… a furtive finish

I have no problem giving credit where credit is due, (because it will pay off when I start my next project) but I would also like my share of the accolade. I want credit for the vision—for having the idea, and it would be nice if I could be praised for starting the project, but most importantly, I want recognition for my furtive finish.

To me,
I’m stuck with the laundry tonight, because in spite of everyone’s best attempts at helping with housework, washing clothes does not constitute doing laundry—it’s doing the wash. Somebody still has to finish the rest of the task by drying, folding and putting it all away!
From the land of the lonely, Terina

I’m the furtive finisher of projects unnoticed, bulb planting, sock sorting, money laundering, and bathroom cleaning.[1] The family sees the results and attributes them to mythical creatures: Mother Nature, the Sock Wizard, the Tooth Fairy, and the Scrubbing Bubbles. When there are no fantasy characters to thank, they blame the figments of their own imagination: “I really thought these pants were missing a button,” or “…I swear my shoes were hanging by their laces on the banister.” “Wow, this house is magic.” “I looked, and looked, and this morning, there it was, the missing object, right in plain sight.”

It makes me frustrated to hear, “… well, the last time I saw them, my schoolbooks were caught in the cobwebs of my ceiling. I must have imagined it!”[2]

Imagine that! I will deal with it—for now, but I await the moment when the myths of youth will be exposed, when the book is published and everyone has proof that I am a finisher.

In lieu of that, these and other fairytale truths will be revealed to the children when they leave for college and the chore-girl fairy flits away.

To myself,
After beginning the thirteen morning chores, I abandon the dishes to undertake the newest task. I dress, look for tools, locate the earplugs and the child. Then I string the extension cord, prune one bush, and the electrical cord. I repair the cord then short out the electrical box, relocate the child, transfer the car seat, buy gas, refill the other machine and then prune for two more minutes. I stop to eat lunch, add to the pile of dirty dishes, remove the pruning saw from the hands of the child and trim the side bushes.

Out of gas again, I spy the newest child catastrophe through the front window and frustrated, I prune my thumb with hand-trimmers and abandon everything to drive to the doctor for stitches. Ouchee, T.

It’s the nature of being a multi-tasker that ruins my reputation as a finisher, because right in the midst of it all, the first big job appears to be left incomplete. But at some point, usually in the dark of night after everyone else is asleep, I wrap up the original thirteen tasks. When it’s all said and done, wouldn’t you say that overall, in the big picture, I am a finisher? That’s my newest great hope.

Reality Bite: …in a perfect world, but that’s life.
[1] I’m also the finder of the lost, but that has to wait for the next book.
[2] More to come in book three, Committed: A Parent’s View—Out (not a shameless promotion, but incentive for me to finish writing it.)


…eye solution

Now I’ve gone and done it! I broke down and got eye surgery. I know, against my better judgment and everything I espouse about conforming to the world and the preconceptions of plastic surgery. Castigation, begin! Love T.

Have you watched the female comediennes? There is some morphing evolution that occurs when these women begin enhancing their natural attributes. Comedians are supposed to look funny, an odd eye, Feldmen, or her whole face, Phyllis Diller. These people make a living out of looking different.

I think when people stop looking funny, they stop being funny and I can prove it. I’ve reached the end of my wit, which does not mean that I’m witless, (I am) but what I really mean is that I’m no longer funny! (Oh, you already noticed?)

I’m on the road to comedic collapse, because I’ve followed the trend and had my number one self-deprecating feature surgically altered. The coke-bottle glasses are gone, therefore the source of mirth for my children is gone. They can no longer wink behind my back, or laugh silently in front of my face. I’m freed from being the butt of their jokes, free from their cruel taunts and I’m no longer stuck in bed while the morning passes and finally the children seek me out the bedroom where I’m hoarse from yelling, “Help! I’ve dropped my glasses and I can’t get up!”

I’ve done it! I had my blindness fixed. No more thick glasses, no more blundering and sadly, no more excuses about misreading the ingredients on a recipe card. I can see! It’s all they say it is and more!


...the eyes have it

I'm trying to justify such an extravagence as lasic. I was suffering pretty terribly. I was legally blind and rapidly becoming sensitized to the lenses. At night, my eyes were so tired they ached too much for sleeping. Soon, I would be in line for a new pair of glasses, which would cause the glass commodity market to spark out of control. For the good of the economy, I needed lasic.

So I did it! In the first hour, I found light of any kind to be an irritant and the eye-drops tasted bitter. (Trust me, the eyeball’s connected to the tastebud, and the tastebud’s connected to the…) Other than these minor issues, I’ve had no other side-effects, no pain, no burning, and no extra tears.

If it weren’t for my trusty drug reaction, I would have nothing to write about. I don’t remember much of that first night due to drugs. It happens every time. I warned the doctor that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t have the “relaxant.” I do “tense” so much better. The nurse reassured that five milligram tablets weren’t really anything to worry about.

At least that’s what I think she said, by that time I was snoring softly into my chest. She asked the husband to tilt the chair back, hoping to stop the mouth gape and drool. I vaguely remember meandering my way, with a double escort, to the operating table where I laid[1] down with relief, but when they said skooch up to the top, I started giggling.

I was pudding by that time and if they had told me to slosh on up, I might have attempted it. They tape your eyes open and the little machine sucks the eyeball up, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed that on my own. My memories end with me staring blankly at the blinking red light.

I slept like a baby from the office to the house; and I don’t recall how I made it in from the car. After about four hours of lying peacefully in a “lovely repose with hands crossed over the chest pose” (and obviously looking more at ease than the husband thought I deserved), I was forcibly awakened.

If I didn’t have to face people again, all would be well. It’s that drunk-at-the-company-party/morning-after that is mortifying. The next day, doctor and nurse were both very circumspect and only casually noted that I had been quite relaxed. The nurse remarked that it’s nice that I’m petite… Me? [2] …that they may replace the swivel stool in post-op with an armchair and that when they replace the chin-holder on the eye scope, they may try to reinforce it.

I remember now why I don’t have drugs during childbirth. It’s because of my big mouth. I have no discretion under the influence. The husband said that just as I was leaving, I announced to all-and-sundry that the reason the husband didn’t have this kind of reaction to medication was “due to his extensive history with drugs.”

Reality Bite: Please shoot me! Or just shoot me up again, so I don’t remember.

[1] Grammatically correct here as referring to an inanimate object, except my editor says that in all actuality, if I were talking about an inanimate object, I should use a passive voice, not active—“I was laid down”. Whatever.

[2] I’m weightier than I look. That’s what the ski patrol said when he piggy-backed me to the bottom. Oops, another story for another time.


…an eyeful

Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.

It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.” I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos.

Dear Journal,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.

I was legally blind and loving it! Even corrected, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor doesn’t promise perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows.

I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed. I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.

Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky eyedrops and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.