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I blog. I also mother, wife, create, preserve, recycle, cook, act, quilt, exercise, laugh, write, lolligag, work, volunteer, sing, and sometimes sleep.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Whereby the Universe Punishes Me for Trying to be Nice to the Earth

It’s the day before Halloween, which of course means that I am sewing like mad, grumpy, and covered in glitter.

I used to like Halloween. It was never my favorite holiday, but I did enjoy it. Now, I feel like it’s a tedious waste of time. Despite that, I have been doing my best for the years I have felt this way to put on a happy face and carry on. As a former costumer, the assumption is that I love the holiday, that I live to sew my children’s costumes, to come up with something creative for myself and Michael, and to go out and par-tay. Sadly, both you and me are asses in this scenario, as it is simply not true.

But my feelings on All Hallow’s Eve are neither here nor there, as what day it is (or day it will be) has little to do with my total annoyance right now. I am being tried. I am being tried by some unknown force, being punished for my commitment to living life with a small environmental footprint. And I don’t know what to do about it.

The morning started off with the usual flurry of waking up, getting the kids dressed and ready for school, feeding them breakfast, and all the insanity that entails. It was made more crazy than usual because today is the Halloween Parade at the school, so costumes had to be put into bags, shoes found, bags labeled, etc. Yes, this was something an organized person would have done the night before, but I was busy making the damn costumes, going to a friend’s book signing, making dinner to take to my mother in laws, and visiting with a good friend here from China (yes, that was all done at night, although not in that order and not separately). Suddenly, Max decides he needs a brown paper bag. “But, why?” I ask, considering all the reusable lunch bags and totes and other cloth methods of carrying devices of which we have a plethora… and he explains that what he needs to do is make a bag to carry whatever Halloween treats he gets at school. I explain right back that he has a fabric trick or treat bag, covered in skeletons, that I made him, that would serve this purpose. No, he insists, it has to be a brown bag that he can decorate RIGHT NOW before he leaves for school. Not really in the mood to fight over this particular battle, I sigh and mumble something about Mother Nature being disappointed in his desire to kill more trees and find a brown bag leftover from something for him to decorate. He happily scampers off to decorate it, and since it’s the first morning in weeks where I only had to ask him once to get his shoes on, I am relieved and pleased that there won’t be fighting, although, admittedly, still a bit irked.

Suddenly I hear Michael talking to someone at the front door. I walk into the front of the house and hear him talking to the city guy standing there about taking away one of our black trash cans and one of our blues. Now, we have 2 of each, and haven’t filled them both in forever, and since I was under the impression that we were being charged for them, I thought it right to go ahead and have them removed, and save the money. I called earlier in the week, and in the course of the conversation with the lovely lady at the DWP learned that we hadn’t been being charged for them. So I carefully backed out of the whole thing in such a way that I thought she and I had an understanding. Evidently we didn’t, as she put the order in anyway and now the guy had actually shown up to do my bidding. I become more annoyed but not in a way that makes any sense to anyone but me, as Michael had not been told about the whole thing, and as far as he was concerned we were being charged for the cans and were totally fine getting rid of them. I start stomping around and flip flopping on the issue, trying to explain to Michael why exactly I am annoyed and what was going on, at which point he also becomes totally annoyed with the situation but neither of us know how to tell the guy taking away our cans to stop. So we don’t. But we’re now both irritated. Him with the situation, me with myself for messing everything up. Ironic, since really, I had WANTED them to get rid of the trashcans not 3 days ago, but that was when I didn’t know they were free. Also, we honestly never even fill one, which I am PROUD of because it means we don’t generate a lot of trash. Which, of course, just made me more annoyed. I mean, the fact that I was annoyed when I didn’t have any real right to be just made it all worse.

Michael takes the kids to school and I get ready for my day of erranding and work. On my first errand, I call him and start to talk about all my little irritations of the day, some so embarrassingly trivial, I cannot bear to see them in print, so you will be spared. The cumulative annoyances put me in tears…so now I’m crying and at the bank. Fine, the tellers know me and are very, very sweet to me as I do my business. I leave and go to the drugstore to pick up some things and while I am there, feel the need to use the restroom.

Ok, this is where I am placing the warning. If you have an issue reading about feminine (yes, menstrual) issues…then just stop now. Skip ahead to the end and spare yourself. Otherwise, buckle up, cause I’m going to get personal…and kinda graphic. So, my need to use the restroom has nothing to do with me emptying my bladder as I am feeling that old familiar feeling of the mess coming on. I think “oh, no…” and head to the back of the store. Now, I don’t use tampons or pads. I use something called a Diva Cup. It’s a silicone cup that I insert in my hoo-haa when Aunt Flow comes to visit. I keep it in for up to 12 hours, take it out, empty and rinse, and put it back in. Once in a while I have a really heavy few hours and have to empty it more often than that, but it really never leaks or anything like that, and I’ve been using it for over a year now, so this sensation is very unexpected. I think my cup may have runneth over, and go into the bathroom to check. I happened to be wearing back tights under my pants today, as it was so cold this morning, I thought it would help keep me warm, so I sit down and look and lo and behold, there’s some mess on my tights…ok, I look at my pants. Oh my Bertha. It’s everywhere. EVERYWHERE. All over my LIGHT green twill pants…through to the outside everywhere. Evidently, in my annoyance and haste to get ready this morning, I mis-inserted. I sigh, am reminded of the time this happened in France (pre-Diva cup), and think the Studio City Rite Aid is not nearly as nice a place as the Arc De Triomphe. On the upside, there is a sink in the restroom, so I manage to rinse off everything, and put my now clean, but wet tights and pants back on, possibly the ickiest sensation ever. I walk out of the restroom, with my visibly sopping wet pants, head held high, daring anyone to question why I would have wet pants on, and continue with my day.

But in my head, I am thinking…Fuck you, Universe.