The continual sightings (and smooshing with finger) of sugar ants on the master bathroom vanity has been a mystery (and an annoyance. I wonder if they’re shimmying the bristles of our toothbrushes when we’re not watching). They’re gone from the kitchen, a few weeks now, but still linger down the hall in our bath; silently padding across the great plains of pale amber faux marble sink top…and, occasionally, near the slim right hand drawer below. Until early this morning I’d not thought to look in there and see what the attraction was. I opened the drawer. It was gross.
It was a small bottle of store brand laxatives. The “chocolate” kind; they sort of resemble blah-colored M & M’s but you know damn well they are not M & M’s.
As I lifted the plastic, Tiffany blue bottle, several tiny ants attempted an escape via my forearm. The rest (read: many hundreds filling the bottle) were dumped into the sink and, ten minutes later, humanely rinsed out to sea via the waste pipe.
That was an interesting way to start the day. From there, it improved, laterally.
I made a decent meat sauce. One pound each of mild and hot Italian sausage, well browned, drained; added one large jar of Newman’s Own Marinara. Added basil and a teeny pinch of cinnamon. Simmered three hours on low. Simple, yummy. Done.
The washed laundry is still sitting in the washer from this morning. Raise your hand, you multi-washer’s. I know you’re out there. (You’re in a LOT of good company). Also, if you must know, the pots, pans and dishes from dinner this evening are sitting next to and in the sink, unattended. I might get to them in a bit.
And then, there’s the hard stuff – the stuff I don’t write about. I was raised to not to talk about the hard stuff with others outside, say, our immediate family. It might turn people off or they might think less of us if they knew we had ‘troubles’ or ‘issues.’ Not everyone wants or needs to know every gory detail of another’s life. Oddly, as a writer and observer and blogger, one of my greatest pet peeves is people talking on their cellphones about the abscess on their gum or their kid’s lice, their parent’s gout or their own whatever mundane thing they’ve got going on. I’m more peeved when they’re loud, foul-mouthed and behaving as if everyone else around them has invaded THEIR living room. On more than one occasion, I have been tempted right to the edge of saying something like, “Do you mind keeping your business to yourself? We are in public, after all. Thanks.”
Of course, this boils down to choice. In public, we have the choice to either listen or not; to make a big deal of things or not be bothered by another’s rudeness. We also have the choice to take our personal calls when – and where – they can be truly personal – like in the privacy of a car or home, out of earshot of the public.
Same holds for reading social media posts. We can choose to follow someone or not, read their stuff or not; comment, be quiet, etc. If you’re reading, thanks for following. If you’re lurking, *wave*, I see you. (No, I don’t really, but thanks for being there.)
So, the hard stuff. The stuff that makes us human and connected and vulnerable and imperfect. The stuff that hurts but is always on your mind, despite the hurt; the things you’re working out, understanding, trying to master. The crap.
What I am not writing about:
My Darling Daughter. DD.
My Mom. Either one or both (but they are not married to each other. One is organic/birth/first mom, one is my adoptive mom.) I have two. OK, I’m not writing about both.
My lack of political care given the situation in this country. (NOTE: YES, I have every intention to vote. No worries.)
The odd-shaped ‘chocolate chips’ on my left shin. They’ve been there for a few years.
My purpose. I’m 52 – what the hell should I really be doing at this point?
I’ll leave you with that, The Crap.
*finishes local Virginia – Barboursville – wine, ignores dishes and laundry. Heads to bed and an ant-free master bathroom sink*