Dear A — Entitlement

Dear A,

Okay, I’m going to complain which is totally fucking stupid because really…? I’m living the dream.

I live in a house by the ocean. Like… I wake up to it. Like I can hear the waves as I go to sleep. Like I fucking watch the sunrise off the glint of the water every God damn morning.

People can’t find me unless I want them to. I live this weird life of total social interaction mixed with complete privacy.

I live in a cabin by the sea. My kids are totally self-sufficient, like totally manageable on their own. I can pretty much do what I want and need, as long there is food in the fridge and no one is going to starve… Seriously, pretty much whatever the hell I want to do.

And yet I complain.

My fucking dog.

Oh my God A… . my fucking dog.

Whom I love.

Whom I am grateful for.

Whom I so appreciate being able to come home to.

Until he barfs on the carpet because one of the fucking kids forgets to put the butter away, and he’s a god damn counter clearer, meaning if there’s anything left on the counter, it’s gone within seconds and butter makes him sick.

Have you ever smelled dog vomit?

Oh my fucking God it stinks, and it lingers.

It fucking lingers.

And have I mentioned that he’s anxious and has taken to peeing on my bedroom floor if I go out? Yes, that’s right. Even though he has been walked by two of us over the last two hours, if I go out, he pees on my fucking carpeted bedroom.

Because he’s so fucking wound up when I’m not home and shouldn’t have left him alone.

So I’ve almost made it through parenting, through single parenting, through non-stop drive them here, pick this up, wash this thing, trip on the shoes, deal with the smell of pot in the garage, catch them, leave them alone, pay for them, be judged by them, yell at them, hold the line, hold the line, hold the line, don’t take it personally, take it to heart enough to set a boundary, show them you’re listening, like you are actually listening to them and nodding about everything they fucking know, and they fucking know everything. Walk by their gross room, what the fuck is that smell? That smell? That fucking smell? Close the door. Do their laundry, now stop doing their laundry, teach them how to do laundry, trip on the laundry they haven’t done, clean their ick-smelling bathroom because company is coming and it’s just too gross not too, tell them to do the dishes, tell them to do the dishes again, yell at them them to do the dishes… the fucking dishes… just do the god damn dishes. What does it take to come home to a sink as empty as left it? Wash them at 5am because you’re not sleeping anyway. Cook. Cook for no one, cook for everyone, fill the fridge, fill the fridge, fill the fridge, let the little one sleep with you until he’s 10, because you both need it, but then he’s out, and thank God, because now you have your room back, and it’s beautiful. It feels like you, finally something has come back. Your room. Your god damn mother fucking room. Yours. Something is yours and you can count on it.

Until the dog barfs in your bedroom because he got into the butter.

And now you can’t get the smell out.

And it’s 4:30am.

Because that’s what happens when you’re old enough to have your youngest child move out of your bedroom, and get your room back, and it’s perfect, because it can be, because no one else is in there… ever.

Now that you can sleep,

Only you fucking can’t.

Because now you’re peri-fucking-menopausal.

And your dog whom you love, but never truly wanted because you got him for the family unit, for the once upon five of you, for the ex-husband who always wanted a dog, talked about it, day dreamed about it, made a list of all the different kinds of dogs he wanted… so you made it happen, again.

But now he’s not here and your butter stealing, counter clearing, garbage eating dog who is now seventy in dog years has become a toddler, and will pee on the floor, on your carpeted bedroom floor because that’s where he wants to be when he misses you and now suffers from separation anxiety.

Separation fucking anxiety.

But you have your freedom.

Yep.

Lucky you.

No one around but you.

Just you.

Free.

OMG A— It’s not fucking lost on me. I know this is the fucking path to enlightenment: chop wood, carry water right? Chop fucking wood, carry the fucking water. Okay I got it. Like I got it. Like my whole fucking life, I get it.

Fuck you enlightenment, I think I’ll take entitlement please.

Thanx for listening. I hope it made you laugh just a little. Someone should.

Love you

xxT

ps. I think this piece might make it into my one-person show.