Toes to the Nose.

2 Jun

So I can’t help but wonder — if you haven’t been able to surmise — if it truly, really is all about me. I mean, seriously. I’ve devoted all of my blog to writing about the hubby’s cancer travails. Then, when it starts to get really good I take a hiatus. Don’t report any of the good stuff. Just tell everyone to STUFF IT.

But we’ve been in test mode. And kitchen gutting mode. And end of school mode. And STUPID FUCKING SOCCER DRAMA mode. And whatever else befalls us mode.

Now I’m on my back deck/porch drinking a whole bottle of rosé and ready to ruminate on the last couple of weeks. GD IT.

Here’s the recap.

Our kitchen demo started. I had a colonoscopy. Then they said I might have celiac. So I panicked and tried to figure out what gluten-free looked like. Then I went on a crazy cleanse with the hubby that was underscored by a prominent local psychiatrist who said I was bipolar II. Then I decided to ignore the good doc and enjoy the weekend. So the cleanse ended with a bang and some gluten-free pizza + wine at Lucky Pie. I’ll call it my PIZZA CLEANSE (thanks snarky-snarkerson. you know who you are.)

I realized that I can’t handle the stress of being celiac and bipolar without gluten and wine. Ferfucksakes.

Then it was the hubby’s turn. He had a follow up CT scan. Then a colonoscopy. (The staff said, “You guys are in here all the time!”). Then bean had graduation from preschool and I was in charge. And miss-miss had to be Sybil Luddington at her 4th grade colonial wax museum (and I was in charge of the costume fetching.) And there were chickens to be tended in the classroom. Soccer pre-tryouts to attend. Parties for the end of everything (except for my mental state.) And by the time we heard: “You’re good, dude. Cancer is at bay. See ya in three months. Enjoy your vaca,” we were reeling so hard that we weren’t even sure we’d heard the words correctly.

So instead of a happy dance with champagne flowing out of our asses, we were bound by duties to attend soccer parties, end of school gatherings, preschool picnics and more soccer tryout practices.


The joy of the hubby being cancer-free for now was completely overtaken by a completely ridiculous drama being played out in kids’ soccer land. And that really pisses me off.

But. Instead of going on a predictable rant about what is happening to our kids exactly and WHY must we give a rat’s ass about fucking soccer when we clearly live in the football and beer society that we do. And SINCE WHEN did soccer for 10-year-olds equate to a life-or-death drama quotient. Well. There you go. We were in it and barely acknowledged said cancer victory moment. Because everyone in a 30-mile radius was completely and utterly focused on which-coach-was-going-where and who-fired-who and how-will-this-affect-my-kid’s-chances-to-make-gold-team. Fuck-me-a-runnin. I was in it too.

Though I have ZERO illusions about my kid’s athletic prowess (she’s her mother and should stick to running those 10-minute-miles fershittinsakes). I couldn’t help but engage in the collective outrage. And the migration to soccer club #2. And add to the stress in our lives by saying “of course. we too would love to spend EVERY FUCKING WAKING MINUTE THINKING ABOUT SOCCER AND THE OPTIONS HERE IN BOULDER.”

Because every last one of us is SO SURE that we have the next Mia Hamm on our hands. And she just can’t be squelched. Because THAT’S HOW WE’LL PAY FOR STANFORD. And THAT’S WHAT WE’LL BE ABLE TO WRITE ABOUT IN THE NEXT OBNOXIOUSLY LONG CHRISTMAS LETTER.

What the hell.

Call me sour grapes. My kid is crushed because the soccer club she dedicated the last four years of her life to hasn’t even bothered to call her to say YOU SUCK. Nope. Worse. The kid went through five+ rounds of practice and tryouts and bullshit just to be left on the sidelines when all but one of her friends was offered a spot somewhere.

And the irony? I actually care. I care because I watched those crocodile tears stream down her face in angst as the reality set in. As she contemplated foregoing the long-awaited and much-anticipated trip to Waterworld with the team tomorrow because she couldn’t bear to be the only one not on a team for next year.

GDMF. I could kill someone. With. My. Bare. Hands.

For FUCK SAKES. She’s only TEN. She’s supposed to be so thrilled that it’s summer. Riding her bike to the minimart to play Pacman and buy some Lik-m-Aids and Cheerwine. And this is what we get.

We have the TRAUMA of our LIVES rectified and it goes past unnoticed because of competitive soccer drama. I demand a do-over.

The good news? We are sooo thrilled to hit the beach for as long as possible this summer. No drama. No helicopter parents coaching their soon-to-be-pro kids from the sidelines. Just beach, beer, sand and Coppertone. (Okay, come rob us. I know that’s what you’re thinking.)

But before we can escape the bedlam of power outages due to entire breaker boxes being replaced. And men in your bedroom before 8:30am to check a switch. WE HAVE TO MOVE OUT.

If you’ve ever gone away for an extended period of time. You know. It’s no small task. Especially if you factor in working and kids home from school and bored to tears.

But factor in having to MOVE OUT before you go and it is (understatement) — a herculean task.

I’ve spent the past few days (very productively) yelling at the hubby repeatedly. To the point that the girls recited to daddy when I wasn’t around, “Mommy has to do everything around here.” Oops. I also told my mom that if I had to bring in the boxes from the back of the car after two days of having my rear view blocked that I would most likely hurl them all directly at his head.

Did I mention that I was bipolar?

So. Vacation. One month. Come home to not having an assembled house. But I digress. Let me focus fully for a minute. WE. ARE. GOING. TO. THE. BEACH. FOR. A. MONTH. TO. HAVE. TOES. IN. SAND. AND. DRINK. LITERS. OF. BEER. FILLED. WITH. GLUTEN.

If that’s not having your priorities in line I don’t know what is. Fuck soccer. Fuck cancer. It’s time to savor life and forget about those stupid things that really don’t matter. You dig?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Colors. Amos Lee. Your mama called, she said, that you’re downstairs crying. Feeling like such a mess. Ya, I hear ya, in the back ground bawling. What happened to your sweet summer time dress.


2 Responses to “Toes to the Nose.”

  1. Bob June 3, 2011 at 1:04 am #

    You might be diagnosed as bipolar, but i’d be willing to bet part of it is that you have the same Simmonds genes the rest of us do. You got your temper honestly, just like your mom, Cory, me, Stuart and the rest of the family did. Robbie has even got our temper. Relish in it. Learn control and then take your happy pills (mine are Zoloft). You are going to be fine. As to that soccer business, screw ’em. You don’t need all that crap in your life.

    I’m glad to hear your life is getting somewhat back to normal after that c-stuff. Now go drink your wine and enjoy the good things of life. You’ve earned it.

    Hugs to all from S.C.


  2. Megan June 3, 2011 at 5:20 pm #

    It’s hard not to get sucked into the drama since it makes for such great blog posts! I hope you have a great MONTH at the beach.


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