April 3, 2018


I told my best friend today that I feel like I'm in a little wooden boat, and I'm keeping the inside dry and orderly, but my boat is adrift in a sea of my current addiction object and I have no way to steer and just have to hope I hit land some day.  I am lost at sea, but I am not drowning.

There is plenty to distract me right now.  I went last night to look at a free piano and it's coming to me; I just have to arrange some movers.  It cost something until some parents brought by their seven-year-old last week with an eye toward getting him piano lessons, and then the kid sat on the bench and stomped hard on the sustain pedal because I think he was trying to drive the piano instead of play it, and something went "tttthwaannngk" inside and snapped and now the pedal is floppy and dead.  I would have been mortified if that were my kid, but the parents apparently shrugged and said never mind, now we don't want it because it's borked, and offered no restitution or assistance, or consequences to the kid.  I do hope karma's a bitch.  I want to believe in it at times like this.

So now it's a free piano, and I think the lady giving it away is much happier to have it coming to a household without a seven-year-old in it.  It's uglier than Einstein's rectum, because the legs are all spindly and have lots of grooves and turns, but P.J. is working on coming up with some kind of veneer coverings or maybe a leg transplant for it.  It even comes with a bench full of sheet music.

Fuck the sheet music.  I'm re-learning the prelude to Messiah before I even play a scale.  I want that back.  Yesterday people were wishing I'd keep my hands on the steering wheel when I was driving, but instead I've been listening to the Sinfony and pretending I remember all the chords, and I've probably also been head-banging at some spots but I didn't realize I was doing it.

The piano needs tuning, and someone to look at the post-"tttthwaannngk" pedal situation, but the action on the keyboard is perfect, the felt hammers unworn, the strings taut.  I'm getting a piano.  Ermahgerd.

Then there's my son being a standard-issue asshole this week.  So far I've been disobeyed, disrespected, lied to, used, usurped, supplanted, emotionally manipulated, and tuned out, and it's only Tuesday.  After this morning's text exchange, he now has his choice of which orifice to use when relieving himself in the restroom.  I'm over it.  Just like I've been over it before, and will be over it again, many times, but I keep stepping up to the plate because I like abuse and I'm a mother and I have to keep going to bat, because the kid is utterly lost without that.  And so am I.

Who the hell signed me up for this?

He's usefully annoying, too.  Last night he was upstairs playing video games in his room and making high-pitched squealing noises, and they wouldn't stop, and he kept squealing because he and his friends probably thought it was funny, and who cares about the rest of the household, so I marched upstairs and hammered on his bedroom door and screamed, "THAT CARPET COST $1,200 WHEN WE HAD IT PUT IN AND EVEN THOUGH IT'S GOT THAT STAINMASTER STUFF, ALL THAT PIG BLOOD IS NOT GOING TO COME OUT SO UNLESS YOU'RE CATCHING THE BLOOD IN SOME SORT OF LARGE BASIN WHILE YOU'RE SLAUGHTERING ALL THE PIGS, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GERMANY NEXT SUMMER BECAUSE YOUR ASS IS SAVING UP TO REPLACE THE CARPET INSTEAD," and went back downstairs.  I heard him laughing, but you know what?  The squealing stopped.

There's a lawn to mow, and laundry to fold, and I never did finish that puzzle, but all of those activities leave me too much time to think.  Swat, swat, swish.  The splash of little waves.

A gift for writing?  Seriously?  I play tennis and baseball and the piano all while in a boat.  I'm a god-damned bartender for mixed metaphors.

It's only Tuesday.

Update:  I fixed the pedal!  It only needed two longer screws to replace the ones that little Speed Racer stripped out when he slammed his foot down on it.  Well, that and a screwdriver and someone reckless enough to take the piano apart and look.  I started playing and quickly realized that it will be unbearable to do so until this sucker is tuned, and I don't have the right tools, so I'm already in the process of hiring a tuner to come out and for the love of god make it stop it sounds so bad my ears are bleeding gahhhhhh.  I forgot, you see.  I forgot how sensitive I am to pitch.  But I'm all smug-dance about the pedal now.

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