The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Archive for the ‘things that make me mad’ Category

For a while, I wasn’t sleeping at all at night.  Total insomnia.  To the point that I started worrying a little bit after oh, say 9:00 p.m.  I built it up in my head.  I know I won’t be able to sleep.  I know it.  I’ll get into bed and lay there for hours.  I was tired, exhausted even; but the minute my head hit the pillow I laid there, wide awake. 

here’s me.  not sleeping.

Things got better for a while, thanks to my good friend Southern Comfort.  I was able to break through whatever it was keeping me awake and actually get some real rest at night.  Whatever cycle I had been experiencing was over, apparently.  
 
At least, that’s what I thought. 
 
It was a Sunday like many other Sundays.  The cars started. It rained but we didn’t get water in our basement.  The dog didn’t run away.  Dinner was good.  Nothing earth shattering.   
 
However, Sunday night around 10:30 p.m., my husband and I kissed each other good night, as we always do, cuddled for approximately 10.7 seconds until it got wayyyy too hot, and then turned over to our respective spots.  I hadn’t even given my sleeplessness a thought.  I burrowed further into the covers.   

And laid there.  A half hour went by.  I knew my husband was awake.  He knew I was awake too because he says my eyes make a sound when I blink.   

We laid there some more.  And laid there.  Another half hour went by and…  

…we’re still awake.  And I’m thinking, what the hell?  

I get up and pee to break the monotony.  I am quiet and careful, reluctant to jostle my husband or bounce the bed.  I know where the squeaky floorboards are and avoid them, drawing on years of experience with fretful babies and a father who worked midnights.  I don’t use any lights, even in the bathroom.  I climb back into bed with the stealth of a ninja. 

Having taken care of that, I snuggle back down.  I think, any time now I’ll fall fast asleep.  I close my eyes and try to count sheep but end up mentally composing a story about them instead. 

I hear my son come in at midnight.  He doesn’t wake me up because I’m not asleep.  He knows after years of sneaking in how to hold the bells on the door so they don’t make a noise when he opens it.  He too is familiar with the floorboards and is able to avoid the squeaky ones.  He pees and goes to bed.   

Now my husbandgets up to pee.  He is not silent and careful like I am.  He was a bachelor for 45 years and never had to be quiet for a sleeping wife or child.  Everyone knows he’s up because he uses every light he can on the endless ten foot trip to the bathroom.  He has owned the home longer than my children have drawn breath and yet doesn’t know the path to take on the wooden boards to avoid making excess noise. 

He stomps back to our room and swings himself back into bed like an orangutan, then proceeds to thrash around on the bed trying to get comfortable.  Good God, I think.  He moves more than a kid in a bouncy house. 

Unbelievable.  I wait until he is settled and I blink several times in a row, loudly, in retaliation. 

Shortly after he gets back to bed, my daughter is up.  She has inherited her mother’s ability to walk catlike in a sleeping household.  She also has inherited her mother’s sneakiness and I know she’s going outside to have a cigarette.  She is fooling no one.    She too knows to hold the bells on the door as she comes back in and creeps back to her room, stopping in the bathroom, also to pee. 

Ok, I think.  Now that we’ve all ensured there would be no bedwetting, we’ll all get to sleep. 

Husband whispers to me.  “Are you awake?”
 
I whisper back. “Yes, what’s the deal with this?  I’m so tired and I just can’t fall asleep!  Is there some giant geometry test I didn’t study for?  A project I didn’t turn in?  Because the only time I can’t sleep is when I’m fretting.  And for the life of me, I don’t have anything to really fret about.”
Husband whispers again. “I can’t sleep either!  And I think Annie is smoking!”
No shit, Sherlock, I think.  Only for like six months now.  Out loud, I say, “Gosh, I hope not.”  And then I think, why are we whispering, anyway?  We’re all awake.
During the course of the sleepless night from hell, husband ends up sleeping in the living room on his chair.  I must be experiencing some sort of menopausal symptoms, as I am either freezing or too hot, and eventually make my own way out to the living room as well where I lay wide eyed on the couch for two hours, with a floor fan three inches from my face.
4:41 a.m.  I haven’t slept at all.  I briefly drift off and dream I’m in a wind tunnel.
4:42 a.m.  Husband turns on a new age music channel on cable.  It reminds me of the nightmare that was his deviated septum surgical recovery and I fight the urge to throw up.
5:00 a.m.  We should probably just stay up.  However, I don’t come from a family of quitters.  I get up and stumble down the hallway to the much more comfortable bed and that’s all I remember, because I sink into the most blissful sleep anyone has ever experienced. 
For about one hour.  It’s not enough.  I’m so tired and frustrated I want to punch someone.  However, it is at this time I smell fresh coffee. 
One thing my husband manages to do quite well is the coffee.  And I firmly believe that today, it’s probably saving his life.

