my house is empty.
I feel like I should whisper that or something. Lil' Puddin' Tater is at my mom's house for the night, and D is out with cankerworm for the evening. The house is mine. All mine. Why is this special, you ask? Well, let me show you a typical evening during which I am trying to work on the computer:
[me, sitting in my retro-looking desk chair that is not at all cushioned and fairly dangerous when used as a climbing apparatus]
Lil' Puddin' Tater: Mama? I need to sit in your lap.
me: Well, sweetheart, Mama's kind of busy right now, but she'll be done in just a few minutes, okay?
LPT: Mama?
me: Yes?
LPT: You wanna hold me?
And honestly, what the hell am I supposed to say to this? "No sweetie, Mama can't spare ten seconds to give you much-needed affection after being gone all day." Bring on the guilt! Seconds for me, please!
But before I have a chance to answer, a stubby leg swings over the armrest and she is scaling the chair. Her goal? My lap. However, once there, she informs me that my computer time is done, because she needs to type. And do homework. So, against my strong objections, she begins to type like the dickens, and things come up on the screen that I have literally never seen before. In the interest of saving my computer from irreparable damage, I suggest we leave the office and go on a search for SpongeBob, or maybe Daddy. She says yes, but I see the glint in her eye and I know what's coming next: the last-ditch grab. This handy little move is performed whenever she leaves my desk, or someplace interesting in close quarters. (my nightstand has fallen victim a couple of times) The move goes like this: I pick LPT up to exit the room or area, and, with a grand sweep of her arm, she grabs whatever she can. Now, if I were one of those types that kept her desk organized at all times and free of clutter, this would not be a big deal at all. But I'm not one of those types. Currently, my desk has on its surface: hairspray, diaper creme, pens, photos destined for frames, a bottle of Maalox, Barrel Fever by David Sedaris, a reflector that fell off my bike, and 9 bobby pins. And that's just what I can see. I'm sure there's more under all the papers and the errant sock. So, as you can see, my desk is a veritable treasure trove for LPT.
But not tonight. I'm free, and I can do anything I want. Does that mean that I'll go out and relax with friends over a drink or a nice dinner? Hell no! I'll be in bed by 9, and I'll love every minute of it.
Unfortunately, midst all this giddy joy, I am still reeling from a post I read earlier today from the ever-lovely bitch Ph.D. I was floored that such ignorance could actually make its way into law. I know, it's naive of me, but christ! I'll just add North Dakota to my (ever-growing) list of places not to live.
And, I have a question: why is it that when I come home and it's been just LPT and Daddy all day, the house invariably has a mess that I never would have allowed? Case in point: in the pantry, the sugar is kept on the third shelf. When I walked into the kitchen this afternoon, there were little snowy piles of sugar everywhere, and a terribly significant amount of the stuff on the floor. LPT walks in behind me, and I (calmly, I thought) asked what had happened. She informed me that she wanted some sugar. So, I turn to D for a response. What does he say? "Well, she wanted some sugar." I am not amused.
[me, sitting in my retro-looking desk chair that is not at all cushioned and fairly dangerous when used as a climbing apparatus]
Lil' Puddin' Tater: Mama? I need to sit in your lap.
me: Well, sweetheart, Mama's kind of busy right now, but she'll be done in just a few minutes, okay?
LPT: Mama?
me: Yes?
LPT: You wanna hold me?
And honestly, what the hell am I supposed to say to this? "No sweetie, Mama can't spare ten seconds to give you much-needed affection after being gone all day." Bring on the guilt! Seconds for me, please!
But before I have a chance to answer, a stubby leg swings over the armrest and she is scaling the chair. Her goal? My lap. However, once there, she informs me that my computer time is done, because she needs to type. And do homework. So, against my strong objections, she begins to type like the dickens, and things come up on the screen that I have literally never seen before. In the interest of saving my computer from irreparable damage, I suggest we leave the office and go on a search for SpongeBob, or maybe Daddy. She says yes, but I see the glint in her eye and I know what's coming next: the last-ditch grab. This handy little move is performed whenever she leaves my desk, or someplace interesting in close quarters. (my nightstand has fallen victim a couple of times) The move goes like this: I pick LPT up to exit the room or area, and, with a grand sweep of her arm, she grabs whatever she can. Now, if I were one of those types that kept her desk organized at all times and free of clutter, this would not be a big deal at all. But I'm not one of those types. Currently, my desk has on its surface: hairspray, diaper creme, pens, photos destined for frames, a bottle of Maalox, Barrel Fever by David Sedaris, a reflector that fell off my bike, and 9 bobby pins. And that's just what I can see. I'm sure there's more under all the papers and the errant sock. So, as you can see, my desk is a veritable treasure trove for LPT.
But not tonight. I'm free, and I can do anything I want. Does that mean that I'll go out and relax with friends over a drink or a nice dinner? Hell no! I'll be in bed by 9, and I'll love every minute of it.
Unfortunately, midst all this giddy joy, I am still reeling from a post I read earlier today from the ever-lovely bitch Ph.D. I was floored that such ignorance could actually make its way into law. I know, it's naive of me, but christ! I'll just add North Dakota to my (ever-growing) list of places not to live.
And, I have a question: why is it that when I come home and it's been just LPT and Daddy all day, the house invariably has a mess that I never would have allowed? Case in point: in the pantry, the sugar is kept on the third shelf. When I walked into the kitchen this afternoon, there were little snowy piles of sugar everywhere, and a terribly significant amount of the stuff on the floor. LPT walks in behind me, and I (calmly, I thought) asked what had happened. She informed me that she wanted some sugar. So, I turn to D for a response. What does he say? "Well, she wanted some sugar." I am not amused.
