Saturday, October 11, 2008

This is why I moved away

My sister came to visit me this weekend, and to provide some much-needed help around the house, specifically, cleaning the massive amounts of fur off the floors, which I haven't been able to reach in weeks.

She also proved invaluable in helping to teach me some of that patience I'm sure I'll need as a parent. Within minutes of her arrival, she offered the keen observation, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen making myself a snack, that "You look like Leadpipe."

I don't believe I've officially introduced Leadpipe here. He's our father, who in his last years of declining health was forced to give up everything in life that gave him happiness, except food. He had to be buried in one of those jumbo-sized extra-wide caskets, his suit jacket cut up the middle in the back so it would button in front.

Apparently I'm acting more like Leadpipe these days too, because I offered her a heartfelt "Fuck you" in return.

Later over dinner, after she loudly asked me if I'd be able to squeeze into the restaurant booth, she helpfully pointed out that I am not in my 20s anymore and that "You know, your body's not going to bounce back from this."

I politely informed her that she was not, in fact, helping me.

"Well, it's not. You're going to sag all over the place. Maybe you'll make enough money to get some corrective surgery."

I suggested that our mother, who gave birth to me, her fifth child, at age 38, didn't look all that bad.

"No," she countered, "Mom was pretty droopy."

Well, I said, I guess I'll just start having sex with the lights out. Assuming I ever again find someone willing to have sex with me, given my grotesquely deformed body.

She took the hint, changing the subject to how she can't believe I'm not freaking out, because she would be if she still had as much to do as I do before the babies get here. And how actually, she wouldn't be freaking out because she'd have her husband, but if it was just her with no husband, she'd be a mess.

Much better.

Today we went to the dog park. As she watched me struggle to get up from the picnic table to pull the Monster off the back end of an eager-to-please golden retriever, she said, "You know it's not going to get any easier."

Seriously, would a "Only a few more weeks" have killed her?

Back home, I tried to help her out as best I could, taking frequent breaks on the couch to admire the skilled tradesman with the cute turned-up nose and the long curly hair installing new windows in my living room. (Side note--this is an unexpected fringe benefit of working for The Man, that I can afford to have attractive men come work on my house.)

She examined the new double stroller, which Crazy Cat Lady and I successfully assembled with only minimal cursing. Noting its heft, she suggested "You'd better start working on those back muscles."

OK. Should I start my new workout regimen now, when I can't bend or turn at the waist, or perhaps wait until I'm recovering from a C-section while simultaneously trying to feed and take care of two newborns?

Blessedly, she had to leave after less than 24 hours. She called later to tell me she made it home and threatened to come to Indy to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. I wonder if my therapist has Sunday appointments?



3 comments:

nora leona said...

You need to hang around my family. At breakfast yesterday one of my cousins remarked how all pregnant women are attractive (I think he started to say sexy, but caught himself in time, realizing that his wife, cousin and uncle were also at the table).
Let me know when sister is making her next trip. I've still got your airmattress, she can sleep on my dining room floor.

Jerry in Texas said...

You can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family. Wanna trade?

bad influence girl said...

Thanks for the offers, you two.

Nora--Yes on both. She's really a good houseguest, aside from the trail of Miller Lite cans she leaves in her wake.

Jerry--No thank you. Pretty sure I couldn't keep up with your dad.