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Posts Tagged ‘water’

I woke up this morning and promptly fell apart.

It all began (don’t you loathe stories that begin with that odious phrase?) with my morning cleaning routine. Yes, you read correctly. Cleaning routine. I actually have a list (imagine that) taped on the fridge with each day of the week and what should be cleaned that day. Kind of like a McDonald’s checklist hanging on the bathroom doors, with a list of duties that are timestamped and initialed by the unlucky worker who had to perform those tasks (toilet and tub have been scrubbed, baseboards wiped down, cosmetics table reorganized, mirrors polished, rugs washed and dried at 8:47 a.m. by A.O.).

So I was working on my kitchen and an hour later, after scrubbing the stove, wiping down the cabinets, washing dishes, hand scrubbing the floor, and starting a pot of coffee, I thought I’d end my kitchen routine with a load of laundry. Mainly rugs from the kitchen and bathroom floors, a few pillowcases perhaps. I popped the dirty rugs into my Speed Queen washer and walked away to the living room, to plan a new cleaning schedule with some additions to the existing tasks and a reorganization of days to clean. (Yes, I’m anal, but not in the way that guys like, so that means I’m just single and really, really tidy…).

As I began my list of additions (clean ceiling fans weekly, scrub baseboards around the house weekly, move washer and dryer and fridge from their normal homes to dust and mop underneath the appliances bi-weekly, etc.) I also began to get a bit panicky. I really don’t know how people have a clean home and a full time job. Seriously. Do they all have maids? I basically have two full time jobs, plus my writing which I don’t get paid for, that takes up most of my time. As I looked at my schedule and wondered how in the hell I was going to pull this off when the fall semester started and I went back to work, I heard the sound of running water. Well, more like pouring water. Like rapids of water. In the kitchen.

I knew immediately what had happened.

When I moved into this house, this lovely quaint home in an old historic neighborhood, I didn’t have a washer or dryer; I did my clothes at the laundromat. For about three months. Because it sucked. I finally went to the local Taylor’s and bought a washer and dryer, brand new. The Speed Queen, recommended because it is so powerful. So powerful that when they installed it in my home, I figured out that the spin cycle, which throws the water off, is too strong for the plumbing int his house. So every time the washer hits spin cycle, I have to go in the kitchen, keep an eye on the sink, and when the sink starts filling with water due to the backlog of water being thrown into the pipes by the washer, I have to raise the lid of the washer, stop the cycle, let all the water drain back down into the sink, and then close the lid to start the cycle again. If I do not do this, the sink overflows and gallons of water pool up on the kitchen floor. And of course, any food in the pipes from the night before gets deposited on the floor, as well.

So I walked into my kitchen and stepped in dirty washer water and old rice from the last night’s dinner. And, to top it off, my house is slightly slanted so the water all had all rushed to the opposite side of the kitchen and pooled under the fridge and stove.

What did I do? I cleaned it up, of course. And bawled the entire time.

It just doesn’t seem fair. Yeah, I know life isn’t fair. I know that everyone gets equal doses of unfairness in life. But, as the pig in Animal Farm noted, some animals are more equal than others, so I assume that some people get more equal shares of shitty hands in the game of life than others.

I cried and asked myself, and God, why oh why do I have to suffer through this? I simply can’t do this alone. What is “this,” you ask?

My fucking life.

I am spending hours a day perfecting my lawn, perfecting my home, researching to finish my second M.A. thesis, reading new pedagogy books to stay abreast of writing techniques that I can bring into my classroom, reading new fiction to stay abreast of the competitive writing market I’m trying to enter, growing fresh herbs so I can learn fancy new recipes, making fucking apricot jam to give out to family and friends, trading BPAL on the forum, doing yoga and walking and toning to perfect my body, touching up my roots and making sure I have weekly pedis and facials (all done at home, of course) to perfect my looks…I have not even begun to list everything written in my daily planner.

And all for what? Why I am so obsessed with perfection? Why am I working so hard to achieve everything and be the best at everything, even stupid shit like having a clean home and being Betty Crocker in my free time?

I am obviously laboring under the delusion that being perfect will somehow buy me love from someone. A permanent, unconditional love. That elusive feeling and state of life that we all read about, see on TV, and some of us are lucky enough to actually witness it in real life, maybe in friends or family members. Maybe, just maybe, some of you actually have it in your own life.

It is very difficult and painful to know that you are a disappointment. And I am. I am not playing the sympathy card or seeking pity; I’m simply stating the facts.

I am my mother’s greatest disappointment. I figured this out long ago, in my teens, when my personality and convictions actually began to arise and show themselves. My mom loves me, don’t get me wrong. But she doesn’t necessarily like me. If we were to simply meet on the street, she wouldn’t be friends with me.

I’m not like her. She doesn’t like that. I’m a lot like my dad. She doesn’t like that. She loves my dad, but she doesn’t really like him, you know?And she feels the same about me. She would never admit it, and she’ll probably not talk to me for quite a while when she reads this. But I only speak truth.

Like many people, I tried to find love and acceptance outside of a family who really didn’t offer it. And, I failed at that, as well. You will read more of that story in the Benzo Chronicles, but suffice it to say that I couldn’t even get an unemployed, dirty, ambitious-less, and lazy man to like me, not to mention love me. It sucks that it took fifteen years for me to figure that out, but that’s just a testament to my dogged determination…I tried really hard, as with everything in my life, to be a success with him. But I totally and utterly failed.

I can only surmise that my need to be the best at everything I can be, whether it is teaching or housekeeping or writing or whatever…I can only surmise that it is my feeble attempt to find a way to validate myself. Most people get their sense of security and meaning in life from their loved ones; they are here for a reason, you know? They are important to someone, somebody, somewhere.

I want to be important to someone, too. But until then, I’m just going to back to the kitchen and raise the lid on the washer. I can hear the water hitting the floor again.

Sigh. FML.

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