Last night my mother and stepfather brought Leta home from her dance lesson—wait. TANGENT ALREADY MOTHERFUCKERS. I just remembered an email I got years and years ago after I’d written a post wherein I referred to my stepfather as my “step-father” more that two times, and someone lost their goddamn mind and told me that they were going to stop reading my website if I dared put a dash in that word ever again. Well, guess what. It’s time: my step-father. Buh-bye!
And yes, I am very lucky that my mother insists that she take Leta to her weekly dance lesson so that I have one less burden to carry during my week. And dude. The next few weeks. In a month the girls play two solo pieces in front of judges, and up until then Leta has play practice almost every single day after school and on the weekends. Insert dance lessons, therapy sessions, piano lessons, piano practice, homework, and thousands and thousands and thousands of words that most certainly are not going to write themselves, and no wonder the pressure got so intense that I recently opened the freezer, looked at a block of frozen ground beef and thought, “The proper thing to do with this block of frozen ground beef is throw it on the ground.” So I did. And it was magnificent. A magnificently, glorious fiasco.
I called it The Flying Frozen Ground Beef Broken Tile Fiasco on Instagram and my friend Stacia who is currently my landlord commented, “Something you need to tell me?” Hahaha. Haha. Ha. Oh dear. I assured her that we fixed it up real good, but now I’m going to wait for the email or comment warning me that I should not be renting from a friend, that it will end badly, what the hell am I thinking? But since I pay my rent on time and she sends over a plumber whenever there’s a problem with a pipe I think I’m going to remind whoever is gonna make that comment that both Stacia and I are functioning adults and you can mind your manners. However, before I moved in a year ago when I was at the nadir of my depression I asked her, “Are you sure you want to hand over your house to a crazy woman?” A CRAZY WOMAN WHO TREATS FROZEN GROUND BEEF LIKE A BASKETBALL.
Her response was, “Your crazy has got nothing on my crazy.” My crazy beats her crazy hands down, but imma let her think she owns that honor.
And instead of posting a photo of that frozen ground beef mid-flight here’s a photo of some pretty flowers to remind myself and to remind you that we all have our moments, and it’s really important to forgive ourselves. And maybe next time I have a moment I’ll let the ground beef thaw before I throw it.
Anyway, where was I? Point me in the general direction… oh yeah. Snowboarding!
They got back from her dance lesson just as the last five competitors in the men’s halfpipe were taking their final runs, and since Shaun White had a shot at taking home gold they stayed for an extra half hour and I let Marlo stay up past her bedtime so that she could witness whatever would happen. Except, neither she nor Leta have any interest in the Olympics other than the figure skating competition. And they aren’t even rooting for a specific person or team. They just love how beautiful it all is. Yeah, beautiful. That’s the word, especially when you consider that Adam Rippon tweeted this after his nearly perfect performance during the group competition:
To all those who tweet at me saying that they “hope I fail”, I have failed many times many times in my life. But more importantly, I’ve learned from every setback, proudly own up to my mistakes, grown from disappointments, and now I’m a glamazon bitch ready for the runway.
— Adam Rippon (@Adaripp) February 13, 2018
“Now I’m a glamazon bitch ready for the runway.” If there is one true and holy God she most definitely created Adam in her image.
Oh, and in case you missed it, this is from an Instagram Story I posted last night:
When Shaun White sailed down that halfpipe and nailed his last run, I screamed—this is why I stay away from sports in general, I become WAAAAYYYYYYY too emotionally involved and my anxiety morphs into a demonic rush of deadly adrenaline and I feel like I’m dying—just like I screamed when whoever it was slapped that football out of Tom Brady’s greedy little hand and ripped a Super Bowl win away from the Patriots. My mom and step father clapped and yelled, but it was my scream that made Leta go, “Stop! Just, please stop that. Ugh.”
She ugh’ed me.
Oh, hell no.
As if one can control an uncontrollable demonic rush of deadly adrenaline. As if I was being uncivilized by expressing emotion during a defining Olympic moment. As if I was not performing what I had been taught in a home where one sibling loved the Atlanta Falcons and the other loved the Pittsburgh Steelers and the sound of a football game instantly reminds me of being 10 years old. So I turned to her and through gritted teeth groaned, “YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE SURVIVED MY CHILDHOOD, GIRL WHO IS CURRENTLY WATCHING A MUSIC VIDEO ON AN IPAD AND HAS NEVER SCRUBBED A TOILET.”
And then I ugh’ed myself because—shivers—I just turned into my father. He never fails to remind me that his mom broke a plate over his head when he was five years old because he accidentally cracked a lamp. And so the only comfort I take in all of this is knowing that my Granny Hamilton was a phenomenal woman who sometimes lost her shit, too. I bet she could destroy kitchen tile like no one’s business.