Incidents that my friends, co-workers and loved ones are certain will make me lose my shit don’t. Meh. Minor infractions that would elude notice by 99.99% of globe on the other hand drive me to drink. Metaphorically, of course. I don’t drink that often, and of course I don’t drink as a stress reliever (of course I don’t). I drink because margaritas are delicious! Cheers! This post was almost Volume 2 of Why Ed Would Be a Better Husband Than Yours, but I’ve written about my band a good deal of late, and with the potential lawsuit and all. . . Plus this blog is supposed to be about my kid. Plus, and really this is key, really I am the asshole here. I’ve overreacted again because I do so as often as people change their socks. I never react to anything appropriately. Well, almost never–it’s under- or over- every time. Perhaps at the end of days, it will be determined that this was some system of checks and balances. Right now I’m probably exasperatingly annoying. (too many adverbs?)
My neighborhood is crazy with Halloween decorations.
Neighbors deck out their homes in ghoulishly spectacular fashion. It’s awesome. I am currently obsessed with The Walking Dead, late to the party to be sure, but now that I have arrived, I can’t binge-watch nearly fast enough. So anyway, there’s this house a mile or so away, and I wanted something like this to be my Facebook profile shot for the next few weeks:
Instead what I got was about 24 grainy, underexposed blurs because my husband sucks with technology. Handing him my phone to take a photo? May as well ask him to complete a bowel resection. The photo op itself was further complicated by the fact that I had to strike a certain pose to position myself in a plausible “I’m smiling like a self-involved middle-aged woman trying to be a cutesy fool–hi, Facebook friends!–with the zombie certain to have me for midnight snack creeping up behind me.” This meant I had to crouch. And after the five minutes and several sets of instructions on how to, you know, push one damn button it took for my husband to take 23 shitty photos, my quads were feeling the burn. This was the pick of the litter, and it’s fine. Sure most of you would be swept up in the Halloween spirit, you might laugh or tease over it, but not me. Reason, like Elvis, had left the building. I hopped in the car, closed–no, not slammed–the door, waited for the boys to be done, getting my disappointed pout on like the model mature adult I am. Bwaaaahahahahaha.
There are like six pictures in the world of me and our children. I am always the one behind the camera. I used to joke that if I died young, my children would have no idea what I looked like, except that it’s not really a joke. Thank goodness for selfies, right? There would otherwise be nothing to put on the picture boards at my funeral because I am always behind the lens. And now I can’t even get a stupid zombie photo. WHICH I didn’t even want until my husband made me encroach on the people’s lawn, and then I totally wanted it. *stomping feet muttering “dammit” in a fantastically whiny tone* It would have made for pretty good funeral chatter though, dontcha think? “This? This was when my mom spent months grossed out watching Netflix through squinted eyes with her hands in front of her face. She looks so happy here, doesn’t she? Ah, the apocalypse. . . those were the days.” I don’t know why it bugs me to the degree it does, but my husband’s technology skills, or more accurately, the lack thereof, bugged the shit right out of me. He is so good at so many things. Plus, he puts up with me, which really should place him in line for a Nobel Prize for some specialized sort of humanitarian effort. Sure I’m a lot of fun a lot of the time, but when I am a pain in the ass, I am exceptional. But why can’t he take a picture?? And why am I such an ass that I can’t, oh, you know, WALK OVER TO THE HOUSE TONIGHT AND TRY AGAIN?? Because I am an ass today. You may have heard.
So what is the point of this post? What’s the main idea? I think it’s that I don’t know how to fix me right now. Or maybe it’s that a little part of me wants not to be fixed, but to marinade in my self-pity stew (it’s really more than the photo op, kids–you knew that, right?). I put something whiny on Facebook when I got home because obviously I couldn’t change my profile picture, and a friend called me on it. Thank you, friend, for calling me on it. #ketchupandmustard I got a rock. And I gotta rock.
PS–It’s my husband’s birthday tomorrow, and that should be more than a PS. He is a much finer person than I could ever have dreamt of landing, and I love him lots. I’d post a super-cute picture of us, but well. . .