ABOUT ME

About me: My husband Chuck, our six-year-old Junior, our three-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Oh say can you see

There were some brilliant, dazzling fireworks in our living room this weekend.

Before I get to the explosions, let me preface with this: Charles and I agreed on Thursday that we would enjoy a few days of holiday picnics and that Sunday would be the Day to Get Things Done. We also agreed that we would take turns watching Junior whilst sharing the chores.

Key words here: sharing and agreeing.

Sunday morning I hopped out of bed and fed Junior. I even let Charles sleep in an extra hour. At nine I handed him Junior so I could vacuum the shit out of the upstairs. When I popped my head into the living room an hour later and found Charles zombied out to the Law and Order marathon while Junior played in his exersaucer, I was mildly annoyed.

I play with Junior. I don’t jingle toys in front of his face while staring at the TV.

Explosion #1. Some simple Roman candles. Standard sparklers. Nothing that would scare the kiddies.

An hour and a half later, after I had dusted and folded laundry and Charles was still enjoying Law and Order, I was profoundly—and justifiably—annoyed. And instead of calmly approaching him with this information I charged at him like a bull with burrs and hot sauce in his rectum.

“Enjoying your show?”

“Mmmmm. You almost done?”

Explosion #2. A stunning display of red, blue and purple. Loud, but not loud enough that you’d cover your ears.

Through clenched teeth I said: “Just about. Would you like to finish painting the sun porch while I watch Junior?”

“I kind of have a headache.”

“But it needs to get done. We said we would work on the house today. We agreed.”

“I know. I’ll do it later.”

Explosion #3. A more vibrant display of white, gold, and green. A few thundering booms. The sky was now smoking.

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

I took a deep breath, stormed onto the sun porch, and started painting, all the while cursing my lazy ass, prima donna husband. The pelting sun and lack of oxygen didn’t help. By the time Charles came out to check on my progress I was dripping in sweat and hallucinating mirages.

He walked over to the window and pointed.

“You missed a spot.”

Explosion #4. The Grand Finale. Deafening bursts of color, cursing, and tears. Thrown brushes. White paint everywhere. The cats were now under the couch.

And here I was worried that the crummy weather would mean no fireworks.

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