Not Quite Finished

I decided I'm not quite finished....

Remember that lovely, pink, rose splashed bathrobe from one of my earliest posts? Well, I'm wearing it again. I'm quite the site to behold. I look at myself in the mirror, which is just to my right, and I see a woman with crooked black rimmed glasses (they got tweaked beyond repair when I took a dodgeball to the face several months ago. Don't worry, I have a new pair; I only wear these when no one can see me.), wearing a pink bathrobe with, yes, a brown down vest underneath, a modernized, sweetly striped western shirt under that, and a lovely periwinkle Costco cami under that (and that's as many details as you get, dear Blog). I've got on my jeans, which are now too baggy, and my knee high pink and green striped socks, since I was wearing my "Stipper Boots," and then I have on, of course, my slippers.

I'm eating Sweet & Spicy jerkey and sucking down a diet Cherry Limeaid while alternating between the two foreign chocolates that tickle my pallette. (I love you, Lindt!) I ignore the phone as it rings and rings and the messages pile up on the answering machine. Everyone who knows me knows that I rarely answer the phone. My phone message even says, "...and we'll try to return your call, plus or minus 2 weeks." People think I'm just being funny. Actually, I'm just being honest.

Wholey Crapeoly! 21 grams of fat in 3 pieces???? THREE PIECES!! That's absolutely ridiculous! How many pieces have I had now? I think this is my third...ah, who cares (probably the other members of my weightloss team). Afterall, have you seen how I'm dressed? I'm like the Mad Hatter without the hat. Or the fur. Or the ears. Or the large feet and pocket watch. Or the tea party. Okay, okay! So I'm not at all like the Mad Hatter! Leave me alone already!

You see how that works, don't you? I leave the bedroom door cracked just slightly so I can get some heat in here (who's the retard that put the small little vent in this big bedroom?), and I've already been interrupted 5 times in three minutes. Freeze or be interrupted? A toss up? No, I'd rather freeze.

I get angry sometimes. Everyone wants a piece of me. At least it seems like it: Wash this, clean that, sing this, play that, write this, sign that, help here, help there, create this for me, mend this, make that, bake me more bread, grind more wheat, wash this, clean that...

What was I saying?

Oh yes. I've been frustrated, incase you hadn't gathered that through all the ranting and raving I do. (Truly, Mr. Blog, you are my only friend.) I feel like I need a "Pause" button that I can push. Everyone else has to pause when the button is pushed and I can do whatever I want while nice, blue-colored elevator music (if music had a color) plays in the background. I can smash things, scream, rant, rave, dump buckets of paint on the floor, rip heads off Barbie dolls, throw the couch cushions on the floor and jump on them repeatedly (okay, so I probably couldn't do that), speed through the school zones and let my hair go completely wild (have you ever seen me when I wake up? Just grab and 80's magazine and you'll see me without all the makeup and neon. I rather like it. I think it's only appropreate the my inner person be reflected in my unruly hair).

But no, no, no. I have to smile. Be polite. I'm Mrs. B. Mrs. B writes children's music and bakes the neighbors cookies. She hosts luncheons for distinguished women and tea parties for little girls; and even teaches them the etiquette and manners their own mothers don't know to teach them. She shows them where to place their napkin if they have to leave the table before the dinner is finished, which fork to use first, and how to properly thank a hostess for having you over. She's all about "please and thank you," for "they are the magic words. If you want nice things to happen, they're the words that should be heard." Mrs. B is sweet and kind, she's butterflies and flowers, violins and cellos, bunny rabbits and kittens, sugar and spice and everything nice.

Then there's...Zora. She's the Jekyll of Mrs. B. She's pissed off and eats bunnies for breakfast. She wears camo and has an arm band of flames tatooed on her ripped bicep. When the line of needy people approaches her, she selfishly says, "Get it yourself or die trying!" She's sarcastic and naughty, her hair's punked out and she likes her music loud, hot and hard. Her nails are painted in "Pissed Off Red," she drives a jacked up SUV and hits every mud puddle on the road (and doesn't stop for pedestrians--she tries to run them over). She doesn't take crap from anyone and if you're smart, which you are, you'll just stay out of her way...or join her, as she tramples the butterflies and flowers that aggravate her senses.

How can one person be two people?

I believe there is a psychiatric term for that: Ingenious.

Yup, that's me.

(My limeaid is gone and I am now moving onto the ice. Yeah! What wonderful, perfectly sized and textured pieces of ice! I just ate the cherry. How could I eat such a non-human food thing?)

What was I saying? (I just shivered so much the monitor shook!)

Tulips. I forgot to plant them last fall. I was going to line the yard in red tulips, up along the line of the house. And then I didn't. Instead of purchasing the "Tulip Planter Tool," I was just going to put a large bit on the drill and drill myself some holes. I do so enjoy power tools. (Ahh! Who ate all my ice while I was busy typing? And why are there 5 pieces of chocolate missing?) I am totally pathetic with a hammer (I can always hit my thumb, garaunteed) but give me some power tools and I'm practically Tim the Tool Man Taylor.

Did you know I once dropped a staple gun on my forehead? I did. I was putting up the party lights on the back patio, stapling them into the joists while up on the ladder. Somehow I got interrupted, left the staple gun on top the ladder so little people couldn't find it, then, when I got back to work, forgot that I had placed the gun atop the ladder. Hence, I went to move the ladder to the next location. It was one of those slow-motion moments. As I moved the ladder I thought, "Oh crap," as I watched the staple gun fall smack dab onto my forehead. I didn't try to catch the gun, as I new I'd drop the ladder, possibly break a window or ding the vinyl, so I just took it like a man; I didn't grin, but I bared it. Luckily, it didn't fire. But I did, oh yes I did, have a perfect imprint of the staple end of the staple gun right in the middle of my forehead.

That really hurt.

I wore my hat for the next few weeks, and almost took a male friend to "The Gun Show" when he playfully came up and flicked the brim of my hat. After heavy breathing and nearly ripping his arm off (and scaring him half to death), I took my hat off to reveal my wound, which he'd just aggravated. After his face became unscrunched and the grimace left his mouth, he couldn't stop laughing. How many people do YOU know who've dropped a staple gun on their forehead?

But I'm that type of person. I attract odd disasters like a polyester leisure suit attracts old men in mid-calf black socks and sandels.

And now I'm tired of talking to myself. And I need to get rid of some of that large Cherry Limeaid.

So yes, I am no longer "Not quite finished." I am now finished and will, therefore, go find something more productive to do.