I Think I Just Rage-Quit the Car?

The problem always starts when I put on boots. I fucking HATE wearing boots. Maybe it's my super high arches that started this abhorrence? Maybe it's that my socks are always too small or too short? Who knows.

However, the most vivid memory of my childhood is the scrunched sock, half-on, half-off my foot while trying to frolic outside but I am too distracted by my stupid sock to have any fun.

This isn't fucking Mordor where you can just stop,
mid-quest, and have an existential crisis. 

Because, let's face it, one does not simply pull your boot off and adjust your sock when it's -40. You just have to deal; this isn't fucking Mordor where you can just stop mid-quest and have an existential crisis. This is Canadian winter, Frodo.

Canadian. Winter.

And as I've aged, my sock-boot issue has grown, blossomed as it were, just like my feet.  In fact, my dogs are sassy, large, and unwilling to be held down by other peoples' notions of "acceptable" and "appropriate for the weather."  They're like cheap drag queens, and my bitches wanna werk!  When you think of my feet, I want you to envision Chewbacca in a pink prom dress. Now you get it.

However, it's slushy and snowy and generally approaching 0 Kelvin (not 0 Celcius, which isn't even cold), so boots were necessary last week.

Oh, I'd tried to go out in shoes, as I'm sure you guessed. Only, I stepped in a massive puddle IN THE GARAGE and got a delightful slush-soaker.

Cursing under my breath, I amble back inside in search of socks; I relent that socks are probably necessary, at least, while at breakfast. Stupid-slush-soaker-ruining-my-shoe-plans-mid-winter.

I try to put a dry tube sock on my sweaty, freezing, water-logged foot. It gets stuck just passed my toes. Husband pokes his head in from the garage and shouts (nicely), "The kids are in the car. You comin'?"

I bark something back and tug at my stuck sock. I twist it and get it to my heel but now it is bunched everywhere and there isn't enough sock left to pull up. And it is twisted. And stuck.

I'm breathing heavily just recounting this to you, and it's a week later. I think there's some PTSD going on cuz I kept having panicky flashbacks last week, too. This must be what The Hulk/Bruce Banning goes through afterwards. Lordy.

Husband arrives again and says (nicely), "Honey? We have to leave or we'll be late. You ok?"

I rip and tug frantically at the other sock on. I muffle a squeak and bang my feet against the carpet to try and get the socks on properly while I walk to my shoes. My soaked shoes.

Gah. It is gonna have to be boots. I inhale deeply and put my foot in.

Something happens where my sock gets caught on the top of the tongue but I thought I could just push and get the damn boot on. So, when I put my heel in, it pulls the lining down just enough to bunch up under my heel.

I'm sweating now. I hope you appreciate what I'm going through just to tell you a story.  Good lord, I need therapy.

So, I pull my heel up and then smash it down again, only now my foot's in, the heel is ok, and the top of my sock is pulling on my toes like quicksand; the more I wiggle my toes to free them, the more confined they become.

The garage door opens and the truck begins to back out. Gaaaaah!

I shove my second foot in the boot. Instantly, I remember that I never wear socks with boots for this exact reason. I limp out the door like a rageful zombie.

The next part of the story happened both quickly and in slow-motion.

I head out of the garage and towards the waiting truck.  I'm already agitated at my footwear, feeling confined and suddenly I know exactly what it's like to be Tara from Sons of Anarchy.  Tara is like my toes, stuck and twisted into a horrible shape in a sock and even worse, in a boot she didn't want to be a part of, and she knows she has to be free, but there's no help coming from anywhere so she's gonna have to figure it out herself. Only my toes aren't quite as smart as Tara.  Oh, they're as aggressive, just not as smart, so they're trying to wiggle to freedom in vain.

But I have to face facts.  My toes are bound. Also, I have to wear my winter coat. FRICK!  See, I intended to wear my hoodie and vest with sneakers in this balmy -13 C day, but the soaker ruined that plan and in my haste to put on fricking socks, I am now wearing the Trifecta of Doom: boots, hoodie and winter coat.

For the win?
FTW, anyway. You decide which one.

I climbed in the passenger seat and the kids ask, "Momma! Are we gonna be late?"

I say, sweetly, sweating just a little, "No, darlings."

My toes screamed and faked a miscarriage
to try and get out of my boot and sock.  

We head down the driveway and turn onto the main road. My toes are faking a miscarriage in hopes of getting the hell outta my Charming boots and socks, and I'm trying not to focus on it but it's preoccupying my brain.  And that's when it happened: Husband's passenger seat belt locked because the mechanism is quirky, just as my foot got a weird cramp because my toes were crunched in my fricking boots and I couldn't bend down to fix the damn boots because I was cinched in by the fricking seat belt, huge ass coat and damned hoodie! GAAAAAAH!

