Monday, May 12, 2014

Psycho Killer

As I plunge into the dark depths of middle age, I've begun waking up periodically throughout the night.  Sometimes it's aggressively irritating and other times I just go with it, listening to the sounds of my bedroom, the whir of my menopause fan (affectionately known as Pausey) and the roar of the bear, I mean husband, snoring next to me.  Last night was one of those nights where I just went with it and let my thoughts go where they wanted, but where they went was kind of weird.  I started thinking about how vulnerable we are when we surrender to sleep with another person lurking, I mean sleeping, right next to us.  What is more trusting than to lie down next to someone and say, "Okey dokey, I'm going to be unconscious for the next eight hours so don't do anything I wouldn't do!" 

You can live with someone for fifty years, but you don't really know what kind of sociopathic thoughts they may have bouncing around inside them.  A smart psycho isn't going to tell you they are a crazed killer, they're going to hide it!  But because all of us must have sleep we make assumptions based on our partner's past behavior.  For example, I haven't awoken to find my husband standing over me with death in his eyes therefore I have no reason to expect him to go Clockwork Orange on me while I slumber.    (fingers crossed) 

So based on our assumptions and some amount of insanity/stupidity we trust each other with our lives every night.  Every night my husband has complete trust that I won't be pushed over the edge by his nocturnal rumblings and rise up to plunge a butcher knife him while he dreams of double IPAs.  That is some serious trust cause his snoring is ridiculous.

I, in turn, trust he will not slit my gut open to let my entrails slide out onto the floor where our dumb dog will eat them faster than you can say, "dropped bacon."   I trust him despite the many reasons he may have for midnight revenge- I forgot his fish oil pills (again), I hit the garage with the car (again), I let the kids drink the last of his chocolate milk (again), the list goes on and on!

Yet, we sleep next to each other, not peacefully because he sometimes sounds like he is swallowing a cactus and I haven't had a solid night's sleep since I gave birth to the sleep-takers (aka my children), but respectfully trusting each other not to take a life.  Now, if that isn't a solid marriage, I don't know what is.

And that's what I thought about last night.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Funk Family

I don't know what smells worse, my kids or their dog, but either way our house is bathed in the essence of funk.  I've spent a small fortune on Febreeze candles to try and burn out the stank,  I regularly spray Lysol like I'm trying to delouse the Huntsville Gen Pop, and I leave doors open to air out the foulness despite the influx of mayflies, yet the funk remains.

So, who let the stink out?  Well, despite all my efforts to teach my children good personal hygiene, they are swamp people who prefer to stew in their own juices.   It's a real low point of motherhood when your six year old son walks by and you catch a whiff of sewage wafting from his bottom region and you realize a secondary clean -up crew (yours truly) is going to have to get in there pronto with a power washer.  Or you walk into your nine year old daughter's room to be physically repelled by an invisible wall of super funk because using soap in the shower is for losers.

I knew raising kids would be difficult, but what I did not know is, it would be such a violent assault on my olfactory senses.  Yikes.  And I would never have dreamed there could be so many different malodorous scents emanating from two little bodies!  They're like that jungle flower that looks good, but smells like rotten flesh. 

Now, they would, and often do, blame the dog and to be fair, the dog smells, well, like a dog.  But I can hardly blame the dog for smelling like dog.  At least he smells like the animal he is unlike the small humans I live with who often smell like old, dank, ass.

Of course, the more I resist the more it persists so maybe I should embrace their necrotic bouquet and find a positive outlet for dealing with it.  Like keeping a journal where I record each child's daily perfume:

May 9, 2014:  Today, Daughter smelled like feet and onions.  I watched a rose whither and die as she went past.

June 5, 2014:  Son smells more like dog than our dog.  At first, I thought he was attracting blow flies, but then realized they were just regular old flies.

May 26, 2014:  Daughter memorialized the American worker by smelling like a sewage-treater after a double-shift.  Happy Memorial Day!

July 4, 2014:  Son showed his independent spirit today by projecting the delicate aroma of burnt turd.


You see, I'm a positive thinker who finds a way to cherish all aspects of my funkified children. 

Happy Mother's Day.