Note to world #5530

My children and I have been quietly fighting about their dirty laundry since the moment winter break started.

Ok, mostly I’ve been fighting about it.

First, my silent refusal to pick up their dirty clothes.

Then my stoic decision not to take the stinky mound of cloth to the basement for laundering.

Then my ever increasing vocal opposition to the amount of laundry accumulating in their rooms. Texts, even.

Protests have been held.

Marches planned and executed.

Proof of its harm has been submitted : photos of socks embedded in dog poo as Exhibit A. [Don’t worry, I won’t expose my readers to the harm caused by such a graphic image.]

Dirty laundry is not a victimless crime, I say : the dirty clothes nearly killed the family dog ! A sideways glance over a bag of chips is all I get.

And these arbiters of dirty clothes, they are not the innocents they seem to be – making more dirty laundry every day, twice a day, when they change into a fresh set of pajamas to slouch around the house and watch bad TV.

So the mountain of dirties has grown and grown. It’s now practically the size of the southern border wall that Trump wants …. and finally, I felt I had no choice but to threaten a mama shutdown.

But no one seemed to care, not even the dog – who has been enjoying the supply of smelly socks.

A reason to wish for the start of the new (school) year and the end of the break!?

Note to world #2019

I have built an existence that revolves heavily around two girls who no longer need me or want me in the way they did as toddlers.

And I haven’t caught on to this yet, even though they are nearly adults and have been – as many teenagers are – openly annoyed with me for the last five years.

I continue to plan around them, all things for me contingent on their adolescent whims – which seem to go on and on and change constantly.

Yesterday, my Christmas Eve plans fell apart when my children had a sudden change of heart … that they want to be with their dad instead of with me – according to my older daughter, because he’s hosting a big dinner and serving crab cakes – which she likes.

I hadn’t imagined how terrible one could feel about losing out to a fish entree but there you have it: I wept and wept.

And I’m the one who complained about holiday bows – remember?

Worse, I made no other plan for the evening because everything I do is built around my children.

Well, I can’t stand all my pitiful sobbing. And there’s surely more of this to come as they grow up and go their own way.

So instead, I’ve made a new plan, for tomorrow and for the new year : to do more for myself and to stop trying to exist only in the space my children leave for me in their world.

The bow

I have a confession to make: My Christmas spirit has a dark blight spreading over it.

Because I am possibly the person who off-handedly complained about that

{very large} {tremendously glittery}

bow hanging from our internal office door.

The one that dropped gold flecks all over my angry black outfits and bespeckled the sanitorium white walls of our clinically sparse, modern workplace.

And my grinchy-day grievances traversed the open spaces above our cheap desks to the ears of another who whispered into the ears of another who whispered into the ears of another until

a ladder and man arrived to cut down said

{very large} {tremendously glittery}

bow hanging from our internal office door.

I first heard about it on my way in from the office garage, several days later: the recounting of the repugnant “bow incident” – the massacre of holiday cheer by some anonymous scrooge. The office was quite agog about it.

I didn’t quite believe it until I saw for myself … the naked glass door shimmering slightly with the hint of gold glitter bits.

Tina from upstairs said she was planning to hang her own bow – in solidarity, she said. Craig is reported to have offered his condolences for its removal. Everyone said it was shocking.

I spent an entire evening feeling terrible that I might have caused this whole scene. Wondering what could have possessed me to complain and straining to remember exactly what I might have said and why. After all, what kind of mean person detests office holiday decorations ?

And I was about to spill my guts last Tuesday except right then someone’s uncle died – and I decided to just keep my bah-humbugging to myself.

So, yeah. I guess I’m just not really in the mood this year for Merry Christmas and other stuff.

Note to world #3002

The work holiday party invitation specified that the attire was “trendy and festive”.

So of course she pulled out a black top and black pants to wear – black was always a trend for her. And the “festive” part just meant that she’d shave her armpits today.