Smile Politely

Weebles wobble but Kathy falls down

After taking a quick inventory of the week, I’ve come to the conclusion that my child is predisposed to fall out of his bed. This scientific finding comes after I — an amateur scientist — attempted to soak up some of this week’s afternoon sun in my new lounge chair. During these attempts, and on more than one occasion, I ate some serious grass. I did not, however, eat the delicious bowl of trail mix that launched into the air and plummeted to its untimely death. Nor did I drink the water that squirted out of my bottle and shot directly onto my chest. Picking myself up off the ground, my only hope was that none of my neighbors saw my repeated falls from grace. Once I brushed the grass off my knees, I carefully and successfully mounted said chair, and, while a bit parched, relished in the sun’s glorious rays.

Instead of repeatedly falling in the backyard, I should have been getting shit ready for the garage sale we’re having on Saturday. I got a bit turned off by the whole thing, though, after spending a lot of time and several trips up and down the basement stairs carrying awkward pieces of furniture and heavy boxes out to the garage. It was a satisfying achievement until my children and husband saw what I planned to sell. All of a sudden, I was an evil witch trying to deny them any satisfaction in the form of toys, books, and furniture. I was told that I can’t sell the Weebles. The rationale went something like this: “We can’t sell the Weebles. Who doesn’t like Weebles? They’re kids. They love Weebles.” Okay. So we’ll keep the damn Weebles. Maybe I subconsciously envy their ability to wobble without falling down.

This resistance to purge our old commodities became a theme, and I soon realized I’m a thrower-awayer living with a bunch of hoarders. We can’t sell the piano bench, the speakers, or the little wooden hammer and balls. Then I discovered another recurring theme, one fitting most aspects of my life: I will always be oppressed by hammers and balls.

I recently joined Pinterest and while I find it useful for some things, I mostly find it to be a frustrating waste of time. My annoyance stems from pins praising fattening dips and desserts juxtaposed with those suggesting ways to lose five pounds in an hour. Hmmm … I don’t think you have to be a scientist like me to figure this one out. And I think I probably have a weight loss strategy that could prove rather successful: Each morning take a picture of the number on your digital scale with you standing on it and post it to the social media site of your choice. I’m guessing it might make people think twice before opening that second 100 calorie pack of garbage. But who am I to judge — I’m the one falling out of lawn chairs.

I hope nobody was trying to sober up this week. The end of the semester combined with the sunshine made for a few perfect days of excessive imbibing. And last night when my four-year-old listed the daily meal sequence as, “breakfast, lunch, and wine,” I found it endearing that he knows me so well, but slightly disturbing at the same time.

And if I may end this week with one more small complaint, going to Dunkin’ Donuts and ordering nothing but a small coffee is a waste of everyone’s time. Each second of my morning is precious and I’m usually scrambling to get to work on-time-ish. If I have the opportunity to stop for an extra large Styrofoam cup of deliciousness, I don’t need to be delayed by some joker buying an ounce of caffeine, which I’m pretty sure contributes very little energy to the consumer, nearly zilch to Dunkin’ Donuts’ profits, and, most importantly, does nothing for my mood.

I’m off to get my hairs cut. A head massage ought to help get me out of this funk.

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