|Still not quite recovered....
||[Aug. 28th, 2007|10:18 am]
|||||Uncle Earl, Billy Taylor||]|
By 8:30 last night I was slurring my words (sober, mind you.) I was so tired and everything was just an obstacle to getting to bed. (Apologies to Toxins for a less than competent phone call.)
My house is clearly feeling neglected and acting out. The washing machine, cleverly sensing the relative height of my laundry to my bank account, has decided to go on the fritz and the upstairs shower leak must be dealt with. The cats have developed some new game that involves wreaking havoc with everything, so I keep coming home to things strewn about the house. The lawn and yard have woken up from their slumbers, thanks to the rain, and are trying to make up for lost time. I think I'll just build the Halloween theme around tropical rain forest. (No, no, I NEED those vines growing up everywhere!)
As I said to the woman yesterday in the store, as she bought a Webkinz plush toy "Ah, someone's getting a you-got-through-the-first-day-of-school present?"
"No," she answered, "she's having an operation tomorrow."
Sigh. At least she didn't say "No, it's for my little baby's GRAVE."
And, because I'm old now, and reminiscing and unconsiously farting aloud is what we do best, I started thinking about all of my other memorable Footinmouths.
Saying to a friend I hadn't seen in months "So, when's the baby due?" only to have her burst out in tears because she'd had the baby two months ago and was having a hard time losing the weight.
"So, how's Frank doing?" I ask, feeling bad that I haven't visted them in months. "Actually he died last night." Well, I guess I can take Frank off the list."
To an acquaintance I hadn't talked to in a while, but when saw her again and realized that I had sort of crossed her off my list of friends because she was such a hyperchondriac and always complaining, and she immediately started pissing and moaning about some operation she'd had and how the sutures were bothering her and she was having trouble....to shut it off I jauntily declared "Well, at least you're not dead." To which she snapped "Well, actually, I'm terminal and probably will be within the next year or two."
To my old boss, who was in the middle of some heart-wrenching sharing about how she wasn't a very good mother to her son, never there when he needed her, and while I should have been touched that she was sharing, well, you know me, the Empress of Anti-empathy, I was in there to get my budget signed off on and goal-focused bitch that I am, just wanted her to sign it so I could get on with my day, not really paying attention and tried to stop the tide (which seemed to be at the "I'm worried that he'll never DO anything with his life" point with "Oh, Sally, you did the best you could at the time. He'll be fine. It's not like he's in jail or anything."
I know. You can already see where this went. But for those of you who move your lips when you read...
"Actually," she said, "he was just arraigned yesterday." Oh, well, excuse me, I've got to go back to my office and get the dental floss. I seem to have something back there stuck amongst my molars. A pump and...I think my career. The sad thing is -- I could NOT stop myself from following up with "Okay. Well he didn't MURDER anyone, right?" Because sometimes I just don't know when to stop, do I? Thankfully for me, he did NOT murder anyone, although the odds were against the save. Whew.
But I can learn! When I showed up to get my hair done and my drop-dead gorgeous hair-stylist, who normally had thick, glossy black hair, had shaved every bit of it off, I actually kept myself from saying "Oh, you know, I think I liked you better with a full head of hair." I started to say it several times, but just stopped. Which was good, because halfway through our session, I learned that it was shaved because he'd had an operation to remove a BRAIN TUMOR and it was just starting to grow back.
Someday, maybe the times I keep my big mouth shut will outnumber the times I shove my foot in there.