Here are a few of my thoughts from Pukefest 2004.
1 – Why are all the clocks in the house set to different times? I’ve successfully conquered the clock on the stove and the clock on the microwave, synchronizing them to the joy of my little heart. But EVERY OTHER CLOCK claims a different time. Two of them are battery run clocks that have not shaped up with the gift of a new AA. One of them is my mother’s antique mantel clock that PERSISTS in losing time. I’ve SPOKEN to her about it.
“Mom!” I said with great passion, “Please fix your clock. Do that THING you do to make it keep the right time.” She looked at me, puzzled.
“You’re the one who showed ME how to do it. You fix it,” she replied in a helpful manner designed to pay me back for my adolescence.
But the thing is, I DO NOT KNOW HOW. So I’m declaring here, in this public forum, either A) I was NOT the one who showed you how or B) I have suffered sufficient brain damage to cause this knowledge to seep out my ears. This was PROBABLY caused by the TRAUMA of clock unsynchronisity. Which I declare to be a word. Right now, I just did.
2 – We have, instead of a front screen door, a front GLASS door. It is one large pane of glass that takes in the afternoon sun, and acts as a solar heat collector. In the summer months this nifty thermal accumulation causes the area between the front door and the screen/glass door to get SO HOT that the doorknob becomes untouchable. As if THAT weren’t nifty enough, this large pane of glass ALSO collects fingerprints. It collects so very many fingerprints at such an alarming rate that observing said glass after a few days’ rest from the Windex is like an archeological study. You know, of the last few days. Ah yes, I think, there is Max’s handprint from where he leapt up in the middle of breakfast to go get the newspaper. See the outline of toast crumbs? And here is Raphael’s nose print from where Appa went to the store without him, causing Raphi to wail and smear his sodden face on the glass.
And so on.
I hate the screen/glass door. I think I’ll remove it with my very own Phillips screwdriver tomorrow, causing the neighborhood to DESPAIR of us and our odd ways.
3 – Cleaning around the toilets after a few days’ break from my usual toilet vigilance, I am reminded of a basic fact of life. Boys are simply disgusting. Don’t get me wrong, you all KNOW I LOVE MY BOYS. I’m like a cheerleader for the boys. “GIMME AN X! GIMME A Y! WHAT DOES IT MEAN? HECK IF I KNOW! YAAAAAAY BOYS!” But truth is truth, and the absolute, unvarnished reality of it is that Boys Are Disgusting.
4 – Once, when I was a mere pup of about twenty, I went on a first date with a very nice guy. Over dinner he told me a joke. When he got to the punch line, I sat and stared at him for a moment, then leapt up and ran from the table. I just made it to the sink, where I threw up my socks. I went on to fall hopelessly in love with said guy, and from there on to him breaking my heart completely.
SO. I moved to Denver, where I met my ex. On one of our first dates I leapt up in the middle of the movie we were watching to race to the bathroom and (you guessed it) throw up. Yes, I am so VERY adorable that I can actually THROW UP on a date and still continue to be irresistible. Or at least I was that adorable in my twenties. Now…well, who knows?
Anyhow, my POINT was that throwing up is bad for everyone, but for ME? It reminds me of FALLING IN LOVE. So, for me it’s like a case of the stomach flu PLUS post traumatic stress disorder. I’m just saying.
5 – So on Tuesday I threw up and threw up. I’m fairly sure I horked up my liver at one point. Actually I only threw up about four times. But I THOUGHT, this had better make me skinny, about…four thousand times. Because shallow is deeper than me.
6 – Raphael being sick is bad. Raphael being sick FIRST is unimaginably bad. Because by the time the rest of us were sick Raphi was well enough to BOUNCE RELENTLESSLY on our heads. And today? When we were just beginning to drag ourselves out of bed and into the light? Raphael was crazed with boredom. Tonight he was marching around, chanting, “Sheeme wahme sheeme wahmee,” which I fear means, “If I have to spend another day in this house I will KNOCK YOU DOWN and EAT YOUR LIVER, old woman.”
But the joke’s on him, because I’m pretty sure I puked it up on Tuesday.