Warrior

I was groggily making coffee this morning when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up at the ceiling and saw something reddish-brown waving in the air vent. I immediately thought it must be a roach. What else could have possibly reached the vent in the ceiling? And it looked big. Nasty big. Trying my best to suppress the burgeoning panic, I go in search of the broom. I bang the broom handle into the metal grate and watch the nasty creature move slowly to the other side of the vent.

Instantly, my mind pictures masses of giant roaches crawling through the air ducts. I briefly entertain the idea of cranking up the heat, wondering if it would be hot enough to cook them. I imagine masses of vile insects crawling from every vent in the house to escape their sadistic fate. I shudder at the thought. Maybe it’s just the one. I can pretend I never saw it. But what if it’s pregnant with tiny roach babies? Ok, maybe if I bang it really hard it will fall out and I can kill it. I prepare for battle.

I lay my tools out on the kitchen island. Sargent swat (the supersonic fly swatter made of hard rubber) sits next to the paper towels and Clorox kitchen and counter spray for its proper disposal. This has to be quick. If it crawls under something, the mission will be a horrendous failure. My brain will constantly flash on pictures of it crawling on me wherever I go. Not knowing where it is worse than looking at it. I sing the first verse of Eye of the Tiger to psych myself up. I grasp the broom in my sweaty, shaking hands, take a deep breath and give the vent several quick, hard whacks. The offending creature falls to the floor.

My body betrays me and I react like a scared little girl. I let out a squeal that I should be ashamed of, but I’m not, and franticly brush my body and generally flail in place. After my quick outburst I calm myself and look for the roach which is probably long gone by now. I gather the courage to direct my eyes toward the floor.

And there it sits. Half a cinnamon stick I stuck in the air vent last year for spicy goodness. I take a deep breath and return my heartbeat to a normal rhythm. I carefully place all my roach hunting tools back where they belong.

I pick up the cinnamon stick and sniff it. I should put a new one in the vent. This one doesn't smell anymore. 

It's All About The Crust...

So on occasion, I throw a dramatic tantrum strictly for comedic effect. It’s a service I provide free of charge that lightens a dark mood or dissolves anger. Trust me. It’s funny. So one delightful afternoon I walk into the kitchen to find Dewie making a peanut butter sandwich while opening an envelope. She stares at the paper she pulled out with that wrinkly eye look and her mouth slightly agape as if silently saying, “What the hell?”

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Huh?” She looks up at me like she’s never seen me before. “Oh, this.” She holds up the paper. “I don’t understand what… they didn't  no they definitely didn't put my overtime on here. What the hell? I worked two weekends in a row and then nothing?!?!”

“Oh, well, yeah that sucks, you should call them or something, but when I say ‘what’s up, buttercup’ then you say something back that rhymes. It’s like a game.”

She scowls at the paper. “I don’t want to play.”

“Are you too mad to play?”

She looks at me like she’s going to say, “what the hell is wrong with you?” but instead she says, “Yes. I’m too. Mad. To. Play.” Just like that. All spaced out.

“Well then I’m mad too! What the hell? How DARE they mess up your check? WHO THE HELL DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!?!” I purse my lips in rage and dramatically slap a pack of toilet paper off the counter that had come in with the groceries but not found its way to the hall closet yet. The toilet paper bounces off the cabinet and makes it into the next room. I ball up my fists, throw my head back and growl. “AAARRRGGGGGRRRLLLL!!!!!”

I can tell Dewie’s trying not to laugh. She stands up with her sandwich in one hand and a paper towel in the other. She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “Are you quite finished?”

I make my eyes all ginormous and cop an attitude. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not!” With that I slap the sandwich out of her hand. I am genuinely surprised that it has made its way to the floor. I didn't think I hit it that hard. She stares at it on the floor and watches as the dog slowly slinks her way over, watching us out of the corner of her eye and scarfs it up and then promptly gets out of the line of fire.

She looks kind of annoyed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Really?! Are you new here? You had to know I was coming for the sandwich. Why weren't you holding it tighter?”

“I didn't know I needed a death grip on my damn sandwich! I was getting to the good crust! I always save that part for last! You ruined the good part of my sandwich!”

“Oh, no. I ruined the good crust?! What ever will we do? If you would have just played the game none of this would have happened.”

“Fine. Make me a new sandwich, bit..”

“ALRIGHT! I’ll make you a new sandwich. But I'm going to do it angrily.”