I trust you’ve set up your Festivus poles, enjoyed some miracles, and participated in some feats of strength. But now, it’s time to air some motherhuggin’ grievances! I have, and I can’t stress this enough, a lot of them. I’m only slightly ashamed to admit that while I often struggle to come up with things for which I am grateful, I basically keep a running mental list of grievances that are just waiting to be aired come December 23rd.
Onto the grievances…
A $3 cover charge at the Jeanie Johnston for karaoke night: On Saturday, Rosa and I got a ride home from a friend’s DJ night at a local brewery around 10 pm, and decided that “home” was the Jeanie Johnston. I’m not sure the “never go to a second location” rule is about Saturday night drunken activities, but it probably should be. But, Rosa and I aren’t known for our wise decision making, so, we got dropped off at the Jeanie Johnston, sporting sequins and already picking out our songs (Enjoy the Silence for her and Celebrity Skin for me). When we got to the door, the bouncer informed us there was a $3 cover charge. But we don’t carry cash and we didn’t have debit cards. “I could take out cash with my credit card!” said Rosa, Wise Woman #1, the addict’s gleam in her eyes. No, Rosa, no. So, enjoy the silence indeed, Jeanie Johnston, because you missed out on a helluva show, and Rosa and I had to walk home in the cold in our sequins.
Our dishwashers: Did you mean dishwasher, singular, Natasha? Unfortunately, I did not. Fans of Letters & Lists might recall that my single good housecleaning habit is that I run the dishwasher every night. Right around Thanksgiving, my beloved dishwasher started singing a song, but not its usual, jaunty “the dishes are done” song. This was a different tune, a much more ominous one. It soon escalated to an unignorable shrieking sound, as if it was being murdered, and the mysterious code “AE” showing up on its dash. Vladimir, our beloved dishwasher repairman did his best, but I guess his best wasn’t good enough, because he advised us to buy a new dishwasher. I picked out a top of the line KitchenAid with 360º Max Jets™ Third Rack! While we waited for it to arrive, the old dishwasher periodically bled out (or whatever you’d call a sporadic flushing of old dishwasher water), ruining our hardwood floors. Then the new KA w/ 360MJTR arrived. We installed it and it promptly played yet another unfamiliar dishwasher song, which seems to have been titled “Hey Suckers, I’m Not Doing This.” One visit from Vlad and another from Home Depot’s dishwasher expert later, we have a working dishwasher. It only took 3 1/2 weeks. BTW, the Home Depot guy told us we’d picked out basically the worst dishwasher. I can’t wait to hear what it sounds like when it dies.
Clutter blindness: I thought I made up this term, but it’s a real thing. Of course it’s a real thing. My whole family suffers from clutter blindness, to the point where when I ask the kids to clean the house, I have to make a detailed list that says things like: pick up socks off of table, clean off ketchup smear off of fridge, remove bra from chandelier, etc.
My (male side of the) family’s disregard for my wrapping paper theme: I try really hard to make Christmas magic for my family. One thing I take great pleasure in is picking our a wrapping paper theme and having all the presents under the tree looking so pretty. I know it’s anal and stupid, but it brings me joy. My mom is a great wrapper and it’s something she passed down to me. Matty usually wraps his gifts really last minute and like he did it all left-handed, with copious amounts of tape and whatever wrapping paper he can find. Apparently, he has passed his sloppy wrapping genes down to George, who, bless his heart, bought a bunch of gifts on his own this year and wrapped them himself. This is so sweet, BUT, he found some random wrapping paper from last year and then put bright blue bows on his gifts. Now that I’ve written this all out, I realize I sound like a crazy psycho hose beast but in the spirit of Festivus, I’m keeping this here.
Poop bag roll stickers: Who, pray tell, from Big Poop Bag, decided the best way to package the poop bag rolls was with a TJ Maxx price tag strength adhesive label that will undoubtedly tear a hole in the bag, leaving your hand exposed to dog poop with every first bag off the roll? Because I’d like to leave a flaming bag of dog shit on their doorstep.
Calls from Boston Public Schools: If you think CVS calls a lot when you have a prescription ready, try experiencing life as a parent of a Boston Public School student, or God forbid, two. Sorry my voicemail is always full, friends and family, but BPS has a lot to say.
Rosie’s stripper coat: First of all, I LOVE my dogs’ coats. They’re literally the only thing I’ve ever liked from Lands End and they are personalized with their names and they’re adorable. The dogs HATE them and frequently try to shake them off, which is mostly futile, because – duh- they velcro on, but for some reason the velcro that secures the coat around Rosie’s neck has lost its stickiness. Because it *seems* like this is impossible, I refuse to acknowledge the problem, but am reminded of it every time I take them out in their coats as Rosie slowly shimmies out of her coat until it’s hanging on only by its waist velcro like she’s Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl. So, then we have to stop every few blocks to re-velcro it, which wouldn’t be a big deal except that I only use the coats in like -35º weather because they hate them so much, and I have to take off my own mittens to work the velcro.
The non-fruit flies who have infiltrated my home: You know what’s a really mean thing for the universe to do to someone who’s not great at housekeeping and already feeling some degree of shame about it? Inflict said person with a plague of unkillable tiny flies. These flies very much resemble fruit flies except for two key differences: 1) they don’t give a shit about fruit. 2) they don’t fall for any of your classic fruit fly traps like apple cider vinegar or red wine in a little glass with holes punched in the saran wrap. My awesome nephew, who works in pest management, let me know that as long as they keep breeding, it doesn’t matter how many I kill, because they’ll just make more. But, since they aren’t fruit flies, I guess we’re just the porn set for these gross little flies for all of eternity. THIS IS A TOP GRIEVANCE, btw.
Ironing: I can’t do it and more importantly, I don’t like to.
Royal Match: I’m easily addicted to stupid cell phone games and this is the stupidest and most addictive. Sometimes you try to line up three similar shapes/colors, sometimes you’re unearthing gems or ordering magic potions, sometimes you’re lining up the shapes/colors to save the mysterious King from fire or lava. It makes absolutely no sense. Also, I have a teammate/nemesis named Steven. Steven is always begging the team for free lives like a desperate loser, not at all cool like me, although he’s totally beating me at Train Journey. Anyway, do not sign up for this game. It will ruin your life. You don’t want to end up like Steven.
My lack of time management skills: I will not elaborate at this time.
Happy Festivus! Feel free to air your own grievances.
Letters & Lists 