 

My husband is one of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet, truly.  Everyone loves him.  He’s friendly.  He’s handsome.  He’s loyal.  He’s thoughtful.  He’s a great husband, a great son, a great (read:  patient) father and now, a grandfather.  

He also is a name-maker-upper for us at home.  For instance, if I’m ironing a shirt, he’ll find me down in the basement.  “Hi, Iron-y!”  If I’m cleaning the bathroom, he stands behind me, “Hi, cleany!”  (All the time.  He does this all the time.)  If I get home from shopping, “Hey, shoppy!”  Cooking:  “Hey, cooky!”  I think you see the pattern. 

While silly and goofy, those names aren’t harmful in any way.  They don’t hurt my feelings.  Silly and goofy were two of my “husband” requirements, as a matter of fact.  He has those two qualities in spades, people.  In spades.    He just comes up with something on the fly.   

He’s really creative like that. 

The birth of “the list” list was created several years ago out of necessity.  We were newlyweds, and ever mindful of developing FWS (fat wife syndrome) I was standing in the kitchen having a low carb snack after work while I waited for the coffee to get done.  He came in the door from work, big, happy smile on his face, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Hi, porky!”  

No.  I am not kidding.

credit:  akarakingdoms
This isn’t me but it sure is cute.
I was eating low carbpork rinds, not twinkies.  And he saw me eating pork rinds, and in typical creative fashion, said that unfortunate word.  In quiet protest, I did not make dinner that night, and in addition (just in case he didn’t get the hint) maintained a stone cold, icy silence for the rest of the evening, which is my preferred method of communication when I am upset.  (Who’s with me?)   

The list” was born.  There have been remarkably few additions here and there, because ol’ what’s his name has learned his lesson.
 

Or has he? 

This morning I was getting ready for work, hurrying as usual, running around our bedroom slapping on deodorant and finding my shoes.  I grabbed my body spray (what I call smellgood) from Victoria’s Secret and was spritzing it on.  I always try to arch my back and shake my hair as I do this, like the VS models do, but even the dog doesn’t take me seriously.  My husband wandered in the bedroom to grab his gym bag, saw me spraying, and says cheerfully, “Hi, smelly!”   

He realized right away what he had said and looked like a rabbit with his back foot caught in a trap, trying to get away.  Fortunately, my steely gaze pinned him to the spot. 

LIST.” 

It must be time for a refresher course.

 

 

 

 

When I got home from work last night, I made some coffee.  My darling husband came home about the same time.  The following is a true and accurate representation of the conversation we had while I made coffee and talked to him.

Me:  How was your day?

Joe:  It was good, how about yours?

Me:  Busy.

(Small break here for a welcome-home kiss.)

Joe:  I had an interesting start to the morning, though.

Me:  Why?

Joe:  Well, I went downstairs to go to the bathroom but someone forgot to flush the toilet.

(I’m safe, I think to myself.  It wasn’t me.  I’m not naming names but I have a pretty good idea who it was.)



Could we clear the room?  Not you, Frau.  Not you, Scott.  Not you, henchman arbitrarily turning knobs. 

 Me:  That’s just gross.  Was it Number One or Number Two?

Joe:  Whichever one poop is.

He wasn’t even trying to make me laugh, but somehow watching the absolute outrage on his face was enough to make me laugh pretty much all night long.

