Life with a Flatted Fifth

The Preschoolers think it's hilarious that I used to be a baby.

"Every animal on earth used to be a baby," I say, "even me," I say, and they roll around on the floor like apples, laughing hysterically.

First of all, they can't wrap their little brains around the fact that we're all animals. They think, if we're animals, we should at least have tails. So then we riff on that for a few, imagining what our tails would look like, how they would move, etc. Teaching Preschool is a jazz thing. You go where it takes you.

Eventually Cali, who tends to remain introspective on the sidelines, raises her hand (not her tail) and shares with the class that, yes, she believes all of us were once babies, because her dad, who is very old, is still a baby, at least that's what her mom says.

This time I'm the one laughing.

Thus one of the fundamental laws of the universe is proved anew: everything is relative. Cali's father, who Cali regards as ancient, is young enough to be my...well, let's just say he's young enough. Meanwhile, here I am, older than Methuselah, still walking the planet. Make that shuffling.

My husband of late (I mean, he's my final husband, who has lately said this) has added a new item to his list of grievances: you know you're getting older when you wake up in the morning and injure yourself brushing your teeth. As for me, I'm content with waking up in the morning. Make that thrilled. Make that overjoyed.

These days, this is no small feat. Because we got Trouble in River City, pal, with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for Parenting. Which infers the existence of One Who Is Parented, am I right? But forget Parented. Make that One Who Is. Because whether any parenting actually took or not is, in light of recent developments, Debatable. With a capital D and that rhymes with C and that stands for...

...coy. But I'm not trying to be. I just don't feel like talking about it any more. When you have an eighth grader living in your house -- let alone this particular eighth grader -- you start to sound like a broken record. Actually, you start to look like a broken record.

So...if I don't want to talk about it, why am I bringing it up? Because to go around pretending like everything's the same old drunken brawl it's always been is nothing if not dishonest. But forget dishonest. It's just nothing. And I'm not ready to talk about nothing. That last being an example of the language skills of the unfortunate person who called to report the latest alleged bad behavior of One Who Is:

"Them sweaters was designers," the unfortunate person reported, "every last one."

Which caused every last one of my hairs to raise. Or is it rise? Being a lifetime member of the Grammar Police and current acting Grand Poobah, I moved immediately to strike the above testimony from the record. Not the broken one, the other one. I mean, when one's default tongue is Kansas Trailer Park, one's credibility is highly questionable, am I right?

In the end, it's all relative. And it's always a relative, isn't it? I try to remind myself that the eighth grader was once a baby, too. I try to remember her curls and her dimples and her fat little fingers patting my cheek. These days, her hair is straightened and she scowls and she'd just as soon punch me as look at me. That's how it feels. More broken records. Broken promises. Broken hearts. I'm starting to turn into someone I don't want to be. I look in the mirror and Mickey Rourke stares back at me. I might as well have a tail.

Parenting. Preschooling. Shuffling. Policing. In the end, it's all jazz.

Every Breath I Take

Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Anything you may have heard regarding an accident is closer to the truth.

The truth is, I fell out of an outhouse. And I have one word for you: bruised ribs. I'm not talking barbecue, bubba, that's braised ribs. I'm talking a pain worse than childbirth. Well, not really, but I wanted to get your attention.

(You there? Haven't seen you in awhile.)

I had bruised ribs once before in my long long life (braised, too, back when I still thought meat grew from a seed, like lettuce), after I developed a bad case of bronchitis in Junior College. That's what we called it in the Olden Days. I coughed so long and so hard I blew out a rib and had to resort to Class A narcotics. Probably that's when the ol' addiction gene really kicked in. Yo, Doc, yank out my ribs, every last one, just gimme some more of them pills.

Prior to that my drug of choice had been thumb-sucking. I sucked until I was fourteen, when I acquired a boyfriend, who sufficed until I discovered controlled substances.

No doubt my thumb-sucking commenced in the womb. But the first recorded evidence of my sucking occurred on my second birthday, when I was found crouched beneath my parents' bed, thumb cocked. My parents snapped a photo to commemorate the event. I'd gone to the mattresses to lay low after having gouged an opportunistic fistful from the center of my birthday cake as it sat waiting for the party to begin.

Which has been my rallying cry ever since: LET THE PARTY BEGIN!!

In my book, no occasion is too lowly to warrant a celebration. Found the car keys? Crack a couple cold ones. Woke up? Break out the champagne. Explains how I happened to fall out of an outhouse. After all, the moon was full, no pun intended. In my book a full moon is tantamount to the Sesquicentennial. I started partying at 97% illumination and didn't let up until my blood alcohol had reached a similar percentage.

(Still with me?)

The outhouse in question is two stories high. Which sort of describes me that night. It isn't actually used as an outhouse any more. Which sort of allows me to save face. But I got the shit kicked out of me anyway, face or no face.

The fact that this blog was ghost-written over the summer by my identical cousin from Jersey might also have contributed to those pesky death rumors. It seemed like a good idea at the time, my having developed a bad case of writer's block, which could only be treated with Class A narcotics. I mean, we laugh alike, we walk alike, at times we even talk alike. But my cousin's linguistic style is less, shall we say, rampant than mine, no two writers being exactly alike. I mean, if we were, you could lose your mind.

Speaking of which, I'm rapidly losing what little I have left dealing with this pain. Now I know what Adam must've felt like, walking around naked in Paradise, minus a rib, begging God to create Ativan. You could say it only hurts when I breathe. (You could say it, go ahead.) Even though, being of Buddhist leanings, I only breathe once an hour, still, it's a painful breath. An excruciatingly painful breath. Sesquicentennially painful. Child-birthingly painful.

I mean, I accidentally laughed once last week and suddenly found myself moving down a long tunnel toward a bright light, the faces of dead relatives taking shape around me in the mist. Let me tell you, that did it. The writing was on the (outhouse) wall. And it's been a long long time coming. Right then, right there, I made a vow: No more laughing. I'd finally had it, the last laugh.

At least until my ribs heal. Meanwhile, I think we should start calling it the in-and-outhouse. But that's just me.

(Gone for a moonwalk...

...back in awhile)