Smile Politely

A little slice of a lotta life

Ain’t Nobody Got Time For That

I often joke that I’m too pretty to do math. Well, I guess I don’t really joke about it. And Friday morning when I found myself breaking a sweat shoveling my driveway, I realized I needed to start a list of things I’m too pretty to do. Only a few hours later, as I was cleaning the cat’s shit box and then taking the garbage to the curb, I thought … what the hell is going on around here? Then I realized: my husband, apparently also known as The Calculator, Mr. Snow Plow, Kitty Litter Manager, and Garbage Man was out of town. Assured it wasn’t a rapid decline in my youthful countenance, my vanity and I quickly poured a glass of victory wine.

The husband was doing time with our older son at St. Louis Children’s Hospital. At six years old, his cystic fibrosis requires somewhat frequent, somewhat routine, typically multiple-day stays, and Brad and I were managing this round in shifts.

Although anxious to be with my son, I felt an obligation to respond to my last few nights at home with a sense of drunken urgency, a bit like a convicted felon about to do serious time. I had to make sure certain favorite foods and drinks were covered before living the celibate life for a few days. I wasn’t quite pouring bottles of pills down my neck, but “excessive” wouldn’t be the wrong word to describe my behavior.

Living like a caricature of my real self, everything I did was exaggerated with the impending threat of sobriety, cafeteria food, and sleepless nights on a hard bench. I always imagined that if I were ever to call a bench my home, I would at least have a bottle in a brown paper bag and some easy conversation with my crazy self to comfort me. No such luck. Even the Jello in this place is booze-free.

I have a few people in my life who are voluntarily laying off the booze these days, for whatever reason. To them I say, good for you. I also say, if I’m going to have to tolerate your sobriety, you’re going to have to tolerate my debauchery. For every detox, there’s a retox. Call it my contribution to a balanced universe. 

The Deer Slayer

Our new car was in the shop last week after my husband smashed into Bambi’s ass on his way home from Charleston. What we now refer to as “The Deer Slayer” got my own ass pulled over on I-57 coming home from class at Eastern. The dumb buck took out the front half of our 2013 car, and driving at night without a headlight tends to draw the wrong kind of attention. A lovely state trooper sent me on my way minutes later with only a cute little warning, and the internal debate I was having prior to my encounter with the Po-Po ended abruptly; I absolutely had a few beers when I got home. It was Fat Tuesday, after all. For a week or so, we mundanely drove a not-so-bitchin’ Corolla, and after a $4,000 facelift, our ride appears to have made a full recovery. If I keep finding myself doing more of life’s unpleasantries, I might have to see what the guys at Gallo-Miller can do for me. 

Spend your Money on this:

Atoms for Peace, Thom Yorke, Flea, and Joey Waronker’s new supergroup drops its debut album, Amok, this week, and thanks to that jack-of-all-trades/musician I’m married to, our copy is already on order. Do yourself a favor and give it a listen. Here’s a link to the deets.

Still livin’ the dream. 

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