Dear Self, from a future dimension when hoover cars are the norm, speaking is obsolete and fossil fuels look like a bad idea, Hey there, dear. You remember this week, right? This is the week you are writing this post whilst falling asleep at work. This is the week you and the soon-to-be second ex-Mr. Bee fucked and fought while breaking up. You know, the week laundry occupied the kitchen table, you got 30 of the 25361gh things on your list of things to do done and yahoos prioritized
inane dating tips over world peace. I know, I know, these sound like every other freak week. This was the week you finally watched the highly acclaimed by your cousin
Nurse Jackie. Oh, that week, the week I finally watched
Nurse Jackie. Yeah, now I remember that week. What a week that was.
I know. Do you remember how it started? Oh, yeah, we found lice on Snaggletooth mere hours before he needed to go to bed early for his first day back to school after the winter break. They call them winter breaks rather than Christmas breaks here in the future, you know. You'll get used to it, I swear. Oh yeah, that was the week you got to message one of the couples you have a crush on and tell them your kids (and you, don't forget you) may have given them and their kids lice. That was cute. Since this here is the future, I can tell you that the natural lice removal stuff has been debunked, but the elbow grease accompanying along side it works wonders, though remember how the kids asked why the obscure
lice removal product you were using was called Nad's and how you gave them what you know they were so coyly begging for... information and told them it must be someone's name, but hah, it sure does sound like the word "gonads." "What are gonads?" "They're a boy or man's testicles, they're in what are called the "balls." I'm gonna have to check and see if you didn't actually get that wrong in some way, now that I'm writing it about you, er, me. Shewee, you
got it right. Anyway, remember how the running joke all week was about how it was a marketing fail to have the words "lice" and "nads" in the same sentence. Remember how you twisted that shit into a grammar lesson about the apostrophe in possessives, and how you probably won't tell those cute baby Bees about how funny you find it that when you just then (now, to you ) looked up Nad's online, you got a kick out of how they seem to be re-making their image, re-associating the word Nad's with
hair removal products. And, all this was a theme of the week.
"Mommy what are these?" (referring to the little things that look like candies next to the register at the UT pharmacy). "They're condoms." Remember how that nice cashier winked at you for being forthright, but how you were relieved that they either acted like they remembered that you told them about those that time or they remembered enough to know they didn't want to ask that question again right now, not in public at least. But, then you weren't really spared, because that
Bones you all watched on that lazy ass Friday night featured a garage full of sex toy products and you had to give a vague overview of what lube is in that context and said you didn't know what the metal thing in the box was and that was true, but you wished you did. Oh, the curiosity. Go ahead and pretend you are getting a break from it. You are always right there, uh here, dear.
That, uh, this, week in history (you do still think in terms of strictly male and female, no?), was the one you subbed for the lunchroom monitor and had a good deal of fun showing kids your cheezy banana peeling trick (after you saw six get smashed 'cause they were too green and the (harmful?) stems were little nubs) and subverting their non-salad eating agendas by offering them tableside salad dressing service, much like a black pepper bearer might. You deserve it kids, to be waited on a little in your mad dash to school lunch nutrition via meat raviolis. Sadly, there was no food fight that day. I remember that, but it was probably for the best since you got to talk to be your soon-to-be mentor teacher for student teaching who informed you the 25th is the start date, the date you have to be READY!
Remember that tiny apartment you moved in after living on five acres for three years? Yes. Yes. I do. This/ That was the week you found it and picked it and come Monday, you will be committed to it for the one year haul. Yes. Yes. I remember that like it was only this week. In fact, while I am relieved that I, apparently and thankfully, don't appear to have memory loss in the future, you are bothering me somewhat, ya know-it-all. What year did you say you are from? 2011. Aw geez. I can do this part. This week I found an apartment that is close-ish to my children's school, reasonably affordable and is calling forth a need to become an utter liar, as I am under the strong impression there is a city staute of some sort that prohibits lessors from renting out abodes in a manner that will require there to be more than two people per bedroom, and so I left The Future President and The Lip Model off my lease so that I can rent a two-bedroom place, the largest I can afford. You and I both know that my two Baby Bees and my other two Teen Bees will be staying at my house half-time each (if even that re: The Lip Model), possibly even at alternating times, so I can sleep on the couch when the girls are there, and give them the closet in the room we will essentially share, particularly given the unanticipated largish closet in the living room. I picked an apartment that is nowhere near the office, and already have my, "This is my niece who is babysitting" line ready in the event I have to scar my children for life by lying in front of them. We already had that discussion. The genius asserts it is a mere omission, which makes it not a lie, but I told him it was, indeed, a lie, the not telling, but that there were some times, in this case survival, in which I will choose to lie. I think it would be worse for me to teach him that lying by omission is not lying than that there are times when people consciously lie, and I am doing it. He felt better to know that all he had to do was not mention the girls for the fifteen minutes we were around the office personnel, hopefully for forever. I'm not going to mention to him that I am not going to set up internet service until we are in the apartment and I have exhausted possibly using one of my neighbors' wireless signals... until maybe I do. I figure the continued absence of cable tv will be our penance, and he will be justified in continuing to call me Cheapy the Cheapskate. On the brighter side, there is a treadmill in the complex where I can run my boys like dogs and wear them out if it is too cold to walk a mile over the the awesome park, oh, and walk my dog. It's all rather a mix of sad and exciting.
