The Chronicles of Marge

Christmas Eve Greetings

Just to report: I am the ONLY person other than what seems to be three admins and one very tall man in the office today. I did, however, get a free chicken biscuit from a coworker this morning who bought them for the sad, sorry lot of us. I ate the chicken biscuit just minutes after I finished my original breakfast of banana bread and green tea. I'll worry with the side effects of inhaling two breakfasts in a couple of days. Sigh.

But not all is bleak. I am wearing the single most disgusting ensemble I’ve ever donned at the office. I felt so unmotivated that I didn’t even change out of my sports bra that I wore on the bike ride in once I got to work. Yeah, my boobs are totally comfortable today, and my office mate is really glad she isn't here.

On top of that, there is no one here to witness the large-ass fever blister that I have developed on my lower lip or the ugly-ass sty that I have developed on the lower lid of my right eye. That’s right, folks—I may not be a canine that just had its blood drawn with the most abysmal results EVER (don't ask about this, but trust me that it is true and recently happened), but I am a woman who has to go to a Christmas Eve service tonight where there will be people from her adolescence in attendance who she hasn’t seen in a decade and the first thing they will think is "WTF is wrong with her damn ugly eye!"

Quasimodo lives. Merry effin’ Christmas.

 

Deer and Dishwashers

Sitting here having a really dead moment at work. Not actually thinking about death or the large-ass dead deer in the bike lane that I had to maneuver around on my way to work this morning, which caused me to be all, "Oh my gosh, that is gross." But then it made me think about supper.

Anyway, it also reminded me of the story my sister Kat once told of driving on the interstate through the Deep South—Mississippi or Alabama or somewhere similar and desolate—and witnessing a man who had stopped in the median and was skinning a dead deer that had been hit by a car. I shit you not. These people exist (and considering the fact that my dad brought home a dead fox in the trunk of his car once means that I'm also RELATED to these crazy fools. I can just see the headlines now: Woman on Bike With Dead Deer Strapped to Handlebars Pleads Genetics in Case of Misdemeanors Involving the Removal of Roadkill from the Highway).

So what's new, you might ask? Not much. I haven't seen the sun since Sunday—it is Thursday now. And although it has been pretty balmy out for December, I feel like my vitamin D level has dropped to an all-time low and will require a vacation in the Caribbean to recover. Or the arrival of spring, which is the more likely option.

The other news: the kitchen remodel has begun. I don't even think I should call what we are doing a remodel—I mean, where do the thin lines between renovate, remodel, and DESTROY AND REBUILD exist? Yeah, this will be a phoenix project for sure—or at least we hope something great will arise from the ashes. It may also begin the waltz down the aisle of divorce for me and Jason. I know, I shouldn't joke about divorce (and if you are worried or hopeful, please note that we aren't getting one and never will—as my mother so thoughtfully reassured my childhood self on more than one occasion, "Your father and I will never get a divorce; we can't afford it," yes my mind is at ease now, mother), but nothing puts the topic on the conversation radar quite like disconnecting your dishwasher from the In-Sink-Erator and ending up with a vomit-type liquid that smells like decomposing intestines on your kitchen floor. Yeah, we wondered why the defunct dishwasher would spontaneously fill up with a puddle of gray, putrid fluid, and we now know where that came from. Give us a couple of months, and that accursed garbage disposal will end up where the dishwasher now resides: In Our Driveway.

I don't know why, but there's something rather comforting and nostalgic about broken appliances taking up residence in the yard—wait. I know, it reminds me of my childhood. Thanks mom and dad.

From Mother With Love

On Tuesday I received a package from my mother in the mail. Let me preface: I love my mother and I appreciate her rearing of me—not a simple task—and her continued support of me as an adult in spite of my many crises involving sewing machines and trips to the fabric store and my inability to take a good picture. But one thing that we’ve never quite reached a healthy balance on is the purchasing of clothing items as gifts. It should never be done.  My mother should never buy me a piece of clothing, and in support of myself in this quest, I will never buy her a piece of clothing. Hats, gloves, and scarves are the exceptions. As well as socks.

So I opened the package with great hope that maybe this would be the year that we reached that magical balance, that an H&M had opened up in Lexington, of all places, or that my mother had discovered Urban Outfitters. Alas, this was not the case. In her defense, I will say that the package was full of cheer—it included a bag of Christmas candy and a note (coauthored by my mom and Lucy, my sister's dog) that said, “Cookies and candy from me.” There weren’t any cookies included in my package, but my sister Katharine informed me that her note said, “Candy from me,” and she received cookies and candy "FOR JASON." Yeah—I know where I fall on the Favorite Daughter Ladder to the Apple of Her Parents’ Eyes. Also in my mother’s defense, the other item in the package was purchased at the goodwill of my grandmother, who wanted to send each of her granddaughters something red to wear at Christmas. Again, a lovely thought and another reason why I think my grandmother is great.

