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December 7th, 1999

I'm the Queen of All Things

I want to punch that monkey! I want to punch that monkey! Heck, I have so much pent up Seasonal frustration I'd like to put a bag over that monkey's head and watch him slowly struggle until he draws his last furry breath. All of his energy nauseates me. Back and forth. Back and forth. Yellow and blue make green, Banana Boy. Just move your tiresome antics to another page before you meet an untimely Saran Wrap death.

I'm not cranky. I'm just tired. I can't get anything accomplished this week. In fact, I am now so behind in laundry I must incorporate the neighbor's slobbering St. Bernard and a flask of brandy to get to the fridge in the back of my laundry room. Of course I never actually make it to the fridge but it sure looks a lot closer when I've got a good buzz going on.

All I do in my free time is clean or shop. How can a woman be expected to get anything done during the Holidays? Sure, I have eight hundred bags of toys and whatnots but what I clearly don't have is a single shred of sanity left. I know. I checked those bags carefully.

Today I finished judging my
Blair Witch Project Spoof finalists. I found a great deal of these spoofs really creative and suggest you take a look at the site as they spoof lots of movies on a regular basis. Voting is open until December 15th so take a peek and get a good laugh. These people need your votes. I highly recommend it.

I also helped my daughter with homework tonight. It was a Prime Factor multiplication study similar to that Connect Four game. We had to both pick two numbers and then mark them off on a board moving only one number during the next phase. I know that sounds complicated so I won't go into great detail but I must say I was disheartened at how competitive I felt. During
the last game I actually lobbied and argued about who got to go first. Clearly this comes from having two older siblings -- much older, in fact -- while I was growing up. I had no one to rival with. Add to this the fact I never went to my prom and you have therapy just waiting to happen. This is a bad, bad sign. And, speaking of siblings, a hello again to my brother Nic
who no doubt is reading this while the nurse rubs on his Ben-Gay. ::ducking and running:: Kidding, Nic. I love you. Send money.

Now, back to the task at hand. Laundry. I shudder at that word. As I attempt to pair off this Volkswagen full of assorted socks, please enjoy my thoughts.

I hate laundry. I know hate is a harsh word, but I mean it. I feel the same way about my laundry as I did about Betty Lou Johnson, the Homecoming Queen in highschool. I want to chase it down shrieking and set if afire with lighter fluid and a match. I now have enough unmatched socks in my home to completely bury an eleven year old. I know this because we featured this
event at her Science Fair. You should have seen all the other mother's weeping. They knew they couldn't touch us. Look who's the queen now, Betty Lou.

I do not understand the world's preoccupation with socks that match. I cannot imagine who deemed it a necessity that they both be the same color while on your feet. I thought free thinkers founded this world! People not afraid to take a chance! People who dared to be different! This conformist conspiracy is so far reaching even my 4-year-old has been affected.

I handed her a pink sock and a red sock the other morning.

"Mommy. These don't match."

"Yes, they do, Piglet. The red one goes with your pants and the pink one goes with your shirt."

That seemed to please her. Children her age have no sense of style, anyway. I found her running naked in her snowpants the other day. I approve of her need to be different. It is also helpful in case she should ever become lost. Everyone in the neighborhood knows her as that "wild almost naked in a snowsuit with pink and red socks kid."

She marches well to her own drum.

At the tender age of three she followed that wacky beat right out of the house and marched past a Bar, a Laundry Mat, and into the corner convenience store. She helped herself to a bag of Gummy-Bears and then left the store and returned home. What a good little shopper. Not an impulse buyer like her dad.

"Hey," one cashier said to the other cashier. "Wasn't that the wild almost naked in a snowsuit with pink and red socks kid?"

"I think so. Did you know her mom's an alcoholic? And I think she was responsible for that fire in our dumpster last week."

See? Had she not been different they wouldn't have known where to come for their $1.99. Diversity is good.

Unless otherwise specified, all material
Copyright 1999 by
Marijke Hildreth



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