Kick Drum Heart

So, I had an idea for a blog yesterday. I was in the process of cleaning stalls, and I thought, there it is. There’s something I can write about.

And, naturally, it’s completely gone now and I can’t for the life of me remember what it is I was going to write about.

I can ramble on about anything else, though, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

For example, I loved cleaning stalls yesterday. You wouldn’t think so: I hate the cold, and winter. But I miss being outside, so much. I miss the barn, and the horses, even the cats. Ha. I miss sweating and lifting horse shit, even if it is freezing and blizzarding and disgusting outside. I had only myself to rely on to get a task (that I enjoy for its simplicity and productivity) done, and I did it.

Then when Dad backed up to the barn to bring in shavings and horse feed, I carted in some fifty pound bags of grain, no problem. I put away shavings. Then, back up at the house, I lugged in a hundred-pound bag of corn for the deer. Beats me why my father wants to feed wild animals, but what the hell. He can do what he wants.

Oh, damn. I just remembered what it was I wanted to blog about.

And, like I said earlier, yes I can ramble on about almost anything. So I’ll just start right in.

My mother said that word yesterday. It starts with a “d” and ends with schlimorce.

I figured she’s entitled to say it idly a few times. After all, as of Friday she and my father have been married twenty-seven years. She’s the one who wears the pants at this house, and my sister and I are her suspenders. My dad? Well, I guess he can be a hat, or some other expendable item of clothing. Because honestly, he doesn’t do much but go to work… and he works for the State, so we can pretty much confirm the idea that he’s fairly lazy.

Now, I like to be lazy and do nothing as much as the next person– today is a perfect instance of that. I haven’t done a damn thing all day but drink coffee and write and watch a movie with my mom and sister. But when there’s something that needs to get done, I do it, and I rarely bitch about it. Another prime example is handy: doing stalls. I just did ’em (and thankfully I loved it. It’s way better than having to clean the house, anyway, which is what my sister volunteered to help with. Ew).

But I digress. A return to topic: my father. He fishes, hunts, watches TV. Expects my mother (the one with the torn-to-shreds meniscus and ACL) to make him dinner and run Michelle and I around. (Why I can’t run Michelle and I around is beyond me, but that’s another rant for another day.)

So she said the word. She said it out loud. She won’t do it, my grandmother says.

But she’s been talking separation. I don’t know if she’s just playing with the idea or if she’s serious. I think she wants to “have a talk” with Dad. Explain to him why he can’t just dick around all the time and leave her with everything else.

You might wonder if I’m doing anything to help. I am, so stop wondering.

Beyond that, it makes me nervous. I don’t know if it would be a relief or a monumental upset if they split up, even for a while. It would be different (duh), but it might be better. The household would run more smoothly, without constant “Where’s dad?”‘s or “Can we shut the TV off?”

But he’s been here for all of my life. So I’m confused. And worried.

But I’ll let them sort it out. They’re the grown-ups. And if it’s all a bunch of smoke and she really doesn’t intend to do anything, then all of my worrying will have been for nothing. And that’s good.

Hmm. There’s my blog for today. It’s kind of like two in one: one about nothing, the second half a spurt of anxiety.

I’m going to get offline and see if I can keep this going. This easy flow of words, from my mind to the keys to the screen. Maybe I’ll do something productive today, after all.