I would, normally, complain that I had to just get up and work for a bit, here, behind the scenes, but one could hardly call signing for a package "work," even if it requires to little giddyup to make it to the delivery entrance before the Fed Ex guy leaves because no one answers the door. Some delivery people call. Some won't. I know this. I've got a little racing heartbeat now, not just from skipping down there, but also it was the delivery person I haven't seen in some time, a really sweet and cute guy I haven't said more than three words to, but today we had a funny moment where I inadvertently flirted, he saw it and we were all smiley at each other. It was very cute. Always, always, I know you fake sign your name on the deal, and then he asks for the last name, but I accidentally said, "It's 'Freida", I mean 'Bee' ...
and, it's Freida. Good lord of almighty hot dogs, I am easy. Be sure not to hand me back change politely or I'm likely to write a smutty security guard files about you, you know. But, it was a flirt, and it was rather wholesome, which, is a good segue into my next slutty schtick. (I'll avoid referring here how the boys saw and re-enact the
Schweddy Balls routine during the SNL Christmas special, here. That belongs up there in the Nad's part. Also, it makes it sound like we watch a lot of tv. Maybe.)
Mr. Bee starts back to working more than sporadically this next week. It's been a littel challenging for us to spend more than our usual amount of time together this past week, for many reasons. For one thing, uh, we're separating. We continued our super secret affair this past week, and then I went and freaked out when he went and looked at getting an apartment in the same complex as me. In theory, I think this is a good idea for the kids, and for our convenience, but given some of our difficulties, I didn't realize until it was almost too late that I really am moving out to get more distance than that. If he'd not been an asshole to me when he'd been drinking, something that seems to be on the increase rather than increase right now, even days after saying he was totally ready to give it up if I'd change my mind about moving into separate places, only to be drinking (and heavily) the very next day after I said, "no," I might go for it (or not been wanting to move int he first place), but he really is making things easy for me that way. The only thing is, I want to give him all the blowjobs I can before he's not just right there next to me while we watch
Rescue Me, which sadly gets us hot. More tv. uggh. This conflict of interest is getting old, but will shift in some way or another very very soon. Last night he asked me if I was gonna split and never come back come Monday, but I took the lovely opportunity to remind him I was going to be without electricity until I can pay the $750 bill some sublettors accrued in my name 10 years ago, when we got them to move in after he and I moved abruptly. I'm going to start moving my stuff, emptying my copy paper boxes, which I have been stealing from my workplace for the past two months now, so I can refill them with the minimal amount of items I want to take with me in the move. I think he decided that he is going to get a duplex, which might be more accommodating for Snaggletooth's drum set, The Genius's electric guitar and his own bass. I've clarified that I would be more than happy for him to live int he same aprtments, but just not the same building, or within eyeshot of each other's front doors. I think this is reasonable. But, I think I changed his mind about moving there by expressing my discomfort with it, which is probably for the best. The blowjobs probably aren't helping though.
I'm sure there's more, but isn't this already TMI. I stayed up too late showing The Genius The Three Stooges last night. I can't believe I never thought of it before. He's in the know about Pink Panther (Snaggletooth's favorite) and Bugs Bunny (his favorite), but I can assure you, he and Snaggletooth are watching the old clips online right as we theoretically speak. I am hoping to get to some more Divorce Sonnets and FFF this week, so I shall have to tell you about being felt up another time.
Oh dear bloohoho. How many days have you lain in wait whilst I, prickly, merely glanced on your being, unbothered? Some fortnightery or peck's worth of kibble remains, yea. That, indeed, is my proper due at points such as these, but I do have doctor's notes and kitty notes and absconded notes (not yet, actually on this, but ask me later) that can verify my whereabouts on the night of November 45, 2005. I was with Professor Peacock in the study. She will deny this, understandably, so what good will it do me now, will it?
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