I am Miss Fussy Pants these days and there seems to be nothing to do about it. I keep telling friends I don't want to talk about it. Then I mope. I keep trying to 'fake it til I make it' and I fail at both. So here's my time-tested tactic used in every situation with equally poor results: the blurting rant.
** On the subject of blogging:
I can't write with that giant dog pee stain staring at me from the living room carpet. It's under a thick film of baking soda but I know it is there.
I can't write because my laptop makes my thighs sweat. Sounds good but feels bad.
I can't write because one of my best friends hates the new look of the blog and says I am not funny any more. He was really nice about it all. He was not getting revenge for when I dragged him out on the dance floor this weekend in front of our former high school classmates and rested my head on top of his. I'm sure he wasn't.
I can't write on the blog because I am working on an intricate, deep sermon on evil and a brief, sweet homily for a wedding. If I blog now I might get them confused this weekend.
** On the subject of religion
The former preacher's kids have put their wee lil' feet down again and rejected another house of worship; the fifth excommunicated by them since we embarked upon our post-parish-ministry-professional-code-enforced-religious-wandering.
The kindergartner looked up at me with tired eyes and a sketchbook full of Picasso worthy scribbles during services this week and wearily asked, "Are we Christian now?"
I hastily whispered, "Sweetie, we're Unitarian Universalists. Same as we have always been. You know - 'think like a Jew, give like a Christian'. But we can go to different places and hear them talk about God differently and know it is all the same God, even if..."
"No, that is first of the month, honey," I whisper back."It is called communion, remember? I think they are just blessing babies today."
"Can I go to the nurse's office and eat my snack?"
Yes, we were at a church so large it has its own fully stocked nurse's office.
And later we found out that we were in a church so large that it has a security problem so a child is not allowed to walk from her seat to the nurse's office six feet from the sanctuary door. We found this out from security officers (yes, plural) with twirly ear pieces who took us aside to explain to us that they had been "monitoring the situation" and the 20-45 seconds of solo travel was too risky.
Kafkaesque? Yes indeedy.
The kindergartner sobbed loudly and begged to never go back. The nurse's office and the church restaurant had been her favorite parts. Yes, I said restaurant. No, I will not make her go back.
Her brother had already bailed two weeks earlier saying he thought everyone was staring at him because he was the only white boy in a room of 1,500 people. He was. They were perfectly nice, I thought. At least security was not involved. No, I did not make him go back.
** On the subject of that @#$% dog
The puppy is now one year old. She jumps the fence each morning to give people walking down the street an opportunity to scowl, admonish, and pass judgment on her careless owners all before 9 AM. Then she trots around the house to the front door and waits to come back in and take another nap, her work done.
I looked over at her sleeping sweetness as I typed this only to realize that she has snuck back on the forbidden couch and there is a small pile of vomit between my orthopedic boot and the pee stain.
I can't write with multiple canine body fluids in eyesight.
** On the subject of health
The orthopedic boot is one of those big black bulky contraptions to fix my foot that was injured, probably mildly, until I walked on it for three weeks. I will be in it for at least another two weeks.Well-meaning people ask how I hurt it. I have to respond that I don't know. They give me that "another clergy alcoholic" look.
I try to explain that one of my meds is bad for my bones and another seems to have given me an internal bleeding issue. I suggest that maybe that's what did my foot in. They nod and give me that "so this is what Munchhausen's Syndrome is all about" look.
My son's teacher asked if I broke it trying to kick my son. The clerks and deputies at the courthouse asked if I broke it trying to kick the boss/my husband. The neighbor asked if I broke it trying to kick the dog. The atheist asked why I didn't try to get it healed at the big house of worship. The buddy who doesn't like the new blog look told me I still look foxy in the boot thus saving everyone else (including him) from gratuitous boot violence.
I give them all the "I am a loose cannon, please stop talking" look. It works almost as well as my positive re-programming does. So I just have to keep coming up with plausible sounding answers. My next will be a yawn and a stretch followed by an understated, "Co-ed rugby match." And then I will crack my neck and do a quick "you want some of this?!" look with eyebrow lift.
** Potty attitude summary
So as you can see, I can just internally grumble grumble all day long. And what makes me fussiest of all is that I really have nothing to grumble about.
The children are healthy. The new resident in our home is safe and relatively happy. The dog is down to jumping the fence only once a day. I have friends who care enough to tell me the truth and to pick on me lovingly. The foot is healing very slowly, but healing. And I have yet to be forced to watch 98% of what is on television these days. That last one has nothing to do with anything on this post, but it still brightens every day a little.
I blurted some of this to a distinguished gentleman I know. He gave me a look I had not seen in awhile. It was the "Sister, I know exactly what you mean" look. Just telling him made me feel better and I thought the empathetic listening alone might bring on an upswing.
Then he said with great care in his refined accent, "What you need is the right combination of marijuana and prescription pain medicine. Everything will be just fine once you get those mathematics worked out."
He is probably right. But you think I am fussy now? Just wait until I am juggling rehab and jail time. How am I supposed to organize a scrapbook party and encourage the kids in their State Fair arts and crafts preparation from the Big House? My luck - my prison job will be to preach, my community service will be blogging, and they'll house me with the @#$% dog.
Instead of taking his advice I now have sweaty thighs and I have to scrub the rug in two places before I go to bed. Oh wait, I just looked over and someone on four legs took care of the vomit while I was typing. Gag!
What has become of my world when disappearing vomit is the high point of a day?
I think I'll just answer that with a simple, "Better."