I Need a Young Priest and an Old Priest

The recent releases of The Nun II, The Exorcist Believer, and even Friday Night at Freddy's attempt to provide audiences glimpses into horrific events that both keep us up at night as well as provide that little adrenaline rush. 

Bitch, please. I got plenty of horror in my life minus the adrenaline rush.

Recently, I was whining about having bronchitis, followed by a painful surgery, then frosted with a spin with COVID (which I didn't recover from until Day 1 of a new school year). I need get into a time machine, go back to the summer, look at myself and say "Bitch, please" because right now I might need a young priest and an old priest to ride the current wave of shit. 

I recovered from COVID and stumbled through the new school year. Then, once I thought I had regrouped, my porch caught fire.

I am not going to go into detail on how my porch caught fire. All I can say it was not my fault and not a freak accident. Accident? Yes. But a stupid one.

Fortunately, I wasn't there because I had vacated with my cats while my hard-wood floors were being sanded and stained. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the damage to my place is minimal. Unfortunately, there is enough damage to displace me for . . . well . . . who knows. So, I have to live with my mom for a while. 

Living with Mom is fine; we have a great relationship. We travel together and rarely, if ever, fight. In her house, I have a bedroom and a newly remodeled bathroom all to myself. The house is big enough for us to have our own space. And there's a television in my room! As a kid / teen Mom wouldn't let me have a television in my room, so I feel a little smug having one in her house now. My sister and nephews are down the street. Mom lives about 45 minutes from Long Beach, but it is a nice, suburban area. The commute to work is the same as from home. No, my temporary "housing" is not the problem.

I am the problem.

When I pulled into Mom's driveway with a carload of what I needed to live there for a while, she said, "Your car is making a funny noise." Not a week later, a service engine light came on for which I could find no meaning for, even when I googled it. (Don't even start talking to me about looking in the car manual. I mean, it is 2023.) I take my car in: three grand to fix it. 

Clearly, the universe has decided that I didn't sustain enough damage in my life as a result of the fire. Glad to contribute to the karmic balance, I guess.

I bought a brand of flavored water I'd never had before, it tasted like ass, so I poured it down the white bathroom sink. Whatever lab experiment flavored the water, stained the newly installed sink.  There is now a smattering of greenish dots running down to her drain. It might have been cool, festive even, if my flavored water had been cherry or strawberry flavored, but instead of looking like blood splatter, the sink looks like it has nuclear waste splatter. 

Sorry Mom.

I mean, I do feel bad. But at least she has a bathroom sink. Hell, she has two. Currently, I have zero. 

One day when I got home from work, Mom told me to go into her office and see if I noticed anything wrong. I should have walked back out the front door and gone back to work. I went into the office, which is right next to her guest, now my, bathroom and thought that somehow between the kitchen and the office I had gotten drunk. Or all those drugs I did in high school decided to stop by and say "hi." The floor of the office seemed warped as if the laminate floor was flowing. It wasn't flowing; it was bowing. 

Mom told me there must be a leak from the bathroom I'm using that is running into the office. The next day, she had the bowing part of the floor ripped up and found water. A lot of water. So, the entire floor was torn up and it appears a pond had been forming, courtesy of moi and the increase water drainage in the guest bathroom.

I suggested we throw in a coy fish and name it Duane. We might make it on the Home and Garden Channel. 

After further investigation, a plumber found a crack in the molding in the shower. Water had been leaking from behind the wall into the office for a month. Her newly remodeled bathroom shower will probably have to be ripped out and the wall aired out. 

Oh, and the floor that needs replacing in her office? It has been discontinued. 

She calls me The One Woman Wrecking Ball, but I think that is an understatement.

I figured it out; I need an exorcism. I mean so far, I've brought fire and flood. Mom asked me if I thought I might have been Attila the Hun in my past life, but I just don't think I've had that level of commitment in any life. Honestly, I think I am the second coming . . . of Satan.

Or would it be the first coming? My Biblical knowledge is limited. Nevertheless, I think I need an exorcism.  All this is happening during the media hype and release of the sequel to The Exorcist. Coincidence? 

While my car was being repaired, I borrowed Mom's car for a trip to a town outside of Fresno. Trust me, I had some trepidation, but I had promised my school's cross country team I'd chaperone a race up in Clovis which is near Fresno. I made a point to touch as few buttons necessary in the car and drive with my hands at the 10 and 2 o'clock position. I even used the navigation on my phone instead of the one in her car. When I got back, the electrical system that controls her navigation, radio, and phone connection had fried. 

Three days ago, when I got home from work, I noticed the lawn beneath my window was dug up and surrounded by caution tape. I should have backed out.

Turns out, while the plumber was testing for any additional links in the bathroom plumbing, he discovered that the septic system has "several hairline fractures." The wave of shit imagery I lead with in this post has become literal. 