So, I may have, kinda, somewhat... fuck it.
I. Lost. My. Shit.

Clawing at the belt that had me inextricably pinned, and gasping for air, I smashed my hand at the window controls figuring if I could just get some cold air on my face I might make it to our breakfast date with friends. Might.

I undid the seat belt and tried to take off my coat but the belt is still wrapped up in the coat sleeve and hood. Also, I'm maybe sitting on bits of it so no matter how I shift, I just get more tangled? And it doesn't matter how much yoga I do, because when I try to pull off my coat in a car, my arm gets stuck in a horrible angle above my head and the shoulder blade goes into a panic pain thing of its own and now I'm writhing and sweating and freaking the FUCK out.  And it's not getting any cooler in here. I must've missed the window button when I hit it initially.

Trying to remain calm, I mash my paw into the window button again. Nothing happens. I press it again. NOTHING!

Me: HUSBAND! WINDOW!
Husband: Whaaa? Are you ok?
Me: (Like Satan) WINDOW! OPEN!
Husband: That's cuz the child locks are ... Uh, I'll unlock it.
Me: (sounds of a demon gargling virgin goat's blood)

I greedily gulp the cool air once the window is down. Deep, long, cold breaths enter my lungs, freezing my need to murder and pillage.  The cold air cools my rage and makes me able to get out of the stupid spiderweb that is my coat and seat belt.  Soon, I can even Hulk outta my coat. And get my feet outta those mofo boots.

Sweet Home Alabama, the freedom.

And so I decided I can probably put up the window. So, I calmly, gently, push the button to raise the window up and there is a horrible crunching sound. A terrible, crunching sound. A awful, terrible, broken-glass sound.

Husband looked at me like I'd just performed a vasectomy on him while he slept, without his consent.  Or, like, you could also say "in shocked disbelief."

Me: Uuuuh...
Husband: What did you do?
Me: I just pushed the button.
Husband: Like, rage-pushed?
Me: No! Promise!
Kiddo#1: I think she was ok, Daddy. It was after she stopped sweating...
Kiddo#2: Actually she's still sweaty, right Momma? It takes a few times to stop sweating.
Me: Ok everyone. Thanks.
Husband: Will the window go up?
Me: Nuh-uh.

I wiggled my freed toes, gulped in the refreshing, calming cold air and felt wonderful. Felt happy.  Euphoric. Felt... kinda cold, really. Geez. This window stuck down is kinda chilly. The kids said nothing of the cold, but their snot-scicles spoke volumes. I looked at Husband.  He glanced back at me, sighed and turned the car around for home while I texted our friends that we would NOT actually make it to breakfast today. 

I carried my boots, socks, coat and pride back into the house and sighed triumphantly.

I turned on the fireplace and warmed my drag queens by the fire while the kids ate cereal and husband made himself some coffee and toast.

Just another day in suburbia. Oh, and for Christmas this year, I got a $600 mechanism for Husband's truck window on the passenger side.

Meh. Beats a new vaccum.

Remember My Name, Bitch

It was lunch time when Maurice found me in the hallway.  I was just finishing my 20 minutes of hall duty, which is to say I was roving the halls looking for miscreants out of their seats and tossing their garbage away without asking.  On any given day shit can go DOWN during lunch, so I’m not complaining, but life was less than eventful today.

When Maurice approached me, mid-lunch, I knew we would be hanging out for the rest of the break.  You know this kid. He’s the one who is entirely too chatty, always kinda off-task (or mostly off-task) and so immersed in his own world that he feels free to ask any question at any time, regardless of what’s going on around him.  That kid who asks the gravitational pull of the moon and wants a serious answer during the sex-ed film, or in a game of dodgeball, or in the middle of the drama performance in the darkened, echo-ey gymnasium. 

If you aren’t sure who that kid is, chances are you were that kid.  

Just gonna throw that out there, friend.

So, out of the classroom Maurice appeared and, like when the phone rings during dinner, I knew I was about to be hijacked.

Maurice:  Hi Mrs. Su….n……uh, Hi. I forget your name? I think it might be Su..ll..or what’s the name of that blue one from that one movie? Or maybe it’s like Sudden, like a fast stop. One time my mom and I were on the bus and the bus driver had a sudden stop, which means to stop quickly, in case you don’t really know what that means, and we almost were thrown from our seats. Well, not really thrown from our seats, but like, kinda we were jiggled and it was really scary.  Not really, really scary. More like just odd.

Me: Sunnen. My name is Ms Sunnen.

Maurice: Ahh yes. Mrs. S u… l…n..nn…

Me: Sunnen. Ms. Sunnen, Maurice.

