Chicken Fried Vogue

For 15 years and most of her adult life, Bubblez lived in the suburbs of a major metropolitan city. She enjoyed taking her children to museums, parks, and dates at Starbucks. Then Bubblez moved to the country and her En Vogue attitude got chicken fried. Her yard is a park where the neighbor's rooster won't stop crowing, Starbucks is almost an hour away, and her large collection of fancy shoes is worthless. But, living in the acres of green has presented more opportunities for living "green" as Bubblez travels the path toward self-sufficiency (and bitches ((and prays)) along the way).

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Giant Robot Pants

I was working in the mud room, last night. I call it the mud room because I don't know what else to call it. The guy who showed us around the house, before we decided to buy it, called it the keeping room, because it's where you keep stuff you don't know what else to do with or don't use every day, but he admitted that he didn't really know what you ought to call it, either. I believe a real mud room has a place to clean up after one has gotten muddy, like a shower, a sink, or at the very least, a washing machine for your dirty clothes. This room has none of those things, however, I have plans to run water out there, someday, so as to justify my naming of said room.

I was working in the mud room, last night. This room is fairly large, the size of a single car garage, roughly, and it is situated between the house and the garage, and is attached to both so that one may pass through this room while traveling from the house to the garage and vice versa.

When we moved to Indiana a year ago, the majority of our belongings were boxed up and stacked into storage units. When we moved from the rental into this house, those boxes were loaded into trucks and stacked in the garage, and the mud room became box purgatory, where opened but still packed boxes sit awaiting judgement before being assigned their location within the home. It's a mess.

Another thing you should know about this room, is that there is also a door to the outside, and that door has a large window. This may or may not be important later.

So, I'm out there, last night, working, in the mud room. It's getting late and the kids have long since gone to bed. It's very very quiet. After a while, Shel pops his head out the door, looks at me sleepily, and says, "organizing?" and I say, "yep. You going to bed?" and he says yes and closes the door.

Here's a thing about me. I'm an organizer. I organize shit. I like to organize. Organizing stuff makes me feel at one with myself. Another thing about me is that I'm convinced that God blessed me with too many personalities. It's not the weird abused childhood multiple personality disorder kind of shit. It's just me and me and me, and anything that calms me down and makes me feel at one with myself, is a good thing. Everyone around me benefits by not having to live in chaos and always knowing exactly where to find things.


So, yeah. That's what I was doing. I was organizing. The mud room has peg board. It's glorious.

It was late, about a quarter to one, in fact. It was dark. It was quiet. I could hear the occasional passing car. And then, maybe I just watch too many cartoons, but suddenly I heard it, what seriously for all the world sounded like a Giant. A mutherloving GIANT, taking slow deliberate, Bubblez crushing footsteps toward my house! I glanced toward the door, saw nothing but blackness out the window, freaked the frick out, and ran inside.

Once I got inside, I realized that being inside the house, as opposed to inside the mud room, wasn't going to do me any good if I was about to be stepped on by a giant. I also realized that there was no way on God's green Earth there was a giant tromping through my yard. First of all, I live practically in the middle of no where, and everyone knows that giants are pretty much always, either off on some distant and remote mountain or in an urban area where they can really do some damage. Secondly, I'm not that special or important that anyone would send a giant out to get me, because that is the only way to explain what a giant would be doing out here in BFE, if it was SENT by someone. Thirdly, giants don't exist. Let that sink in. Giants don't exist. So, what DID I hear? I don't know, but it was clearly time for me to give up and go to bed.

Today, I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and pulled up to the table next to Nikpod. Nikpod is my 11 year old son. His hand is permanently glued to his iPod Touch. He eats with one hand and scrolls with the other. He's often wearing earbuds and sort of resembled a small Frankenstein without the scars... or green skin.

Anyway, I started telling Nikpod my story about Mom's crazy imagination and the totally impossible giant.

"It's not TOTALLY impossible, mom. I mean, I suppose someone could build a giant robot or giant legs and go tromping around in giant robot pants."

I consider this a moment. "I don't think robots really need pants."

Nikpod stares at me. He gets this adorable 'what the hell is wrong with you?' look on his face. "What?" (Shakes his head) "Tha- that's not what I meant. Wait. You're joking aren't you?"

"Um no. What else would you mean by giant robot pants?"

"Oh geesh. Nooo. Not pants for robots. Like giant robotic legs that have a little control seat or something at the top for someone to drive around like they're wearing pants."

(You know, at the time, he had me convinced that I was the crazy one.)

"Oh!" (laughing) "I get it! Giant robot pants! Right!" (more laughing)

"Mom. Sometimes, I just don't get you."

No comments:

Post a Comment