Pigpen Gwen

Current mood:accepting I’m a lazy ass

I complain a lot about my tiny little condo and how there is no room and I have no where to put anything and its always a mess because of all of the above. But I realized something today. Something that speaks volumes about the depth of my laziness. It seriously knows no bounds. I actually like having an excuse to have a messy house. It's like if I did have the room to put things I would probably just have more things to fill it up and then it would still be a mess. I guess this as much a testament to our material excess as it is to my laziness. But when your house is one big chaotic clutterball, it is like surrendering. And in a weird way, it feels like freedom at the same time. I hope that you don't think less of me for that. I sort of do. But it doesn't take much for me to hate myself these days.

I feel like everyone I know has a neat house and cleaning routine. I mean, I once encountered my sister in law cleaning her blinds at 7 am (Love you Ash!). I thought it was odd at the time, but now I'm starting to think that I'm like the kid from Peanuts who had fruit flies buzzing around his head all the time. And that everyone else is Martha Stewart buzzing around polishing the silver and making fruit centerpieces for Sunday dinner. I'm so in the dust when it comes to that stuff. Literally and figuratively. Emptying my dishwasher is actually painful. I curse under my breath when I put clothes from the washer into the dryer. And it always occurs to me that I wouldn't survive in those days when they had to scrub each piece of clothing on those metal broiler pan looking thingies in the big tubs of water. I would have put a bullet in my head right quick. As it is, I'm content to teeter on the edge of civility. I get by. If I knew you were coming over, I could run around in 20 minutes and make my home presentable. But if you come over unannounced - don't expect me to answer the door.

2 Year Old - Free to Good Home

Christmas picture time. I hate it. I tried to soften the blow of the activity a little this year by actually making an appointment. Every other time I get pictures done there's a line of families already in front of me and its annoying to watch other people's kids be cute while your kid is rolling around on the floor messing up the hair that you spend a scream-filled 20 minutes trying to perfect. So I got Liv's frou-frou dress all Christmas looking with black velvet and plaid and these cute little black patent leather baby doll shoes, but I realized the morning of picture day that all her tights are in the hamper because I haven't done laundry in 3 weeks. So I drop her at my mom's in the morning, ask her to get Liv ready, and I will pick up a pair of tights on my way back from work. I get done work at 1 and my appointment is at 2:30. It's tight, but I knew I could do it. So I stop and get tights, get to my mom's, drag Liv out to the car kicking and screaming. We get to the picture place at 2:15. (They actually told me that if I wasn't there by 2:15 then I would lose my appointment. Why not just make my appointment for 2:15 then? I don't get these people.)

So there is this 1 year old getting his picture done in a little suit with one of those newsboy caps on. He won't smile. In fact, at intervals he starts crying horrible, obnoxious tears. And the "photographers" are just doing everything and anything to get this kid to smile. Waving the paper in his face, tickling him with that duster thing they use, shaking Elmo dolls. My appointment time comes and goes and this ugly ass, annoying kid still isn't fucking smiling. Liv is getting antsy, running around and messing with all the toys in the toy section. She is, of course, rolling around on the ground messing up her hair which is suddenly all staticy looking. Her dress gets wrinkled, this kid won't smile. Her hair bow falls out, this kid won't smile. Finally the kid smiles and the mom says, and I quote, " can I just put his hat back on?" She puts the kid's newsboy cap on and he FREAKS THE HELL OUT AGAIN. See this is where ugly kid's mom and I differ. I wouldn't give a shit about that hat at this point. I wouldn't care if Liv wanted to hold a hand grenade in one hand and a samurai sword in the other, as long I got a picture with a god damn smile. But NOOOOOO. Newsboy cap is so important, it is essential to the Christmas Picture of 2007. Whatever.

When it is finally my turn, guess what happens? My beautiful, princess dress bedecked daughter refuses to get on the stage for the pictures. "I'm scared, Mommy, I'm scared". She wouldn't do it. Sometimes I hate her. I basically wasted my entire afternoon trying to get HER picture done. What an ingrate.

Dirty Face

Hi Readers - I love everyone of you. I can't help but have authentic undying love for those who take moments of their life to read what I've written. I have to say a hearty Thank you. On a sad note I cried for about hour today after looking at this one photo:

This one picture just tells a story so much more achingly and earnest than most words can. I should at least try to convey what profound emotions the picture is pulling up from in me. This moment you are seeing in this picture is personal and powerful because I remember how it felt. I remember how it felt to follow Amy around the yard, sit on the large rock warmed by sun, to dance under the dogwood tree and grab at the white petals. All the while, my little face (or as one old man called me in the neighborhood) my little "dirty face" was always upturned towards hers, just to see what she, the charmed and somehow perpetually clean sister, was thinking. I wanted to read her mind and delve into its mystical secrets. I wanted so badly to be her, she of the special nick name "skinny minnie", not as derogatory as my own. To be thin and clean and pretty and....older. So when I see this picture I remember how not much had changed in the years that went.

I, of course, became the fucked up sister who did atrocious things and caused myself and others so much pain. I became the dirty face...maybe not literally...but I would spit in mirrors with contempt at the look of me. Meanwhile, Amy of the golden variety remained there for me always. Quietly picking up my pieces, urging me on towards better things. I resented her interference and I wasn't fair to her and I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Amy, for all times you called and I just couldn't answer the phone because I was in a place of self-loathing and couldn't allow you to hear that with all you were going through. And there it is. My selfishness laid bare.

On her death bed, she lay quiet though I could hear a slight wheeze in her chest. I thought she was asleep, so I started crying softly, not enough to wake her, but convulsive tears that happen when you come to understand what a selfish asshole you've been your entire life especially to this person who is about to die. And there is not a whole lot you can do to make up for it now, is there? Those fucking tears. I feel her hand begin to play with my hair the way she used to do when we were little, to comfort me. I looked back and her yellow eyes were open and looking at me. I said "Amy you have been such a good sister to me" Then she sort of smiled and said "you too". But that wasn't the truth. So I said "You've always better to me then I've been to you and I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, Amy for what I've done...."She just kept rubbing my hair. I would like to think that is some sort of forgiveness. But I don't know. She was so lovely, and kind. Why did God pick her? I was the one...it should have been me. The wrong sister has died. I keep waiting for someone to realize there's been an error and then they'll be coming for me. That's a scary fucking thought. But I am not feeling right tonight. I'm sorry if I am bumming anyone out.