudo "muva" for a while. Damn, I lub her.

There's just not enough time in the day, week, month to do everything I want to do, need to do, have to do. I know it's a complaint we all have and sure, I could step away from the computer and plan a meal or clean something but I don't want to! I'm tired and fresh air is way overrated anyway. Blarg. I need a nap.

So, in light of me being a whiny turd today and beating myself up for doing most of this shit to myself I'm reserving the right to regurgitate a previous post. It's a couple of years old so it should be brand spanking new to the 3 people still checking on this blog. (Hi guys!) It's practically like going green, right? Consider it an upcycle.

The Very Very Very Bad Decision

It had been a long, hot day in the late 1970's. I'd spent the majority across the street at the much coveted 'house of fun' where my friend K lived. You know the one I'm talking about. The cupboards are stuffed with all the junk food a kid could want, (not a box of stale coffee nips hidden in the tupperware cupboard like my house), the front yard is as big as a football field and they have a game closet. OMG, a whole closet dedicated to games! It was better than Charlie and his freaky chocolate factory. (I mean really, do you think I want to put any candy in my mouth that Augustus Gloop has marinated in? I think not.)

As was the rule, I needed to head home at dusk to join my family for our nightly fight around the dinner table promptly at 6:00. I only lived a stones-throw away from K's house, hers being catty-cornered to the South-East from mine. Despite this close proximity, I still chose to ride my big yellow with the girly flowered banana seat bike and white basket (gag) over there. Mostly because my side of the street was the hilly one and I could get enough speed going down my driveway to coast all the way to K's house. Betty, thy name is Lazy.

Because of this fact, the reverse trek home was not a fun one for me since I'd have to actually pump the pedals a whole 300 yards. Oh. The. Horror. In my pre-teen lack of wisdom, and in an effort to avoid expelling one atom of energy, I thought I'd take a short-cut up my next-door neighbors driveway and just pop through the bushes to my driveway. Thus avoiding the very long and steep S-curve of my own and saving oh, 20 extra feet of effort. Hmm...I wonder why I've always had a weight problem. I just can't figure it out.

I climbed onto my bike and raced slowly and begrudgingly grunted and groaned willing my legs to work towards home. Half-way up my neighbors drive, with a violent yank that nearly catapulted me onto the handlebars, my gigantic bell-bottom jeans got caught in the chain. Aw fuck. Who the hell thought it would be cool to make the hem of jeans 25 friggen inches wide? And why did it take bicycle manufacturers a million fucking years to figure out the chain should be covered so idiots like me don't get their fashion statements stuck in them?

It ended up being good thing, I suppose, that I was aiming for the neighbors driveway and not mine or they would have found me laying by the mailbox the next morning in a heap of demin and dirt.

After assessing the situation and laying a respectable trail of swear words I managed to lug myself and my very heavy bike to the spot where I'd planned on "popping" through the bushes. As soon as I tried to drag my shit-show up and over the small asphalt curb and bushy incline to my own driveway I felt a blinding pain coming from my little pot belly. Christ almighty! What is killing me? I've been speared by a tassel!!

I looked down and saw that the unprotected, unlined, stupid zipper of my stupid 70's jeans had just caught a chunk of my stupid tummy skin and was now ripping my flesh apart like a rabid wolverine.

So now, not only am I practically fused with my huge bike, its giant banana seat wedged into my crotch, one leg held tightly in place in the grips of the fucking chain, but it feels like the teeth of Satan are tearing into my stomach and I neglected to remember that the "bushes" separating our house from our neighbors are not only contained in a steep slope, but they are inhabited by stiff foliage with unbending branches that I can't get me an my bike past!

And of course the evil bushes jumped out and took me down. Right down to China town. I'm on the ground, under a child-eating bush stuck to my bike and my pants are eating me. Stranded. Marooned. Wrecked. Ivy eating my face. I was doomed.

Like hell was I calling for help in that position and no one would have heard me anyway or my asshole brother would have stood over me like a dick and laughed while doing the spit-string above my filthy and bloodied face.

After what seemed like a hundred and fifty nine years I somehow managed to drag myself under the killer bush, out of the strangle ivy and catapult myself and the bike onto my driveway amidst the searing pain where I collapsed in a heap of scratches and chain grease.

I gritted my teeth, called upon all the dammit I had in me and finally freed myself of the skin chewing zipper and the bike chain of death and slinked my way into the house where I'm sure I enjoyed a lovely dinner of liver and onions and nursed my wounds with pink mercurochrome and a soggy bandaid .

The 70's were awesome.

5 comments:

DreamON said...

I figured out a loooonnnng time ago I needed a wife. Hubby just laughed. He's a good helper, tho I must say, but a wife. . . Besides, I am seriously allergic to housework!

kim* said...

well i was a nanny before and i hate that working for lazy people lol...but of course they would never admit it. just do it yourself it saves you money :)

Lula said...

PInk mercurochrome is from the same devil as your zipper. Just sayin'.

Avalon said...

Betty~~~ I've said it before, I'll say it again. We 2 bitches were separated at birth!

Only my bike accident involved a Huffy Motocross and bad, bad bruising from the cross-bar to my netherparts.

Scott Bulger Photography said...

That's a great story and you tell it well. You seriously ought to try to send it somewhere for publication.