Maurice: It’s just hard for me to remember things, I have a really bad memory. It comes from my mom, or my dad.  I can’t remember.

Me: Ha. That’s funny.

Maurice: Why?

Me: Because you can’t remember who you get your bad memory from?

Maurice: I can’t?

Me: (Pause)  You’re a funny guy, Maury.

Maurice: Thanks. I don’t hear that very much. Mrs. Sudden?

Me: Ms Sunnen. And, you’re welcome.

Maurice: Hey, do you think you might want to let me sit and each lunch with you after lunch is done … Mrs … Summen… and everyone goes outside for recess?

Me: Sunnen.  And, uhh…

Maurice: Cuz I’m not really allowed to go outside because it’s too cold and I don’t like to get cold. I’m really sensitive to the cold, Mrs. Sunnem… it makes me feel really cold in my chest and my head and my privates. And today I was walking to school today and I got brain freeze, even with my hat on.

Me: It’s Sunnen.  Uhh…

Maurice: It’s just that it’s super cold outside and I really have sensitive skin and body parts and I really just don’t have to go outside because my mother doesn’t want me to go outside either because I have so many sensitivities.

Me: Where do you go when I have outside duty?

Maurice: Well, my teacher sometimes lets me stay with him, or sometimes I sit at the office and eat my lunch, which I haven’t really eaten my lunch because I’ve been out here talking to you, so do you mind if I come and eat with you and it’ll be nice to eat together and talk and stuff.

Me: Uhhh….

Maurice: I’ll just get my lunch and (sound of the bell) there’s the bell, so now it’s too late for me to get ready to go out to the cold, and really I’m too sensitive of the cold it makes everything so cold, Mrs. Sullen… Especially my privates.

Me: Ok, uh, Maurice, you can’t talk about your … sensitive bits ok?

Maurice: Ok. I’ll stop.

Me: Ok. (deep, silent, inhale) Maurice, you can come sit with me and eat.

Maurice: Ok. Are you one of those really smart people who can listen to me talk and work at the same time, Mrs. … Uh, S…i…lll…nn…? I’m one of those people and you seem like you might be like that, too. But if you can’t I can be quiet. Sometimes people ask me to be quiet because I talk a lot, but sometimes I think they tell me to be quiet because I think they need a break from me talking all the time, so I be quiet and then after a few minutes of the break, I can talk again.

Me: What have you got there to eat, Maury?

Maurice: I have Zoodles. Do you like Zoodles or do you have the no-name brand? Do you think the no-name brand is made at the same factory or do you think it is made at a different one? I think it’s at a different one because it’s a different name. Well, one actually has a name and the other one doesn’t have a name. That’s what no-name means. 

Me: I think it’s made in the same factory, but when the Zoodles people see that the noodles were cooked a little too much or too little, they give that batch to the no-name people.

Maurice: When did you put purple in your hair like that Mrs… Horrible? Did you do that between when I saw you this morning and right now? How would you have done that in such a short time? Did you leave the school and put that in or is it those things you glue in your hair or clip into your hair?

Me: I haven’t changed my hair. And (laughing) it’s Ms. Sunnen. Like in the sky. Sun in the sky. Sunnen.

Maurice: The purple? Did you put your hair up?

Me: Can you say Ms. Sunnen?

Maurice: Mrs Sinnen…

Me: Getting closer.  Uh, and nope, the pink has been in there since September or so, and I came to school with my hair already done like this today.

Maurice: Really? How did you get it in there? Is it dye or is it a hair clip?

Me: The pink or the bun? (pause) Dye. It’s dye, Maury.

Maurice: Are you sure?

Me: Uh, yes. I’m sure it’s dye because I … I just was there when she put it in.

Maurice: Huh. I never thought of that. I know all about S-E-X and C-O-N-D-O-N-S. 

Me: Oh boy.

Maurice: You know, S-E-X? My mother and I both think that boys who are 12 through 45 need to know about S-E-X because it’s something important but it’s only for marriage.

Me: Oh...

Maurice: But it’s about S-E-X that you can—

Me: I’m not sure you should be having this conversation with me, Maury. I think that’s not something we’ll talk about, ok? I’m glad you trust me, but there are things we don’t talk about with just anyone, ok?

Maurice: Oh ok. Sure. It’s just a natural part of life that boys need to know about or they could get into trouble.

Me: Maurice, what else are you eating there?

Maurice: Do you know how my mom made my Zoodles? She puts hot water right from the kettle into my thermos and then puts the Zoodles on top and then when I get to school and open it up, I can stir it up and the water will still be hot. She’s been doing that for a few years now. Before this year, the only other time I went to school was for Kindergarten. It was a long time ago. Back when my dad moved out.

Me: Oh, Maurice. I’m sorry.

