Thursday, August 27, 2009
TO BREED OR TO BROOD
Damn. I turn my back for a few weeks and suddenly the childless whore is married with spawn? Obviously I've fallen down the rabbit hole into bizzaro world. It's really creepin' me out. But congrats. I guess.
You think you're creeped out. Every morning I wake up and say, "Whose kid is that yelling and why doesn't someone do something about it so I can get some goddamn sleep around here?" Imagine my alarm when I realize that it's my kid, and not only that, there's another one in the next room, one that's smaller and soils herself every few hours, plus there's a man in my bed, one who seems just as alarmed and out of sorts as I am. Apparently this man and I are having the same crazy dream, only we're awake and it never ends.
This morning, my dream involved waking up at 3:30 a.m. to feed a gigantic, bald baby, then waking again at 5:30 a.m. to pump breastmilk using a horrifying torture device that was nonetheless hauntingly familiar, as if I had used it many times before. After breast-torture came my alarming discovery of a 6-lane freeway of ants leading from under the dishwasher into the trash can in my "kitchen." Nightmare-style, I stood unawares, hand-washing the breast-torture attachments at the sink, and felt an ant crawling up my leg, only to look down and discover the 405 of ant superhighways racing under my feet (my bare feet, mothefuckers! My motherfucking BARE FEET, MOTHERFUCKERS!). I spent the next 2 solid minutes brushing ants, both real and imaginary, off my half-naked body while whispering "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god" under my breath, an admirable bit of restraint mid-panic-attack. Then I went into my "bedroom" and awoke my "husband" (still whispering "oh my god, oh my god"). Finally I was able to communicate using the words, "um, sorry, honey, but major, major ant catastrophe unfolding in the kitchen." See how like a "wife" I sounded? Like I said, creepy.
After that, I tried to calm myself down by drinking some tea (not tequila) and I thanked my "husband" for handling the ants (instead of mumbling something cynical and ushering him out the door) and I fed the enormous baby again using only my breasts, also enormous. That part was cool. Then the bigger kid woke up and made a series of demands, but instead of telling her to go fuck herself I politely requested that she say please, then granted most of her stupid requests.
It was fucking bullshit.
Then I drove her to daycare and on the way there I saw a fire of biblical proportions raging in the hills, a column of brown smoke billowing into the already-smoke-filled, smoggy air, and instead of turning on some dreary music to match the apocalyptic mood, I spoke brightly to my child of the great wonder and excitement of firefighters fighting gigantic fires, and my child babbled happily about how she wanted a "little girl hose" so she could fight fires, too. That was patently stupid, but I trilled about what a great idea it was like a lobotomized baboon.
Now I invite you to say that I've lost my edge. Please, tell me I've lost my edge, because what I'll say to you is that, rather than worry about losing my fucking edge, I pray to the merciful imaginary gods above that they will take away my edge forever and ever, because my edge doesn't do shit for me anymore. Maybe my edge mattered when I was a childless whore and therefore had to the time to fumble through enormous bins of cds at indie music establishments or to read interesting shit or to ponder big questions while sipping on icy coffee concoctions with my idle friends. But these days, my edge is just something that gets in the way. My edge sets my fucking teeth on edge when I'm vacuuming quickly before I do another load of laundry before I get to work on my column before I finish revising the third chapter of my book before I walk the dogs before I pick up my "child" from daycare.
My edge makes me angry and tired and makes me wish I could lay in bed eating cookies and reading bad magazines like I used to. I would rather be devoid of edges. I would rather be round. Rounder.
So yeah, I'm creeped out, too. But I still have my edge, and some little sharp, sticky, jagged, rusty part of my edge, the edgy edge of my edge, feels strangely compelled to tell you to fuck yourself, with your "you creep me out" horse shit. You creep me out. So there.
I'm not nearly grown up enough to deal with how grown up I am, and neither are you. That makes us equally creepy. So congrats. I guess.