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Yep, that about sums it up.
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Yep, that about sums it up.
Yep, I stole that “Wisteria Lane” thing. You’ll be fine, Freakles.
How do I begin this saga… with the “playbill” invitation I was given weeks ago announcing this Stepford Block Party, the one I conveniently put under a ton of other papers I’m ignoring? Maybe with the second reminder, much like my HOA dues, that was handed to me by a cute, yet devious child that was not related to me except through dog walking? Regardless of the invitation that even contained a handy e-mail address to assist phone-phobic people like myself, I knew that the time had come to actually meet the neighbors I’ve been living near for almost four years.
Would they say something about Emo Boy’s lack of dog poo pickups?
Would they inquire about the shady switching of adult males in my house?
Would they ask if I was ever going to trim my bushes?
Ahem, not those bushes, the bushes in front of my house that I have claimed as one of two things nobody can touch because of the “nature” they provide me in the middle of Stepford. If they know about my personal bushes… well, obviously Stepford is more fun than I thought.
Do they somehow know of my blog and my distaste for everything they appear to stand for?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I e-mailed the RSVP. We baked cupcakes (even numbered houses bring dessert!), slapped cherries on top and headed to the pool before the party. Then, I get this call…
“Melia, I was talking to the neighbors and they wanted a movie to show, someone to cook 600,000 pounds of meat and those two gold-dusted roasts in the freezer you’ve been stockpiling in case a client decides to bail and we have no food.”
Oh, ok. One day after his release from the hospital’s fear of certain death and plague, Freedom walks the dogs and suddenly, we are Stepford. FUCK. Oh, and yes, I’ll pick up veggies for kabobs since I’m the only vegetarian STILL and nobody likes our kind, especially in Stepford.
I get home, I shower and dress to show that I’m not only NOT as horrible as I appear while walking the dogs in the morning, but also not too showy as to get the ladies to suspect that the single chick is going to hone in on their men. I don’t know what to expect, this isn’t the PTA where back-biting and snide smiles are limited to an hour-long meeting… this was an entire night that involved alcohol and schmoozing. I am, as usual, totally clueless about how to approach people who may or may not appreciate tarot-astrology-reiki-feminist-geek-breeder talk.
Sigh. I need to move to Salem.
The kids were entertained by a blow-up waterslide. Freedom was entertained by a grill the size of a VW and the 600,000 pounds of meat and I was entertained by… well, at least I found out that my dog-walking friend was married, with two kids, because I missed that somehow.
Most of the party was spent attending to the children while my nanny cooked. The rest was making polite conversation with the cafeteria lady from the school and the Asian and Indian (in other words, non-Stepford) women who made awesome food and seemed as lost as I was. The “Stepford Moms” ignored me or asked me how I found my grill-master nanny while they chatted amongst themselves about their latest purchases/affairs/workouts. It was all I expected, and not much more, but the women I did get to talk to were cool, so it all worked out. I’ll never be the Talbots or Nordstrom hag, but at least I can blog about them, incognito, and laugh.
It is tempting, however, to foster the image of the neighborhood husband snatcher. Just because of that whole “Wisteria Lane” thing.
Well, its been a week. Um, a bad, hectic, draining and shitty week that has provided me with plenty of, well, stress. But, its over. My taxi-driving to and from 2 different camps has ended, and no children were harmed by their day camp experiences. I got paid, I got vodka. Freedom got out of the hospital on Tuesday and spent three days on “basement arrest,” during which he was not allowed to have contact with anyone in the house because they weren’t sure if he had TB or not. He was cleared on Friday, but three more days of waiting on test results was not pretty. Long story short, he’s not contagious, he has a definite health issue, but he isn’t dying, yet.
Dammit, why can’t I get this “Black Widow” thing right?
The joke now is that I need to stop running people into the ground like I do computers, and mobile phones, for that matter. Looking back through the women in my family, we share one thing in common – we tend to gravitate toward those with life-threatening illnesses. Not knowing which came first, the illnesses or the demands, I kind of think that the many friends and lovers who have “gotten away” should be sending me gifts for sparing their lives. Just sayin’.
Next on the agenda? You. All of you reading this. It will start with eye twitches and carpal tunnel and slowly spread to your throat, religious beliefs and ability to stomach bullshit from those around you. You’ll thank me later.
There is a Stepford Block Party tonight (yes, I’m going – bwahahahahaha!) and I’m teaching a Reiki class tomorrow. Then working my ass off for the rest of the week so I can take a mini vacation with the kiddos in 2 weeks, theoretically. Emo Boy gets back next weekend, and then there are only five weeks until school starts again.
When I tell you I don’t need your help, just know that I’m probably sparing your life. You don’t want none of this.
Have you ever had a huge, deeply hidden secret that would rock the world of your family, friends and those sworn to destroy your very soul?
Have you ever wanted to just say, “FUCK IT,” and tell the truth about how you really feel? Get rid of the pretense, and just let the cards fall where they may, no matter what the consequence. Live life authentically, without fear of reprisal or public opinion…
There isn’t much to say, except that I feel like I’m about to enter into a closet that appeared quite a long time ago. A closet that maybe I don’t fit into, one that I’ve told others to avoid, to be strong, to just stick to their veritable guns and move along.
I cannot stop thinking about it. I want it so, so much. Its more than cookies, its more than sex (WTF is that?) and its more than the obscure fame of Tom Robbins.
Its meat. Greasy, sweaty, grimy meat.
Its helpful when a tarot reader is psychic. Just sayin’.
Saturday, I got a slew of legal information that kind of blew my head off, in a good way. Then, I spent 4 hours with my sister, drinking coffee. That evening, Freedom and I went to dinner and then to the ER.
And, so, it began.
My BFF is hospitalized, no idea if/when he will be released.
I spent more time with Martian than I am comfortable with as a result of the aforementioned hospitalization.
A client of mine who has a special place in my
budget heart has not answered any of my e-mails in almost 3 weeks.
I’m out of vodka.
Today was spent, literally, on gas to drive the 3 at-home kids to and from camp. My friend who gave me the Starbucks card, got a lot of extra love today.
Its storming, and the camping canopy that was on our deck blew off into the neighbor’s hard, tangling a leg in their cable box.
But, really, I’m fucking fine.
Oh, and I keep smelling smoke. Not the good kind, either.