Ground Zero

Last week I talked to my sister daily. We talked so much shit, a fire extinguisher of Binaca couldn’t mask our butt breath. After I locked my keys in my car, an hour before needing to be at work, I had a come to Oprah moment, and realized the sick pleasure I was getting in our cackle-fest was starting to turn against me.

Saturday I started my period, Sunday I woke up with a cold sore, and Monday, I’m in love. After I got out of the shower the other night, I forgot two of the three above, and stumbled toward my boyfriend looking like a ground zero case for the upcoming outbreak. Arms outstretched, leaking fluids, with an open sore on my face, I turned on the charm, and hoarsely whispered, “Get over here, you big galoot.”

Horrified, he just shook his head and muttered, “Nah uh.”

It’s his birthday week, and now I’m going to have to get him birthday gifts that cost money.

I woke up this morning and got right to chores. It lifted the grey cloud that showed up when my son woke up at 5 am on a Saturday. I sang to myself as I worked, “It’s the freaking weekend, baby, about to have me some fun.”

I took care of the sink full of dishes, trash and recycling, scooping out the litter box and starting the weekend laundry cycle, and I felt much more calm. We all made avocado toast, and sat around, basking in the nothing-to-do and nowhere-to-go day.

We tidied up the kids’ room. The time is approaching for them to start sleeping in their own beds, instead of us curling up like a pack of dogs every night. My kids are getting a bit too comfortable, demonstrated by my son walking around running his mouth like Kevin Hart.

I don’t know if I should be flattered by how relaxed he is at home, or horrified at how loose I let the reigns go. He macarana’d up to me in the kitchen, shaking fake maracas, and asked, “Will you make a fried egg sandwich?” And then he smacked his butt and made a fart noise.

I shook my head, “Nah huh!” Then I added, “I just washed dishes for 40 minutes, we aren’t eating anything but granola bars for the rest of the day. We have options, you want a chewy, fiber or sweet & salty?”

He reacted with a drawn out, “Oh shit!”

I asked him, “Does your daddy let you walk around talking like that?”

Kiki said, “Dad lets him say fuck three times. Then, he needs to say “Farmer John” instead of fuck.”

“For the love of God, will you please stop saying that word!”

I picked up my phone, looking at them, “I don’t understand where you got that from!”

Then I called my sister.