So, two successful, affluent grown women might be sharing a bathroom and a bedroom. Honestly, Mom will make me pitch a tent in the backyard before sharing a bed with me. And I'm not sure I blame her. Trust me, if there was a way for me to get away from myself, I would have done so a long time ago. 

I ran my exorcism theory by a co-worker. Between the war in Ukraine and the devastation in the Gaza strip, he saw the logic in my theory. He did make a request: if I am bringing the end-of-days, can I give him time to get through his bucket list?

Well, sure. I mean right now, I'm just tearing down mine and mom's house; it might take a while for me to tear down the world. But I am going to do it one toilet and car at a time.

All I know is that my mom makes the cross out of her fingers when I walk in the front door and my sister has not invited me over. 

And an interesting factoid to leave y'all with: if I had been born a boy, my parents planned to name me Damien. I shit you not. Quite the omen.

I Need a Nap . . . Forever

As mentioned in earlier posts, I turned 50 last year and am fast approaching 51, and just like that, I should be considering moving to Miami, Florida. Unfortunately, I do not look as good as the ladies from Sex and the City and I am definitely not as cool as The Golden Girls.

I hate everything about being 50. I hate the stigmatism of being "middle age"; I hate my sore knees and back; I hate my wrinkles; I really hate that muumuus and lounge dresses are more appealing than dark jeans and sequenced tops.

I remember in college I could do a dozen things a day on 6 hours of sleep: attend class, work full time, exercise and even maintain a social life. When I started teaching, I was still finishing my credential. So my day became working in the morning, working out in the afternoon, and then going to class 3 nights a week. I wrote a hundred-page thesis when I was 30, teaching full time, and starting a new relationship. I didn't work out as regularly, but exercise was still a part of my life until I broke up with both the relationship and significant physical movement when I was staring down the barrel of turning 40.

I know its been a tortoise / hair race between my body and my mind toward, ya know, death, but I can't figure out which is which, and even then, which is winning.

Somewhere in my mid 40s, I realized that if I want to do two things in one day, I need a nap in-between or bookend my "busy" day with 8-10 hours of sleep. Run an errand, or god help me, exercise after work? In bed by 8 p.m. Dinner with a friend after work? Nap in-between. Clean on a Saturday morning and then socialize Saturday night? Nap. Have one of my nephews overnight and then do anything afterward? Major nap.

Day-drinking has taken on an entire new significance now that I'm fucking middle-aged. My party starts at noon, and either is broken up with a nap or ends at 6 p.m. I need a minimum of 3 days to sober up and sleep it off.

So it proves to be a challenge when one's feeble attempt to reclaim her youth includes going to as many heavy metal concerts as possible. Honestly, if I want to reclaim my youth I can go out and make staggeringly bad relationship choices and then crash my car.

Most recently, my sister and I saw Godsmack on a Thursday night and I had to go to work the next day because it was the second week of school. In addition, I was supposed to be having my nephews for a sleepover. Now, I don't take both nephews at once; there aren't enough naps in the world to prep me for that. If I want to enjoy myself, I only take one at a time for one night. So it might be Jay on Friday night, then I swap for Blake on Saturday, then take Blake home Sunday, take a 2 hours nap, and spend the rest of the day readjusting my apartment and my brain.

But, when my sister and sister and I were working out what we call kid schlepping details, I didn't realize that all three events were back-to-back. I only realized it after I started updating my Google calendar. Once I realized my scheduling impossibility, I went storming into her office and nearly screamed: "I cannot have a kid the two nights after a concert!"

My sister looked up from her planner, filled with writing and post-it-notes. Her computer is flashing and beeping in the background. Her half-cast eyes show exhaustion; her slack jaw shows confusion. Or exhaustion. Or both. My sister has two kids every night of her life: one kid is heavily into sports, and she is very conscious of giving the kid not in sports as much of her time and attention as the other.

I held up my hands to stop any other comment from her and said, "I'll die. I mean, it's the first week of school."

My sister's profession includes the title of "director." The only directing I do is of teenage fuckery. My sister hosts seminars, zoom meetings with a dozen people who also have impressive titles including terms like "regional," "statewide," and "national." I have talks with adolescents about why they shouldn't have their earbuds in while I am teaching, even if "they are turned off." My sister holds workshops and seminars for people with PhDs. I teach how to capitalize the personal pronoun "I" to a class of gangling teens who are literally sweating hormones.

My sister flips back to August in her planner, propped her elbow and dropped her head into her hands and said, "Okay . . ."

We worked it out so that I wouldn't die. And a big shout-out to my baby sis who probably could use a nap, but still manages to function, and function well, without one.

Me? I had to take a nap after the near fatal scheduling mistake I nearly made.