The last two weeks have been eventful. I have had conversations about my feelings (I hate feelings. I hate your feelings and I hate my own). I have had to bring the wrath of God (plague of locust and all) upon my girl but I think the highlight (not really) of my last two weeks was yesterday when I almost pooped myself.
First things first: feelings. They are gross and uncomfortable and I hate them. I would rather talk about TV. Thankfully, and why I love him as much as I do, 3b hates your feelings and his feelings too. These conversions usually end up being short and sweet and efficient. We would both rather resolve and compromise than beat it to death. I am really sick of the whole notion of talking every little fucking thing to death. Everything is not like a 1970’s love song. There are too many feelings; not enough doing. These conversations have also made us realize that the meaner people from our pasts and present are, the more we love each other. So suck it posers. Not for nothing; when did anything I am doing become so fucking interesting? It barely interests me.
With that rant in the bag, I must speak about my girl. I love her with everything I have. I tell her all the time. My sister (MS2), Capri, Annie Oakley, and 3b all shake their heads at me when I make the following statement: “This kid has a smart mouth.” DO NOT say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m sick to death of hearing it. DO NOT tell me that my mother is laughing from my mantle over the fire place. I’m sick to death of hearing it. I know I am a wise ass. I just never thought it would come back to haunt me. She screwed up big time about two weeks ago as far as her freshness goes. She made an academy award winning scene outside her school. I remained calm. I got her into school, where as if touched by Baby Jesus himself, she became the sweet, overachieving darling they all know and probably pretend to love. Street angel; house devil my mother used to call it. It truly is a Panza quality although it was more common among the men in my family. How fortunate am I? Anyways, I go home and begin to rip her room apart. I take out everything that is of value to her. Her room goes from looking like princess heaven to a jail cell in a third world prison. I call her friends mother’s and cancel play dates. Thankfully, both mothers are relatable and realistic. They congratulated me and wished me luck. Why? I have taken away all electronics for a month. She also received several lectures about feelings from me, her Dad, MS2 (probably the worst one to get a lecture from), 3b, Sunshine, and Capri. We are two weeks in and she had already been trying to haggle with me. I am holding firm. If this is seven, I will need heavy sedation for 13.
Now to the highlight of my freaking two weeks: the almost pooping incident of Wednesday. So I’m middle aged, right? I take vitamins, happy pills and supplements. I go to work Wednesday morning as usual. I work until 11:15 and my boss says that we should go to lunch. Great idea, as all of you know, I love free food. We go. Nice lunch. I need to go the store (as I am addicted to the grocery store) get what I need and head home. I get half way home and my intestines say a quiet hello. I’m almost home, I think. Probably the three iced teas I had with lunch. Then the hello gets louder. Long story short, for about two miles I am driving sideways holding everything together trying not to soil myself. Dear God, as if my worst fears are about to be realized: I am going to die in some poop related accident. I pray no one rear ends my car (pun intended) or stops fast. I am sweating and shaking as I pull into my driveway and sprint inside. I just make it. I proceed to call my sister. After about a minute of snorting laughter and a thank you for making her day, she tells me to get used to it as this is what happens with age. That answer makes no freaking sense to me. People my age don’t just shit themselves all the time. Then I call Annie. She is logical and practical. We go down the list of things I ate and drank that day. We draw no conclusions. Then, Capri calls. Here is the conversation, more or less:
Capri: I can’t talk long. I am reading book and there is a part about Italians and how we love to plan our funerals.
She proceeds to read the passage to me.
Capri: I’ve got to run. What did you have to tell me?
Me: I literally almost shit myself on the ride home from work today. Talk to you later.
I hang up the phone. I would love to say this is not a typical conversation between the two of us. I would be a liar if I said that. Pooping invades a lot of our conversations.
Fingers crossed that in the next two weeks I can go back to talking about TV.
