Wednesday, June 17, 2009
yours, mine, ours, mine, and also mine
It's not my forte. Not at all my bailiwick. In fact, it's one of my personal peccadilloes.
(Those last two sentences, drawing together two of my least favorite words, are brought to you by my 2002 boss, the Most Insane Nice Person Ever. Managing smart people was not her bailiwick, and working under her was one of my peccadilloes. But I digress.)
Ahem. Yeah, I suck at sharing. I was an only child, and my father enjoyed torturing me by threatening to remove anything I liked as a child. He had this game where I would get a shiny, new balloon, and he would make me put my hands behind my back, and then he would let go of the balloon and let it soar up to our 20-foot ceiling, counting to 5 until I was allowed to reach for it with my tiny, impotent little hands.
And then my mom had to get out the ladder and a yardstick with masking tape on it while I cried and he laughed.
Again, I digress. Can you tell I have sharing issues?
The point is this: You already know I hate to share cupcakes, but now i'd like to tell you about the wide variety of bizarre and random things that I utterly refuse to share with anyone, even my children and the love of my life.
1. My blanket. I have 2 favorite blankets, and I refuse to share them. If we were on Hoth, and Dr. Krog's tauntaun's intestines were no longer steaming warm after he fought the wampa, and he looked longingly at my blanket with eyes crusted in frozen tears, I would probably tell him to get his own damn blanket.
2. My water bottle. Yes, if it's 100 degrees out, i'll let my child have a few gulps to keep us out of the hospital. But the thought of all those little floaties gently dancing in my water totally squigs me out. If you don't have kids, "floaties" are what happens when residual food in a toddler's mouth is released into your water, and suddenly there are bits of hot dog and avocado floating around in your drink. It's no good.
3. The good frozen meals. Especially the Lean Cuisines with fish, or rigatoni, or the Kashi ones. Dr. Krog can have the Chicken Teriyaki. Sorry, Dr. Krog.
4. My magazines. Fashion and gossip magazines are one of my guilty pleasures, especially when enjoyed in an indulgent bath. But for some reason, if Dr. Krog reads them first, it's like they're not shiny anymore. There are grease spots on them from his dinner, and dog-eared pages, and it feels like old news. I want all the horrible, cheesy glitter for my own, selfish, celebrity-love-hate-disgust self.
5. My special mugs. I love hand-made mugs and buy about one per year from a local clay show and sale. And I don't want anyone else to use them, ever. Because if someone else broke or chipped one of my special mugs, i'd have to break all their fingers. With a brick.
6. My bath. I don't want anyone else's body filth in my bath. I don't want anyone's hair, toenails, sweat, or swamp butt in my bath. I don't want anyone else enjoying my Lush bath bombs, when I can manage to get my frugal, clutching hands on one. I don't want Michael, Eddie, and Freddy from the Little People bobbing cheerfully around my navel. And while i'm in the bath, I don't want to answer any questions, other than perhaps, "What would you like from Chickfil-A, darling?" I'm pretty sure that happened once. It was lovely.
7. My exercise time. Aside from walking on the trails or treadmill with a friend, I just don't want to talk to anyone at the gym or while shredding at home in front of my laptop. I don't want small talk from other gymgoers, offers from bored trainers, or tiny people using dolls as barbells asking me why the lady on TV is wearing her bra while she does push-ups. Before Jazzercise conflicted directly with t.rex's nap schedule, I lived in fear of the over-anxious leaders and their zealous attempts at mandatory audience participation. I do not need to sing along with Fall Out Boy to feel upbeat about my exercise.
8. My breakfast. If you read this post, i'm sure you now understand that MY MORNING IS SACROSANCT. But seriously, when the Biscuit sweetly begs for a bit of my egg-mushroom-spinach-omelett-on-mini-whole-wheat-bagel-with-just-a-dab-of-Trader-Joe's-lite-mayo, I want to roar until the windows crash and car alarms go off and small birds fall from the sky. It's just embarrassing.
I could probably go on, except that 1. It will only get more embarrassing, and 2. My child wants my attention so badly that she's starting to get dangerous. And shirtless.
Please tell me you guys are as bad at sharing as I am? I'm not selfish about being selfish. You guys can be as selfish as you want, and i'm totally cool with that. Deal?