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Saturday, February 21, 2015


Completely non-weather related ice, that is.

Among the many talents that my family has, including the ability to completely ignore a pile of used paper towels that did not make it to the garbage can and the ability to tolerate television volumes that the partially deaf would only *just* be able to hear, the most disappointing is the lack of ability to fill up the ice cube trays.

What's that, you say?  People still USE ice cube trays?

Yes.  When we moved into our house, we had to buy all appliances.  Mostly because the place we lived in before, the appliances were olive green.  Plus they were older than we were.  Plus I'm pretty sure that the appliances were worth more than the trailer (yes, feel free to make the jokes about trailer trash.  I'd do it again. Lot rent was $145, bitchez, and when we moved we sold the place and pocketed the cash.  We sold it to a registered sex offender's father, unfortunately, who then rented it out to the sex offender...but we did not know that at the time.  Imagine my surprise when signing up for the alerts for our area and having our former address come up.  Uh, honey?  Something you want to tell me?)

Seriously, how have I never been evaluated for ADHD?

Anyways, new appliances.  Since we were still living just above the poverty level, we bought a pretty basic fridge.  It had an ice maker; however it did NOT include the equipment to hook it up.  We kept saying, "Oh, we'll go get that eventually..."  But never did, obviously.  Since it is now, ahem, 10 years later.

Which leads  me to ice cube trays.  They more often than not look like this:

Yes.  One ice cube.  Been that way since Thursday.

I once let the ice situation go for an entire month.  ONE MONTH.  I was really curious as to how long it would take.  Then I remembered that my children are blood related to me and I *might* be known for my stubbornness.  Plus it was getting warmer out and I might have wanted vodka and lemonade instead of wine.  I filled it up.  Pick your battles, bitchez, and this one involved alcoholic beverages.  In a roundabout way.
I guess it is nice to know that my family knows that I will take care of the little shit, like the ice cube trays, immunizations, and preparation for the zombie apocalypse (though to be fair, the small arsenal my hubby has really contributes to zombie apocalypse preparedness).  But of course, the anxiety then takes over and makes me fear that I am being a helicopter parent and creating codependent, helpless leeches on society.  And that we will all succumb to the zombie apocalypse and end up scruffy, unbathed, craving brains, and with rotting flesh hanging off of us.  Dammit, I work super hard to make sure we don't look like that!  And I've never been a fan of organ meat either...what will I eat???

Then I remember how Elizabeth once, at the age of five, stood up to someone who's kid had broken a (Spanish speaking and very expensive) Barbie of hers and then had falsely accused her of making the story up....and she totally held her ground.  And won, and was proven right.  I remember how Alexis is perfectly content to do her own thing at home, school, and dance, and honey badger don't give a shit what others think.  I remember how Charlie, at the age of 10 months, learned how to crawl up the stairs before she could even walk because her sisters were up there and that was where she wanted to be and dammit, she was tired of waiting for her slow ass parents to take her up there.

Then I go and get the last ice cube and pour myself a drink.  Because pretending to parent responsibly tends to leave one parched and emotionally drained.  Gonna kill two birds with one stone with this drink here...

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