So I got this email about a local production of the Nutcracker ballet.
Key juicy points:
1) It was rated on a professional level as: just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2) Tickets were only $5 a person.
3) The show was run by a Russian. And Russians know how to dance.
Things I planned:
1) Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap. So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2) It was a surprise for Murnice. Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling. What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3) I invited Friday Friends. That was a surprise too.
4) Dinner all together after the ballet.
5) Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.
The way it really went down:
1) It really cost $8 per person.
2) There were about 37 people there. All parents and grandparents.
3) I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet. But I'll try.
a. the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers. I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for: way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b. we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker. Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music Clue #2 the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c. there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason. What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats. (Yes, that all happened)
d. the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out. Grown-ups. And they couldn't dance at all. Not in sync for a second. They did the same 4 moves the entire dance. One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards. They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4) Murnice cried. She hated every part of it.
5) Friday Friends never showed up. Nor have they told us why they didn't show up. It's all very fishy.
6) The show lasted 40 minutes. Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7) The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil. And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8) Big D and I fought the whole time.
Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?
Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go. At least I didn't almost die again.
I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.
On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house. Big D said that I looked so lovely. And that my breasts looked lushishly large. (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)
P.S. Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits? I am not ashamed.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Monday, December 9, 2013
Survival, Holy?
A question was posed to us (the congregation) at church, yesterday. Actually two questions.
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)