I like nice quiet times.  I don’t get them often.  I think perhaps, in a former life, if there IS such a thing as a former life, which I don’t actually believe in, but if there WAS a former life, I must have been a quiet, contemplative, learned scholar who was single, rich and well thought of.

 

Wouldn’t THAT be nice, eh?

 

The reality is quite different.  I am a slightly over fifty, Caucasian female, with a plethora of wrinkles, grey hair, sags, stretch marks, a deeper than normal voice which means that I get mistaken for a man on the phone more than I am realized a woman on the phone, as well as a general air of tiredness and sometimes emotional bankruptcy.

 

Well, my attitude is that I earned every stretch mark, sag and grey hair and I will wear them proudly.

 

Scorning make up.  Not ugly enough to stop traffic. Not fat enough to draw stares in public.  Not evil enough to scare small children (darn it! – I have a few that need scared too!).

 

I dress up well.  I laugh because on the rare day when there is a wedding or funeral, everyone I meet says – “Oh! You look SO NICE when you are fixed up, you should do this more often!”

 

Piss off. Okay?

 

I am happy if I am able to get up in the mornings.  Functionality is a blessing for me.

 

My day started OUT quiet. The going to be FOURYEARSOLD-INSEVENDAYS  (all one word in HER vocabulary) came in and crawled into bed with me and dear husband at 7 a.m.

 

Now THAT is a glorious thing.  There is NOTHING in the world quite as cuddly at 7 a.m. as a golden haired, rosy cheeked, smiling three year old.  I don’t want her to be four.  I like her three.

 

Going back to sleep for a few, arms around the baby.  Priceless.

 

And then….(ominous music), the DAY inserted itself in my consciousness.

 

ARRRGGGGHHH!

 

My morning bathroom was interrupted.  GRRRR.  Is it too much to ask that a family RESPECT a closed bathroom door?  You’d think not, but you’d be WRONG.

 

Someone asked, why are we raising our grandchildren?  Okay, there is just no genteel way to say this.  One of our four children, all of whom were raised the same, became a heroin addict.  Yeppers.  A junkie. And, she has two children. 

 

We took her to court and took the kids away.  That’s what happens when you start to majorly screw up.  Consequences.  They are OUT THERE waiting to jump on you and slap you in the face. 

 

I have now been interrupted seven times.  The two neighbor boys knocked on the door to see if the kids could play.

 

The son came home from his job interview.  The baby needed wiped.

 

The elves didn’t come last night.  I have waited 51 years for the elves to come.  Every night when I was too tired to clean the kitchen before I went to bed, I prayed for the elves.

 

They came the other night.

 

Last night, I went to bed really tired.  It was 2 a.m.  I didn’t empty the dishwasher.  The elves were up.  Talking to dear husband.  The elves went to bed without cleaning my kitchen.

 

Even elves aren’t reliable. What is the world coming too?

 

I think I would like to be a pirate.  Not to really hurt people.  The kind of pirate that you want to be when you are 7 or 8 years old.  You know, swashbuckling.  Fun.  Cool.  Breaking all the rules.  That kind of pirate.  Sort of eccentric, not caring about regulations.

 

If I hit the lottery, there is a plethora of things I could do.  A number of them I MIGHT do.  But one thing I would WANT to do, I would never do, well, because it is not very practical.

 

Buy an island.  Move there.  Equip it with all the comforts of civilization.

 

Retire.