My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

The Monkey Speaks Her Mind

2006-01-01
Well, and a fine 2006 to you! Dusty and Red celebrated the changing of the calendars this morning by dancing a gig to some Willie Dixon during a post-breakfast music break. Nothing like the blues to get your mind right.

I got to move furniture around (which is actually something I enjoy doing) so that Red’s room could be put together, especially now that she’s got a nice chifforobe to put all her new clothes in. This will, I hope, lead to her sleeping in her crib at night...now that she’s 18 months old. I figured it was about time and as much as I’ve enjoyed sharing a bed and a room with her, it’s time we all shifted things (and bodies) around so that when she gets a big bed (perhaps by the end of this year?), the shock won’t be so great. Dusty of course has grand plans: she wants a bunk bed so she and Red can share a room. I don’t think she’s fully thought this one through – not that I’m necessarily opposed to the idea in theory. But, Dusty will probably get the bunk bed for her 6th birthday and Red will get Dusty’s old trusty IKEA bed. That way, there will be a choice for Red: her room or Dusty’s.

So, in order to accomplish this, the futon sofa (you can leave college behind but you don’t always get to leave your college furniture behind with it) went into my bedroom. Which meant the bookshelf had to be moved, which meant the grownup bed also had to be moved into its original place. It is no longer shoved into a baby-safe corner. I haven't decided whether this makes me happy or sad. That's a whole other entry.

Next, I have to re-hang all the paintings to compensate for the new wall spaces left after the great shuffle. That’ll probably take another month or two to complete because Phase II of the bedroom projects involves moving the old kitchen table up from the basement into the bedroom so that I don’t have to sit on a kid chair and type on the laptop which normally sits on the cedar chest. That’s gotten really old. And that wooden kid chair makes my poor butt bones very unhappy. Not to mention my back. So, soon I will have an appropriate place to write...after the table’s moved up and the cedar chest finds a new home and I slide my dresser over a bit which requires removing all the drawers first because of all the things I hate about wall-to-wall carpeting (and there are many), currently at the top of the list is the fact that you can’t slide anything across it like you can with hardwood floors. That fucking sucks!

Oh, and speaking of that last sentence, my husband told me this morning that my New Year’s Resolution should be to stop cussing so much (despite my coveted position as Big City Trashmouth) in front of Dusty. I’m still allowed to let rip in front of Red since she’s still figuring out the language and all, but Dusty’s a different story. I promised to try my best. Which isn’t worth much. Do they have a twelve-step program for cursing? Cussing Anonymous? I hope not. It’s all I’ve got anymore.

Actually, my resolution, though I really hate the whole idea of resolutions in general because they just set you up for feeling twice as miserable when you discover, around mid-March, that you are an even more hopeless, pathetic sloth than you’d ever wanted to admit, is to simply attempt to be nicer to people. Particulary to those I live with. To break out of my sad introverted ways and express myself better to those I’m around the most. I have noticed, over the last few years, especially after delving into how INTJs (Google it, if you wish; it’s a Meyers-Briggs thing) are perceived by others; that while I’m a good listener, I never respond VERBALLY to what others are saying to me, thus never really giving them the feedback they require or expect. I am always THINKING a response but it doesn’t always make it to the surface. My facial expressions do not mirror my outer thoughts, only my inner ones, which are often wildy different. Did I just contradict myself? Tough. One example: when my husband happens to do something nice for me, I always think “wow, thanks!” but I don’t always (okay, never) verbalize this sentiment. So, he doesn’t know how I really feel. I love him. But, do I actually tell him? No. Why? I don’t know. After eleven years of marriage you kind of find yourself in a rut. You start taking things for granted. At the same time, you discover that 85% of the little things your spouse does (flossing, eating a popsicle, folding laundry INCORRECTLY) really, really begin to grate on your nerves. But, it’s all YOU (meaning me), not him, so what’s to be gained by saying, “God, you have simply GOT to stop flossing around me. I just cannot bear to hear that pocking sound another minute!” No, that’s stupid.

Instead, I’m going to continue to say nothing about the popsicle slurping and the flossing noises and remember to say, “I love you,” remember to hug him in the morning before I leave for work, remember to say “please” and “thank you” like I used to. I’m really going to try. Really.

So, with that said, I will leave you with some recent Dusty quotes. If you actually went out last night and did something that has left you with a headache today, perhaps you’ll want to wait until tomorrow to read them. Laughing hurts sometimes. But it's a good hurt.

“Peanut butter is the goodest butter in the world!”

“I can’t believe how loud Red can scream – louder than a howler monkey.”

In the car, on the way home from pre-school: “Hey, I just saw two boys outside playing with no coats on! If I was their mother, I’d say, ‘Get a coat, boys!’”

And, her attempt at the ultimate insult:

“Lia Fia Phoebe, Hair Puller, Eyeball Eater, Nose on your Eyeball, Teeth on your Lips, Head Bonker, Hicker Hoppa In The Monkey, In Your Teeth in the Eyeballs and Feet on Red’s Head!”

So there! See ya in the funny papers!

P.S. – I read 46 books in 2005. Just saying.

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2:38 p.m. ::
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