Would you rather: 
a)  Slam your hand repeatedly in a door?
b)  Poke your eye with a sharp stick?
c)  Cover yourself with honey and lay on a fire ant hill or
d)  Take care of your husband/boyfriend when they’re sick.  
e)  a, b, AND c.  Or virtually anything to avoid the petulant, mewling infant masquerading as your husband/boyfriend.
“You have never been this sick.”
Recently, my husband underwent surgery to correct a deviated septum.  For months, he has been unable to breathe at night through his nose, and instead resorts to a cacophony of puh’s and rhythmic, sinus-y, repeated “noooooood” sounds. 
Sorry, ladies, he’s taken.  Guys like this are snatched up like *that.
I invested in earplugs, and have gotten to be somewhat of an earplug expert, as I am able to put them in while still sleeping, when my beloved begins his discordant nightly lullaby.
Thursday, Day One.  Surgery Day.
The surgery went very well, and we were told prior to the surgery that he would have nasal splints.  Yes, splints in his nose.  What we weren’t told is that once we got him home, our house would resemble the inside of a slaughterhouse.  Bloody tissues, bloody washrags, bloody nose, fingers, nasal spray, and face.  Joe’s in a constant haze of Vicodin, saline spray and antibiotics. 
The first night, Thursday night post surgery, went fine.  I was kind.  I was solicitious.  I was loving.  I play an excellent nursemaid to my poor, poor honeybear, for my true love has stitches and giant plastic splints in his poor schnoz.  “Is there anything I can get/do for you” become a mantra.  I fetch, carry, soothe and kiss.  After all, this is why I am off for two days from work; my boo-boo bear has a sore nosey-poo and I’m needed at home to help him!  He doesn’t have much of an appetite, poor dear.  I feel bad going to sleep because I know he’s going to be uncomfortable on his recliner.  I hope he sleeps ok.  ***
here’s the Poor Dear.
Friday, Day Two.



Joe did not get much sleep.  I thought that might happen, and gosh, I feel so bad.  I bet he’ll sleep today, take lots of naps.  And since I’m off work, I might get some writing done.  This might be a good thing.  It will be like caring for a newborn; he will sleep, eat, poop.  Sleep, eat, poop.  I prepare a wonderful lunch.  After one bite he pushes it away.  Poor baby.  I guess the Vicodin is making his tummy hurt.  I take the uneaten lunch back in the kitchen and begin a never ending, cycle of providing tissues, squirting him with nasal spray, cleaning out his nostrils with q tips (only gagging once) fetching antibiotics and Vicodin, and taking pictures.  I feel needed.  I don’t get much writing done and resort to playing games on my phone, most of which I can’t finish because he needs one thing or another, but that’s ok.  He sleeps on the recliner again.  I “go” to bed but don’t “stay” in bed, because he urgently needs me for one thing or another and wakes me up approximately 32 times.  I’m tired but I love my pookie pants so I get up mostly to offer him moral support.
Happier times.  In the chair.
Saturday, Day Three.
It comes back to me how exactly a newborn sleeps.  I am crabby from lack of sleep and both pinch myself and swill coffee regularly to stay awake.  It’s not hard because the second I start something (including resting my head on a pillow) Joe’s Superpowers of Interruption kick in.  I have given up trying to write.  I have given up trying to read.  I have given up playing games on my phone, even Ruzzle, which is a two minute game. It is for the best because my eyes are watery and red.  I make a really good dinner which goes uneaten (by Joe, because he has no appetite and by me, because I’m full already—of resentment).  I endure another day of nostril cleaning, Vicodin fetching, and making meals that Joe won’t eat.  I hide in the bathroom with a can of Pringles and a Snickers bar but he finds me.    
…and Saturday Night.
The worst night of all.  Like, nightmare bad.  Due to clotting in the bad nostril, Joe is completely unable to breathe through his nose at all.  I don’t understand why this is a problem and tell him so.  I must have had a tone because he looks wounded.  I don’t even try to go in the bedroom tonight but rather bring a pillow to the couch out in the living room near Sniffle Snifflepants.  He struggles to breath.  I tell him, “breathe through your mouth, honey” except “honey” somehow came out as “stupid.”  I tuck the blankets around him, ensure he’s got tissues/nasal spray/headphones, turn the TV onto Soundscapes and lay down.  I think now he’s going to be able to rest because after all, he’s gotten about one hour of sleep in the past three days.  He lies there for approximately thirty seconds before he throws the covers back, sighing, and tells me, “I’m confused about how I should be breathing.”  I stare at him in utter disbelief and wonder if I should use the pillow from the bedroom to smother him or just use one from the couch.
…and even later Saturday night.
He gives up on the recliner and lays on the sectional at a right angle to me.  No sleep for either of us.  He’s convinced the splints have come out and he will choke on them in his sleep.  He might be right about the choke part but it won’t be the splints doing it.
Sunday morning.
I have given up on all pretense of kindness.  I am surly.  I am unkempt.  “What can I get/do for you” has died a mucous-y bloody death.  I am suffering withdrawal from Facebook, Twitter, Words with Friends, and Ruzzle.  I know now why I stopped after three children; I can’t do anything for more than two minutes without Snuffolupagus racing after me with nasal spray and/or Q tips and I can no longer stand the serene notes of Soundscapes without wanting to weep.  Crankypants is hungry but won’t eat.  Any patience I had is gone.  I make him a sandwich he is not going to eat and it makes me feel better when I poke a hole in it with my finger on my way into the living room with the plate.  He’s a manchild.
Sunday afternoon.
I’m not going to name names but it appears someone has been dicking around with the Q tips without me and has caused a torrential flood of a nosebleed.  I am instructed to call my EMT brother in law and find out what the best way is to stop the nosebleed because even though I have had first aid training and the aforementioned three children and have stopped enough bloody noses to last me the rest of my life, it’s not enough.  I grit my teeth and call and I’m given the magic instructions…pinch bridge of nose, put a small roll of gauze in between frenem and top lip and ice the forehead.   The nosebleed stops but the whining does not. 
Sunday night.
I am a broken woman.  I wish I’d never heard the term “deviated septum.”

