The thing about the West Coast (or the people that migrate here), myself not included, that they’re such a bunch of pissy temperamental whiners. Regardless of the social circle, the fair weathered westerners aren't content. If the weather's warm, "it’s way too hot." If it’s too cold, "It's freezing." Whah. Whah. Whah. What a bunch of infants. Suck on this. This is not a generalization, but an observation of over twenty years. I don't hide behind a tough brute exterior, whetting my opinions and beliefs with argument, that's not me. (As a young child, dad rooted whining not an option, and my discontent with the weather would land me more then just a spanking.)
The turrential rain stirred up some nostalgia. El Niño was back with a vengeance. The rain came down whipping on the tail of the wind sideways so an umbrella was pretty much useless. The wind howled and our pine tree in the backyard shiver and shake. The neighbor’s wall of bamboo was being thrashed over like a plastic bag in a wind storm. It delighted me to all end. The neighbor's pulled a dick weed move by planting it without the consideration in the world. The wall of bamboo took a good chunk of our view. This on the heels of preventing them from building a twelve foot fence. So I say, thrash away storm, if you must, thrash away.
By Monday, my third day off with the kids, I was a neurotic babbling mess. I was hoping to exert Hunter’s toddler frenzy at the local playground, but El Niño wouldn’t let up. Balls to that! Hunter was uninterested with his playroom, unbelievable since he can watch Thomas the Train over and over until the fruit flies came home. Instead he exercised his new and special talent to "test and push". He had a gleam of mischief in his eyes, the little sneaky snot rag, was up to no good and I was onto him like a vulture. Let's take Saturday evening, for instance, when I prepared his pasta and cautioned that the dish was hot, "Don't eat it yet honey, it's hot." Quick with the draw, dimples gouging the sides of his cheeks, he shoveled the food in his mouth. He quite possibly seared his tongue. He wailed. I highlighted his lack of obedience. He tossed his bowl on the ground. Let's just say he starved that evening. Stevie, of course, was a ball of joy. She was easily content, chortling and smiling. I remember when Hunter too was like that.
Our unusually enormous living room window was a perfect view to the beautiful storm. The sky was dark and hovered gruesomly over the water. The droplets pelting across the window rhythmically, but aggressively. I sat on the couch with Stevie, as nature meddled with discourse. We were cozy with home, family, and storm. Shane and his business partner huddled on the dining table, dueling apple laptops, discussing numbers, invoices, bids, and projects. Their current project was on hold due to the weather, they tackled the mound of paper work. They make a good team. During their pow wow, it was unfortunate as Hunter pleaded for daddy’s attention. One thing about kids, if you don't have them, they can drive you to commit hari kari on a sharp no. 2 pencil. I felt for Shane’s business partner. Although he had two dogs, dogs weren’t kids. You could always return the dog to the pound. Needless to say, I don’t think they got any work done.
One continuous storm and an abrupt thunderous crash later, I was awoken at five thirty in the morning on Tuesday. I bounced out of bed. I was on a mission. I was excited like the first day of school after three months of summer. Please don’t think that I don’t love being with my kids, I wholeheartedly do. Besides, enjoying my job, ditching calories at the gym on my lunch, that sense of freedom made parenting even more important. No guilt here. Time with my kids is about the quality.
It was the usual morning madness, Hunter defying all that was authoritative. Stevie going number two after a diaper change. I stuck to my guns and geared forth on Project 110 with the Champion I extracted fresh kale, carrots, celery, and beets. Shane whipped the kids into shape, he was the true master at this kung fu. I applied my war paint and meandered through my wardrobe, “alright blast off in five minutes.” My fair warning to my husband to start gathering the kids' things.
"Why aren't your wearing your rain boots?" My husband the shoe Nazi.
"I don’t' want to wear it to work, it’s frumpy and it doesn’t go with my outfit." A girlish, but logical reply.
"Shellie it's storming out there. I know you paid a lot of money for that one pair. You have eight pairs of rain boots and you haven’t worn one." Since when did my husband become an advocate for shoes, rain boots at that! I don’t tell him what to wear and why should he care? He was right, I haven’t given my rain boots much attention. They were unloved and lonely in that dark pile in my closet. I looked like a dork with rain boots on, I didn’t come to this conclusion till after eight purchases of rain boots. Besides, I didn’t enjoy the frumpy gardener look. Hunter boots brought back blocked memories of garden time with mom and dad.
I slipped the Hunters over my pencil jeans and buttoned my coat. I packed my lunch, coffee, and made sure my wallet, checkbook, and handbag were in my handbag. Despite my due diligence, I overlooked my office keys and the electronic gadget that authorized my entry into the elevator wasn't in the vicinity of my handbag (unrealized until I got into the building lobby). It was always a scene at the Kitchen household as we descended from the front stairs to the Lucy, the large R350, or the living room on wheels.
The drive to work was brutal,” Momma where’s daddy?” Hunter knowing well where his sperm donor was. “He’s at home honey.” I spoke kindly and motherly. I turned the radio to Sarah and Vinnie on Alice 97.3. It was a short road trip, but a daily routine nonetheless. The rain was torrential and our body heat wasn’t helping the fogging of the window. The defroster or defogger wasn’t kicking in, which made driving dangerous. I’m more careful with my precious cargo when driving. Ever experience the ninty year old elderly barely seeing over the dash, but swerved from lane to lane at 5 mph? Yours truly with the kids in tow.
The traffic on S280 was jammed. I was never going to get to work on time. I allowed a good hour and a half to get there and even that wasn’t enough. On a normal day, it would take no more then twenty minutes to drop both kids off from home to the train station. I blamed the bunch of pissy whiners that couldn’t drive in the rain, which was all of them. To be fair, I’m no wizard when it comes to driving in a blizzard.
Finally made it to the financial district, in the underground a sax player was all about the jazz, around the corner a college band jammed, clanged, some hippie drone, I assumed, for their next month's rent or kegger. The newspaper lady pushed the Examiner met me at the light of the stairs. The sea of umbrellas were as far as the eye can see. A homeless man yelled obscene garble and was going toe-to-toe with a street pole. I've been resurrected. felt above it all in this weather condition with my hat and rain coat. Meanwhile, the ant heads were inexperienced at maneuvering their obtuse objects through a swarm of rain.
It was good to be back in the land of the living. I have no shame! I’d wear it proudly with a badge pinned to my bare skin. I was on the train back to Daly City station where the beast Lucy was stationed. The exercising of my cerebral cortex exceeded my expectations. For as much as I enjoyed work and the heart warming purpose of providing for my family, I drove fast and furious to the arms of my children.
This is Shellie “you cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! Melting!" back to you Bob at the studio
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