1. My back hurts. Sure it was cool when he was a wild and swingin' bachelor living in a teensy studio, but the whole bed on the floor thing is just not working anymore. And because, in an effort to go all Ty Pennington, Mr. A decided to build a bed frame (of sorts) and nail it into the box-spring, when it came time to move into our new digs, he figured it would be easier to scrap the whole thing and just bring the mattress. The mattress that then fell off the pickup truck in transit and now bends at an alarming 15 degree angle on one corner. The very mattress I now have to twist, roll, drag, and wobble off of every morning and gracelessly squat and tumble onto every night.
2. Laundry. We are only two people with only four arms and four legs between us. So where the hell are all of these clothes coming from? How can one man run through an average of eight articles of clothing every day? And that's not counting the handful of pieces I find myself discovering under couches and between the closet door and the hamper, daily. Or the endless bath towels. Or my own rotating wardrobe of fat pants and oversized t-shirts. This, coupled with the fact that both our washing machine and dryer are preciously miniaturized versions of proper appliances, means that I spend at least a couple of hours every day in our laundry room just to keep Mr. A in clean work shirts. This isn't to say that I'm any good at it. I can't tell you the number of times I've had to rewash a load because I forgot them all day in the washing machine, or how often I open the dryer only to realize that I never even turned it on.
3. The Postal Service. As you read this, at least three known packages addressed to me are collecting dust on a shelf somewhere in Orlando, Florida. Apparently, my address might as well be somewhere within the Bermuda triangle. Either that, or the only qualification for becoming a Winter Park postal worker is having a pulse. Make sense out of this one: "As of today, your package is currently in transit out of Jacksonville and is scheduled to arrive in Orlando on December 24th" Today is January 11th.
4. This excerpt from an email from my mother. Re: the flowers for her upcoming third wedding: "As far as flowers are concerned, I'm looking for THE simplest bouquet...pretty much anyone can make what I want. Salmon and Gold roses, surrounding a heart shaped cluster (or not) of the Peachy Pink roses Glenn gave me for my birthday. I want that with Ivy vines and crystals (tiny, like dewdrops). No baby's breath." Explanation 100% unnecessary.
5. My bladder. More accurately, the wee child resting on top of it so that his slightest kick or jab sends me running to the bathroom. I've been keeping count, and today I've already gone to pee six times. Six. I'm like that leaky pipe guy from those incontinence commercials, only fat and wobbly and cursing all the way to the toilet.
6. No, seriously, did you read number four?! And let me point out that this will be her third wedding. Which she has asked me to plan. Completely oblivious to the possibility that I might be just a little bit bitter considering the fact that she's flitting around like a schoolgirl in heat, gushing over wedding dresses and flower arrangements for a wedding to a guy she hasn't even known a year-- while I'm six months pregnant and about to get married for the first time in a stinking courthouse. They are in their forties and she is a two time divorcee. They should be the ones having a quiet, simple ceremony that reflects their situation, if they are so desperate to go bolting down the aisle. But hey, let's not let Debbie Downer get in the way of their dream wedding.
7. Being wrong. Apparently my lost packages are only lost because, genius that I am, I never bothered to update the shipping address on my baby registry when I moved. So my packages got here all right, only to sit around for a few weeks at my old apartment and get shipped right back. So now I'm on hold for the seventeenth time with these crazy cats at Target Bombay (sorry, Mumbai) trying to convince them to please, for the love of all that is good and right, just send me my flipping Boppy Bouncer!!! Which reminds me: what the hell is with bad hold music? It's bad enough being on hold for 22 minutes, 39 seconds and counting without having to listen to some scratchy, halting nine minute long recording of "Electric Dreamers (Jillian's Theme)" on flute and Casio keyboard. Make that number 8. Really Shitty Hold Music.
...You know, I thought that somehow having a bit of a vent would do me a world of good. But now I'm just double pissed off and feeling dangerously close to murdering the next person who so much as looks at me without first offering a snack. Oh yeah, and I'm STILL on hold.
With love and what is that, Kenny G?
a.
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