All I wanted in life when my kids were little was an outhouse. I dreamed of what it would be like to go to the bathroom without two little kids lying on their bellies trying to watch me through the crack at the bottom of the closed bathroom door.
"Mama! What are you doing?" they would ask without fail.
"I'm in here eating chocolate cake and ice cream so that I don't have to share with you." I would tease.
( "What the heck do you think I'm doing in here?") I'd wonder.
My daughter, who is two and a half years older than my son, would giggle. My son, who was a bit slower on the uptake would whine.
"I want some cake!" and I would hear him sniffle.
So my dream was to have my own private outhouse where I could go at will without interruption. I dreamed of nailing a handmade sign on its door which would read PRIVATE CLUBHOUSE. KEEP OUT!!
Of course this never happened and eventually the kids lost interest in what mama was doing behind that door. (The dog, however, still likes to scooch down on her belly, stick her nose in that crack and snort. But that's another story.)
Now, I no longer have need for my PRIVATE CLUBHOUSE. Now I need a WHINE CELLAR.
My back yard is large enough to accommodate this. All I would need is a backhoe and a cement truck and I could make this a reality. I dream of banishing all the whiners in my life to this place in the ground. And there would be a lot of them.
Take my daughter. My beautiful girl ran away from home a few weeks ago. Well, at 22 I suppose that's a bit misleading. Except she did, on a complete whim, move back to Tallahassee to be with her rotgut old friends and her deranged, drug addicted high school ex-boyfriend.
I am not pleased with her. And she can tell.
Hers a snippet of a phone call I had with her last night.
"I don't feel like I'm a part of our family any more."
"I'm sorry you feel that way."
"Mom! Why don't you want me to be happy?"
"I'm glad you re happy, my love."
She begins to weep.
"Mom! You don't phone me any more."
"Well, I tried but you don't answer your phone."
"That's because my feelings are hurt."
I end up by sending her money for a bus ticket home. And I'm thinking to myself, all I want for Christmas is a whine cellar to put all the whiners in.
Earlier that day, my son's girlfriend (Fiance? I'm not sure any more what her relation to my son is.) wanted to talk with me.
"Hi momma!" (she's learned I melt when she calls me that, fool that I am..you would think I'd have learned better by now..)
"I tried on wedding dresses today and found one but it costs $1,000. I look beautiful in it!"
I glance at my son who is beaming.
"Um, ma, we were, um, wondering...do you think y'all could help pay for our wedding?"
The whining begins... from the both of them.
"Get thee to the whine cellar, both of y'all!" is what I'm thinking..
Now I work hard. I love my job because I work in a bookstore. And I love the people I work with. The first person I always see in the mornings is Judy. Judy runs our bistro and used to be the happiest person I knew. Not any longer. Now she is of late a miserable cuss who spends all her awake hours bitching. This woman can bitch up such a storm that sometimes I sit back and think how much i admire her tenacity to hold on to slights in her life. Now, tho, I'm tired of it.
"Get thee sorry hiney to the Whine Cellar, Judy!" i think to myself.
Yesterday, I did a little Christmas shopping for the whiners in my life and decided to have my nails done while I was out and about. The salon is run by a Vietnamese family. None of them speak English. The matriarch of this family perches down in the chair next to me and begins to complain...in Vietnamese..to her son who is my manicurist.
I do not understand Vietnamese so this hour long, nonstop tirade, begins to sound like a cross between a meditation mantra and a speaking in tongues. At first it was tolerable but soon became highly irritating and I could not wait to get out of there and away from her mouth.
(I have to admit something awful right now; I am presently reading an excellent book Called 'American Psycho' about the mind of a serial killer whose murderous method of choice is to slowly hack his victims into shreds. I thought of this as I notice manicure scissors on the table next to my hand. I quickly and shamefully disregard any notion I have of using these on this whining woman. It was a fleeting thought, but an alarming one, nonetheless.)
"Get thee to my Whine cellar, mamasan." I think to myself.
Okay, okay, having a whine cellar dug into my back yard is bit over the top. I know it's not gonna happen. But I need a break from all this constant whining. And I know exactly what I am going to do...
I am going to lock myself in the bathroom. And eat chocolate cake and ice cream.
And I'm not sharing.
Week Three Summary
3 years ago