life isn’t all fun and games after all
So, I was riding in the car with my husband today, and neither of us was speaking. We had argued about something…or rather nothing. I say nothing because I still don’t know what the argument was actually about. Isn’t that always the way? He shot me a cross glance, I used an unkind tone…and boom! It was like the ninja kitty smack down in the middle of the living room. Teeth bared and claws extended.
We climbed into the car with stony faces, and spoke not a single word. I was scratching notes into my journal, and he was driving. We were heading to Home Depot to buy garden supplies because today was the first nice day of year. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and the space between us was positively vibrating with irritation. It was at that moment that I knew I should have just gone to work. My Saturday was officially ruined.
An SUV full of young men pulled up beside us at a light and the sounds of rap music, laced with profanity, peppered the air around us. Why is it that a bunch of guys in an Escalade can blast profanity from open windows and I can’t drop the f-bomb when I step on something sharp?
I think I may have been a sailor or a pirate in a previous life because I know all the good cuss words, and I’ve even made up a few of my own.
And in my own immortal words…today was a fuck-sandwich!
Is it any wonder that I write? Life is filled with unbelievably impossible moments and sometimes, the only escape is in the form of a creative explosion. And I was unquestionably ready to explode! The pen, as they say, is mightier than the sword—and it has been known to cut deeper and with greater precision than a surgeon’s blade.
So who or what shall I burn in effigy today? Dare I even put it into words for fear of repercussions? Probably not. Maybe I can just blame my ill-timed anger on hormones or lack of sleep. Perhaps, misunderstanding or failed communication. Can I just blame dairy products or caffeine? I certainly can’t blame alcohol, because no one was drinking at my house today. Oh to be Hemingway and blame the dreaded drink.
I once wrote an entire book where the antagonist, (you know, the bad guy) was loosely based on my ex-husband. The exercise allowed me to take out my frustrations and purge him completely from my system. But what do you do when the object of your frustration is something you cannot or will not purge? If you’re me, you quiver with irritation and devise all manner of retaliation. You put pen to paper to go on the attack only to retreat. And then you remember that it’s just one Saturday in a sea of Saturdays.
I think I’ll just blame planting season, and Planet Green. I don’t want to be a vegetarian—or an activist. I just want to entertain people with my mighty pen.
I wonder if Freud would argue that my pen is nothing but a phallic symbol—my whole motivation simple penis envy. After all, I did write “the penis factor.” But I can promise you I am not imagining the male member when I put pen in hand. No, my ideals in that field are far loftier than even a Mont Blanc!
Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to be too pissed off to be funny. Or could I be able to squeeze the humor out of any situation, no matter how dire? It’s often better if I don’t even open my mouth. But my pen—my mighty phallic pen—always knows the right thing to say.
Irritation aside, my husband was on a mission today. To build raised planting beds in the garden. His goal—to have a self-sustaining ecosystem where we are no longer dependent on others for our food. He accepts his limitations. He isn’t expecting to build a wall around us to keep out the angry villagers (not yet anyway); he just wants to grow his own fruit and vegetables.
It is moments like this when I realize the deep similarities between my husband and my father. They are both fighting a battle for their freedoms. Their paths may be different, but their missions…their enthusiasm…are frighteningly alike.
I managed to take a two hour nap while the construction raged on in the rear of our property. I was blissfully unaware of nails pounding into board…of dirt being shoveled…of seeds being sown…instead I lay dreaming of blogs yet to come…stories yet to be told. Ultimately, I love my life. It has its moments—I do fall down a great deal. Yet, I wouldn’t change a single minute…wouldn’t give up a single day. Every dark cloud is filled with the rain that nourishes the flowers…every bad mood is an opportunity to invent new profanities.
Even a fuck-sandwich can be washed down with a glass of warm milk.
Until the next time…I’ll be making up with my husband!