Splatter Patterns

I've been thinking a lot lately about why I get so keyed up over things that shouldn't matter. What I mean is, rationally I know that the fact that Bubbles and her Bubbahubby just bought a 50 foot, $30,000 camper/RV thingie shouldn't matter to me. It's really none of my business and if anything I should be happy for them.

After listening to her tell everyone she knew outside of work about it on the phone (she didn't tell anyone here) for two days, when I heard her making campsite reservations on the beach, bragging yet again to whoever she was talking to about how "huge" and "incredible" the thing was, I found myself worked up into a hell of a tizzy, having to excuse myself and take a walk up and down the hall, feeling as if I couldn't bear to hear one more word about how flippen PUUUUUUURRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFFFEEEECT everything was.

My head knows it's wrong to feel this way. I mean my goodness.. if someone wants to buy a camper, what is it to me? But I sit here and I hear her go on and on and I quietly fume.

I'm ashamed. When I excused myself to the ladies room yesterday afternoon, I did some extensive soul searching. Am I really this bitter and petty? What is wrong with me??

Maybe I resent the fact that she's married and I'm not or maybe I'm jealous because her Bubbahubby is now a certified paramedic, something I had worked towards in the past but had to give up. And to be honest, had I pursued that as a career, with my current health problems, would I still be able to do it? Last month's AED/CPR re certification damned near did me in.

Perhaps it's not really me at all. My anger might stem from Louise stoking the fire (she's the one who told me about the new RV to begin with), looking the particular model up on the internet, calling me in to her office to view the "virtual tour."

It could be, I suppose, just the fact that she's going to the beach, something that's been on my mind a lot lately.

Or I reckon it could be that I'm just hateful. Hell I don't know.

Moving on.......

Last night, as I was tidying up the kitchen, putting things away and getting ready for bed, I reached for the econo-sized tub o' Blue Bonnet. I thought I had a good grip on it, but somewhere between the counter and the fridge, something went kittywampus. The next thing I knew, I was juggling the tub of greasy goodness and the lid, dancing about the kitchen in my nightie, dogs underfoot, praying that it would hit the floor.

As ya'll know, the laws of the Universe and the general state of my life, dictate that
1) It was going to hit the floor,
2) It was going to land lidless and buttery side down and
3) The dogs were going to beat me to it.

That is exactly what happened. It wouldn't have been as traumatic if I hadn't just scrubbed the kitchen floor the other day (breaking my new mop in the process) and tossed out the old kitchen slice rugs, replacing them with new ones... and ya'll know it landed right on one of those rugs. I'd cooked dinner earlier than usual and left he tub o' pseudo butter on the counter for most of the evening so it was warm and the perfect temperature for splattering.. on the cabinets, on the front of the stove, the fridge.

I was out of paper towels so I grabbed my dish rag and turned the faucet on to let the water run warm. I squatted in the floor, trying to get up as much as I could, then stood up and ran to the sink, rinsing the butter from the rag. I was so busy trying to keep the dogs, who were very excited by the way, out of the mess that I didn't notice that the water from the faucet was still cool. Because of this, when I attempted to squeeze the excess water from the dish rag, Blue Bonnet oozed in great globs between my fingers and up over the top of my hand.

So I'm (unsuccessfully) trying to scrape the butter off my hand, hollering "Git! Git!" and waving my big Freddy Flintstone foot threateningly at the dogs, which amused them I'm sure, when Ma comes waddling into the kitchen.

"Reach in there and hand me a Coke."

I swear, even the dogs looked at her like she'd lost her mind.

"Do you not see me standing here trying to clean up this mess?"

By now it's around 11:30, I just wanted to go to bed and I still needed to set the DVR so I didn't miss Craig Ferguson.

"Are you going to go to the bank for me before you leave this weekend?" she asks.

"What?" I was back in the floor, pushing dogs out of the way and trying to get the margarine off the new rug. "Where am I going this weekend?"


Apparently Ma had her weekends confused and thought the Amazon was moving back home this weekend. I felt kind of bad, having to be the one to break it to her, that she had to wait one more week.

Bubbles just asked me if I had some Midol. It's going to be a good day. I can just feel it.