Maurice: Yeah, he moved away and he was fat. My mom had to give back her credit card when he left because she was defective. No. I don't think that's the right word.  I think it’s that word when you have someone else take care of you? It was a Dependant card but when my dad moved away, the card got taken away. 

Me: I think your mom wouldn’t be happy that you’re telling me this.

Maurice:  Oh. Why?

Me: I just think there are some things that you shouldn’t tell just anyone, is all.

Maurice:  Oh. We’ll just zip that away then.

Me: Yes. Ok. Sure.

Maurice: My dad was fat and my mom is fat, too, and you’re fat, too. But not like, a bad fat, like my dad was a bad fat so he'll probably die with heart attacks and strokes maybe? –

Me: Uh--

Maurice:  And so you can die if you’re too fat. You’re not fat like my mom, but you’re just like a little fat. It’s ok. I’m a little fat, too.

Me: Um—

Maurice:  You know when you’re really fat and then you’re just a little fat? Because you’re really, you’re more fat than a little fat, but you’re more like a big, black ---

Me: Ok. Maurice. You just. Sometimes you just have to stop talking. Just cut your losses and … kinda move on... You haven’t hurt my feelings, but you probably don’t want to have a conversation like this with other people.

Maurice: Well, it’s just like those big guys from uh, Hawaii--

Me: MAURICE. We’re good. Just stop talking. You need to take a break.

I gulped in the 8 seconds of Pure Silence the way I used to gulp back my dinner when I had a newborn, which is to say frantically and without chewing, like it was my last meal.

Maurice: You know what I call The United States and Canada?

Me: (quiet sigh) What’s that Maurice?

Maurice:  I call the United States and Canada “Brothers that love each other and hate each other.”

Me: Ok—

Maurice: Because there are people in the United States who hate people from Canada and there are people from Canada who hate people from the United States, but also there are people in the United States who love people from Canada and people from … well you get the picture.

Me: True.

Maurice: I had to go across the pond. 

Me: When did you go to the UK?

Maurice: Oh, well, I mean on the ferry to the United States when I say that.

Me: I think it means going across the ocean.

Maurice: Oh? I suppose that’s an odd way to say that. At least the Great Lake is closer to a pond than the ocean is.

Me: True.

Maurice: I went there and I had the best fries. And I saw a friend of my mother’s.

Me: Sounds fun.

Maurice: If I had a genie that granted wishes, I know what I’d wish for.

Me: Ok. What’s that, Maurice?

Maurice: Yes. First thing I would wish for if I had a genie that granted three wishes would be for a wallet for my mother that had never ending money. Every time she opened it it would overflow with money and kinda fall out and she’d always have lots of money.

Me: That’s a nice thing to wish for, Maurice.

Maurice: The second thing I’d wish for from the genie would be that all the poor people in the world had enough to eat. It’s bad enough being poor without also needing food.  In fact, I’d make it so that no one in the world would need food.

Me: Maurice that’s even nicer. It’s nice to know you’d spend a wish on helping someone else.

Maurice: And then for the third wish I’d give my mother a mansion because I’ve always wanted to live in a mansion.  I think the stairs are pretty cool in a mansion. Well except just the stairs that only go up, because there’s no point to those. Plus for fat people it might buckle under their weight and I wouldn’t want the stairs to fall on someone and hurt them. Or worse, if the stairs broke and then we had to get them fixed because they buckled under the weight of the fat person.  You know, those big black—

Me: MAURICE. Just stop.

Maurice: No, I mean those big black—

Me: Maurice. Just stop. Really. You just need to stop.

Maurice: Ok. Hey, there’s the bell.  I’ll see you later, Mrs Horr--? Mrs Sunnible? Mrs? Uh?  Gotta go.

Sometimes 

I forget what it’s like to live with me 

and then 

I get a reminder 

from an outside source 

by way of a Freaky Friday-style 

role reversal.  

Just like I get very confident in my ability to get somewhere when my GPS is working, it’s the raw panic that sets in when it’s not, that drives home how bad I am with spatial orientation.  Likewise, it’s scenes like this one that remind me how scattered and nutso I must sound to the untrained ear.  Ha, and how patient those around me have to be.  I wasn’t being kind to Maurice so much as I was paying the minimum on a large credit card debt to the Universe.

I’m quite confident in who I am when I have Husband playing David Spade’s roles to my Chris Farley.  Take away David Spade, though, and it’s just Rob Ford.  Ain’t nobody wanna be Rob Ford.

So, from the bottom of my heart, thanks for being my King of Spades, Husband. You can expect a big, fat present under the tree this year-- the kind that makes the stairs buckle under the sheer weight of it. You know, those big, black… fat presents, but not the bad kind of fat, the good kind where you know there's something really excellent inside it. 

Just. 

For. 

You.