Tuesday, May 3, 2011

this little piggy

is broken.
and it's driving me crazy. 
And I, 
in turn, 
am driving my husband crazy.

He is trying to study.
it's finals week.
And I...
well, I've become the kind of study buddy you only invite along on those nights when you know very well that you have no intention of studying anyway.
i am quite entertaining.
a hoot, if you will.
unless you are trying to study.
like Parker.
i become a bit of a distraction.

I can't keep quiet,
I ask a million-and-one questions about everything but physiology when commissioned to be the flashcard mediator,
and I demand attention.

As I did with my lovely rendition of the Indiana Jones theme song and Sesame Street's "rubber duckie."  
I may have forced a kiss or two or twenty-something on Parker as well.
I don't really know.
I stopped counting after fifteen.

i pity 'da fool who doesn't got a tub.

I make requests,
"Baby can you PLEASE get me a glass of water.  I think I'm dying..."
then demands.
"Kiss me."
"Squash me."
"Cuddle me."

I pick fights,
"I'd like to wear your slippers."
"Give them to me."
"Give them to me now."
"Parker...I want.  the slippers."
(scuffle ensues)
and pity my plight.
(Parker closes the blinds).
"Leave them open!!!"
"I'm glOOOOOmy."
"You're glOOOOmy?"
"Yes I'm glOOOOmy.
And when you close the blinds the room gets gloomiER."
"Why are you gloomy?"
'I don't know.
I took my pills..."
(Parker calls my D vitamins my happy pills.)
"Oh...you should take another one."

Finally I decide that I do actually want him to be a dentist someday so I can be a super-cute, super-fit, super-spiritual, super-smart, super-perfect stay-at-home mommy,
 and so I look for a way to spare him from my 
note: how do you differentiate between your ego and your alter-ego?
because if your alter-ego is an aspect of your personality that emerges once in a blue moon,
then this is likely just my ego.

Either way, I decide to escape my self-imposed house arrest sentence with a seemingly magnanimous mission.
"Baby, let me go buy you a treat!  What would you like?"
"Thanks sweetie, but I'm really not hungry."
"How are you not hungry?  You are a boy."
"I am.  But tonight my 'big boy' dinner stuffed me so full that nothing sounds good. If anything I'll just have a creamie."
"A creamie?  I selflessly offer to spend my night tracking down your all-time favorite treat and you ask for a creamie?"
"But I like creamies..." 
"I know.  It's just that we already have creamies just chilling in our freezer."
"No!  No puns!"
"Thank you for helping me find an activity that'll expend 2.5 nano-seconds of the hours of free time I'm looking to kill."
"You could feed it to me too..."
(I've tried for 5-minutes and realized it's impossible.
There are no words powerful to describe the look I gave him).    

Once my weakly-masked selfish motives surface, I force Parker to play the guess-what-the-kid-in-the-pantry-who-thinks-she's-hungry-but-really-isn't-wants-to-eat.
"Chels...you're not even hungry.  You're just bored."
"I know!  But bored hungry is the worst kind of hungry."
"Do you want some ma-may?"
(Parker's pet name for edamame).
"How 'bout a Rice Krispie treat?  You love marshmallows..."
"We could get you a bapple!"
I whimper pitifully.
"Not even a bapple?"
"Not even a bapple."
"Wow. Is it really 2012 already?"

At this point I remember the whole I-want-my-husband-to-be-a-sexy-successful-ultra-bright-smiled-dentist-who-can-write-me-prescriptions-and-get-me-free-bleach and decide I'll leave Parker in peace.

He doesn't seem to approve of my going to the store in my current state unsupervised; armed and dangerous with a credit card, a rumbling tummy, and a history of unnecessary impulse purchases that precipitate a crippling case of buyer's remorse
(or in the case of food, an awful tummy ache).
So he makes me a shopping list.
"Buy milk."
That's all it said.

30 minutes later I made my way home, milk in tow.
With the raspberries I'd found for a steal,
("Chels...$2.99 for a teeny tiny tub of raspberries is not a steal."
"The sign said sale..."
blank stare
"Did I mention it was yellow?")
two packages of Milano cookies,
and pretzel crisps.

I spend the rest of my night munching my way into a carb-coma and stay up way too late reading this here blog wondering if I can maybe find a way to be a full-time stick-figure artist too.
We'll see what I can work out.

I'm really hoping I'll be better soon.
'Til then, these are the kind of posts you'll have to look forward to.
sorry Charlie.

I just realized.
You'd probably like to know how I broke my baby toe.
Here's the reader's digest version.
it's Thursday.
husband is sick of studying.
husband will do anything not to study.
husband sees wife.
husband slowly sets his books aside.
wife notices this subtle movement and anticipates his next move.
she bats her eyelashes and coyly averts her gaze.
she'll let him think he's surprised her.
and he...he surprises her alright.

she stares wide-eyed at her attacker.
"what are you doing?"
"I just tackled you."
"I'm aware of that.
What now?"
"I'm thinking imma gonna squash you."
"I'm thinking imma 'bout to kill you."

mayhem ensues.
wriggle. writhe. swat. slap. sneak away. sneak attack. body slam. bite the hand.

it culminates with a stand-off in the front room.
i prepare to strike.
i go again.
and again.
and again.
and again.

he begins to laugh.
like a little baby snake.

so I swing again.
and slap him square on the cheek.
it was quite a bit harder than I'd expected.

Now it's husband who's wide-eyed
and wife who's smug
...and then very scared.

she bolts.
and in her panic,
catching her beloved baby toe on a corner.

she stops in her tracks.
does she dare look?
she does.
and about passes out.

the baby toe
once straight as a dry spaghetti noodle 
now lies lifelessly on its side.  

husband comes barreling around the corner, nearly trampling wife.
she points to his victim.
"He's dead.
Oh Park I can't believe you killed him!
I'll never wear flip-flops again!"

husband laughs.
and laughs.
and laughs.
and laughs.

wife cries/laughs and makes him google how to fix it,
insisting a visit to the ER might be her only chance at a normal life.
husband refuses when wife tries to paint a chipped toenail for a picture.
he says she can't be that hurt if she cares more about a picture than an ice pack.

wife tells husband to be quiet and tape the trembling toe.
wife lies helplessly on the ground, icing the injury with a pack of frozen baby lima beans.
wife reminds husband often of how bad he should feel.
husband doesn't feel bad.
wife now walks like she has a peg-leg.

the end.