Present day.
Pookie Pants Honeybear is now two weeks post-op.  He’s doing great.  He’s slept more in the past three nights than he has in a very long time.  
We both have. 
***most of this is not true.

So, I’m telling Joe how the conversation went between me and the (rhymes with Bohl’s) customer service guy.  We had paid his bill one day late.  We never pay anything late so I told Joe I was going to call Bohl’s and get it waived.  Seeing as how the late fee was more than the actual purchase. 
You know the part where they say on the recording “calls may be recorded for customer service training?”  I must have missed the part where they say very quietly, “we’re going to connect you to a real asshat who has been trained well on how to dick you around.”
Conversation:
Me:  Hi, my husband paid his charge card one day late.  I was wondering if you could waive that for me.  He hardly ever charges anything on it so we forgot to make the little $20 payment. 
Tool:  Let me take a look at his credit history while I pretend I’m in the United States.  Yep, it’s good and due to your excellent credit history, yep we’ll waive the late fee.  But you still owe the minimum payment.
Me:  But we don’t have to pay anything this month, right?  Because the only charge on the bill is that silly ol’ late fee.  You know, the one you so kindly just waived. 
Tool:  You still have to make the minimum payment.
Me:  There is no minimum payment listed.  There’s only the late fee for $15. 
Tool:  (trying to find this on the customer service script) That is the minimum payment and if you don’t pay it, you’ll get another late fee.
Me:  YOU JUST WAIVED THE LATE FEE.  Technically, there’s no balance.  How could I incur a late fee on a zero balance?
(He pauses for a moment.  I’ve thrown him, I know.  I savor the superior feeling.  But what’s that?  He finds his place in the book.)
Tool:  (he triumphantly sings this next part.)  Ma’am, there is a balance of $21.64, for a purchase made after the statement date.  You have to pay the minimum payment of $15 to avoid incurring another late fee, Mrs. Cackyeetoe.
Me:  Nice try on the last name. 
Tool:  We can take your payment over the phone.
Me:  (under breath) you are a total dick.
***
I finally have to give in and pay the $15 nonexistent balance.  Mostly because the vein in my temple was threatening to explode, but also because I didn’t want to incur a late fee on a late fee I didn’t owe.
You can keep your stupid 30% coupon, by the way. 



jennifer ellison/freedigitalphotos.net
I’m sure the storm looked exactly like this.  However, I was snoozing.



