We have a little game in our house, and it’s called “How Long Can Everyone In This Apartment Keep Ignoring That Thing That’s Sitting In The Middle Of The Floor Waiting For Someone To Pick It Up And Put It Away?”
Listen, I’m not here to make anyone feel badly about themselves, but I can tell you factually that I am the World Champion of this. I’m the Faye-Dunaway-As-Joan-Crawford of this. I have the stubbornness of a mule and nothing but time – go ahead, try me.
Come over to my house; Oh, what’s that you say? There’s a Cabbage Patch Kid splayed across the middle of everything, face down on the ground, between the kitchen and the dining table? Don’t let it worry you, it’s only a very slippery large object blocking safe passage across the most high traffic area in the house. I must have missed it. I was over there running an obstacle course of pulverized cheese crackers and dolly hairbrushes between the laundry hamper and the washing machine. Haha, NO! DON’T PICK IT UP. That’s not YOUR JOB. That’s the job of the person who left it there, and yes, I’m waiting for them to do just that. That’s right, I’m waiting until such time as the owner of that doll says in a loud, suspicious voice: “Hey, where’s that doll I treasure? The one that I got for Christmas and talked to every day and was really possessive of until suddenly I wasn’t? I can’t find it! Somebody help me! My precious dolly has gone missing! Who took my dolly?!”
Or at the very least, this: “Hey! I tripped over that dolly! MOMMY! WHY DID YOU LEAVE IT THERE FOR ME TO TRIP OVER?!”
Because, technically, it could have been me who left it there. Not sure. I can’t really remember, since it’s stupid January and I am forgetting everything anyway and everything is stupid.
Holy Hell, does my household ever have a case of the January Blues. We have been shuttling one mother of a bad mood amongst ourselves now for as many days at it has been gray. Which I think, is basically all of them since the holidays finished. January blues are real, and they are fierce, and they sneak up on you like a…like a…oh, forget it. I was trying to think of a funny simile, but I lost energy for it.
It got so bad around here that I went full hippie, and burned sage in my children’s room in a failed attempt to ritualize getting the bad juju out. I opened a window and made a big show of chasing away the storm clouds and restless sleeps that have settled in our apartment and set up shop. Out of the five of us, zero people enjoyed this, and then of course the smoke alarm went off, because well, January.
I’m not saying that I’m like Joan Crawford here, I mean, obviously. What I’m trying to say is that I now understand Faye Dunaway’s classic performance of her, and can now appreciate the reasoning behind certain things that were attributed to her, such as an all-day standoff over the consumption of a piece of liver. For just a brief moment, early today, I was willing to go there over a glass of milk. A glass of milk that I knew could make the difference between a happy full stomach, and a hungry child in a crabby mood thirty minutes later.
That’s what January feels like around here right now; a series of stand-offs on the road to sunny weather.
Now eat your liver.
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