If only I could figure out if the item of clothing was meant to be a dress or a shirt. Maybe The World can help. Behold the following three exhibits. (World: please note that my midsection is not shaped like the trunk of a tree. Underneath that swath of sweater lies a well-defined waist, hips, and rear, as well as a nearly flat set of abs.)

Exhibit A: With Pants
 

Exhibit B: From the School of Lindsay Lohan: Leggings Should Be Worn With EVERYTHING

Exhibit C: The World Is My Gynecologist

Yeah, that’s frighteningly close to the Promised Land down there. Jason thinks I should wear Exhibit C to our Sunday School Christmas party tonight. Imagine the ruckus it will cause when I perform the 12 Days of Christmas dance—Seven Swans a Swimming, oh yeah.

If only I hadn’t already exchanged the garment for some hypoallergenic pillow protectors from the linens department at my local Belk.

A Week of Blah

I’m hoping the 65 degrees of warmth that I sweated through on the way home from work today will mark a turn in my December mood. If not, I count on the 70 degrees forecasted for tomorrow because something’s gotta give—the Season of Advent hasn’t done much for my emotional health thus far.

First of all, yesterday was the second morning in less than a week that my water bottle was frozen when I arrived at work. Let me peel away the tough façade of Marge and admit something: I’m struggling with cycling in below-freezing temperatures. I’ve succeeded in maintaining warmth in all my extremities except my hands, which really sucks because I’m not in favor of losing those in support of Mother Earth. I mean, just take me out totally, please—I will gladly give my life in pursuit of reducing carbon emissions, but my hands? Nope. I’ve seen the documentary of those Everest survivors on PBS, and that’s not the look I’m going for. And then there is that first deep breath that you take in through your nose. The ones through your mouth aren’t so bad, but through the nose…it’s the equivalent of shoving ice up your ass or something. Although I’ve never really tried that and don't think I will for fear that it would permanently incapacitate my colon.

Second point for yesterday, after I changed clothes at work and took a glance in the mirror, I noticed that you could see my bright pink sports bra through my blue sweater. Great. Now everyone in the building will know that I think so highly of my time spent in the office as to not even prop by boobs up in any sufficient manner while punching the clock.

And then, as yesterday day progressed, I developed the disposition of a wet sock stuck on a high school locker room floor. PMS is over, I tell you, so we’ll mark this one up to our good ‘ole friend Mr. Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Today didn’t fare much better, but I’m hoping that in addition to the warm weather, the glass of wine and plate full of runny brie that I had for dinner might help, although the possibility that I will regret the brie in two days’ time exists.

This all started last week during a bout of raging, possibly PMS-induced hormones and one 10-hour day at the office, which made my blood boil a bit. By Friday, I thought the chaos neared dissipation, but at about 2 p.m., I entered the deep doldrums caused by none other than our annual Secret Santa gift exchange among the seven ladies of the Editorial Services Department.

The rules were as follows: anonymously leave your gift(s) for your person between December 2 and 5. Then on Monday, we’ll have a show and tell. By Friday afternoon, everyone in the office had received a gift except me, and I was starting to wonder if I had been forgotten. By 3 p.m., I convinced myself that my Secret Santa had left my gift on my bike, which was parked downstairs. This was a mistake. Also a mistake: I had worked out who everyone’s Secret Santa was. So knowing this, I knew who my person was, and when said person sent out an e-mail that she was going home early because her dog had consumed “a BUNCH of water” and needed to be let out to pee, I thought my chances looked slim.

And they were: there was nothing adorning Betty Blue’s handlebars when I left work. So there I was, pedaling through the cold—a 30-year-old woman in spandex and fleece on the verge of tears while maneuvering through a four-lane highway intersection through rush-hour traffic all because she felt forgotten and obviously unimportant to her Secret Santa—at least compared with the Secret Santa’s dog. And don’t get me wrong, I get it—I really do. Dogs are important. Urinary functioning is important. I mean, Jason has to come home and let me out all the time to keep me from peeing on the door mat. He really hates that shit—and sometimes he has to come home to take care of that too. But I think most people would have figured out a way over the four-day period to fit their Secret Santa person in between their dog’s bladder needs.

So I spent the weekend feeling rather down and wondering if there was anything likeable about me at all, and feeling a little bit angry toward my person for being, what I considered, a bit of a punk.

And then I walked into work yesterday morning, and there was my gift, lying on my desk. And when I opened it—a hiking guide to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park—I realized something. My person might have actually forgotten about me during last week’s dealings with vast amounts of dog urine. But at the end of the day, she had listened to me when I had shared with her my interest for getting to know the Smokies better, and she got me a very thoughtful gift—one that I will actually use and enjoy. And I realized that maybe I was the punk—that I was letting my winter funk get the best of me in a season in which the old cliché rings true: it really means much more to be a cheerful giver than sulky wannabe receiver.