Our power went out at 5:30 this morning, in the midst of an enormous, rainy, loud, crashing thunderstorm.  Unconcerned, my husband and I snuggled a little tighter, listening to the soothing sounds of the rain, which we could hear ever so much better because the central air conditioner and our ceiling fan were not moving.  Le sigh.
Soon, thanks to the stagnant air, “snuggling” became “sticking”.   We untangled ourselves and hurried to get ready for work.  (We take showers at night).  I couldn’t see to put on makeup and had no power to blow dry my hair.  No problem, I thought.  I’d doll up in the car and straighten my hair at work in the bathroom.
First, though, my husband and I had to deal with something we didn’t think would be an issue, to wit: 
a)      The side door to our garage is always locked. 
b)      The big garage door won’t go up when the electricity is out. 
c)      You can’t open it by hand unless you’re inside the garage.
d)     You can’t get IN the garage unless you have a key for the side garage door.
e)      We can’t find the key for the side door, and….
f)       My car is in the garage.
He tried all the keys we had.  None worked.  We sipped furiously on our tepid, weak coffee, plotting our next move.
I tried unsuccessfully to McGuyver the lock with a Swiss army knife and a bobby pin but decided I’d better quit screwing with it before I snapped the bobby pin off inside the lock, making a bad morning even worse.
Long story short, we found the garage key.  Sometimes, luck is on your side.  Or hanging up on the key rack.
This marks the second time in a week that we’ve lost power…last Wednesday night; ten minutes after I had applied hair color to my head and eyebrows, a furious thunderstorm came ripping through the neighborhood, knocking our power out.  I ran shrieking into the bathroom to wipe the color off my eyebrows, ensuring I didn’t turn out like Burt & Ernie. 
Hair, I could fix, recolor, cut, or hide under a hat.  Eyebrows?  Not so much.
Dominos made dinner tonight, as the power was still out at dinnertime.  However, the power came back on (let me say that again, because the words are so delicious, the power came back on) around 8. 
Thanks, Dominos.  The pizza was delicious.  Thanks to Com Ed for getting the electricity up and running again.
I’ve got the Power!!!

Why is it that time seems to go so fast? 

I find there are just not enough hours in the day to get everything I need to get done…done.

Sometimes when I am planning to sit down and write after work or on the weekend, I notice the bathroom needs to be cleaned.  A co-worker mentions a clothing drive at Hilander.  Our black lab is shedding the equivalent of one dog per day; I see black tufts of it floating into the corner.

While I do like to “keep house”, it is not my passion.

Writing is my passion.

Finding quality time to write is hard.  That’s what I say.

I believe everyone would agree with me when I also say that if I were to have an entire Sunday alone to write, I wouldn’t. 

I’m being honest.

I would clean the bathroom.  Sort the clothes.  Vacuum.  Talk on the phone.

When only an hour or two is left until dinner, and my house is satisfactorily clean, I suddenly find the “zone”, where everything I put on paper is golden

Time flies during those moments until I realize I can hear everyone’s stomach growling, including mine, and off I go to the kitchen to make dinner.

I am upset with myself because I had the entire day to write and I only used a portion of it.  No one really cares if the bathroom goes one more day or if they have to reuse their last bath towel.  It’s just my excuse. 

Why is that?  Do other writers do that?  Why am I compelled to, say, clean the microwave when I get a big chunk of time to write?

I tell myself sometimes, I’m brainstorming.  I’m developing my characters.  I’m plotting out the next great American novel.  I’m not, though. 

I am procrastinating.  I’m being lazy. 

I’m afraid.
I’m futzing away my time, only to get aggravated later when I have to rejoin the real world and put the computer away.  I think, bitterly, I never get time to write.
The honest truth is, I have plenty of time to write.  Yes, I work full time.  Yes, I have a family, a house to clean, laundry to do, a husband whose hand I love to hold.
I also have best sellers floating around in my brain.  Great characters that are just clamoring for attention; funny characters jockeying for the same thing.  Plot lines that would delight, amaze, and thrill you.  Amazing screenplays that would have theater lines out the door, should they ever come to light.

Don’t I owe it to myself to let that creativity come out? 

It doesn’t matter whether or not anyone likes it.  I write for me; I write to please myself.

do have time to write.  I just need to be disciplined enough to take it.

I need to face my fear of failing.  I also need to face my fear of success.

I think I need to quit standing in my own way.



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  • Mary Fran Says: Thank you for contributing to Sweeps Week! We make a great team. Maybe we'll collaborate in our next lives? SISTERS! lol :)
  • Mary Fran Says: What's better than a Baby Shower aka Early Baby Birthday Party? Baby's FIRST Birthday Party! (Although it's hard to call them "baby" by one! They grow
  • Ann Jones: I'll have to check it out, thanks for the heads up!

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