Labor Day

Another Labor Day is here. Since I'm a typical American, I have no idea what Labor Day is about and I have absolutely no desire to learn. Maybe something to do with the Teamsters? And just where the hell is Jimmy Hoffa's body, anyway?

So, yeah, Labor Day. Back to school for my children. Not so much for the younger daughter, since this is her first year in kindergarten, but back to the school routine. And for Mommy, time to put my summer purse away and get out one of my fall purses. It's time for the weather to change, because my god, we've had a hot one this year. Miserably hot. I usually try to be somewhat reflective on holidays and think about what's been accomplished since the last holiday. But I'm not counting Fourth of July, because I spent that whole holiday weekend sleeping, except for going to my girlfriend's for a cookout. Since Memorial Day, just what have I gotten accomplished?

Well, let's see. I managed to settle into a routine that didn't involve The Ex. We traded the children back and forth in what became an increasingly civil routine, and I established some boundaries with him. One point for me, one point for him because I'm feeling magnanimous enough to give him that consolation point.  I got my tubes tied, not because I was anticipating a summer of freakiness, but because the children were gone and my insurance pays for that kind of thing. Seriously, I figured if I got this done now, when I'm not dating anyone, then this is something that I bring to the table in any future relationships. What I got out of that whole experience is that I will never talk shit to an anesthesiologist again. That morning, the morning of my permanent sterilization, I was in the pre-surgical area of the surgical suite in my doctor's office, waiting on my turn to get myself tied up tight, and the anesthesiologist walks in. He's chit-chatting with the nurses and mentions he's new to this anesthesiology practice because he's in the Air Force. I was like, what? How the fuck am I getting some military doctor? Because we all know about military doctors. I haven't even been in the military and I know about military doctors. I looked over at my mom and I told her, "Okay, I don't care what I just signed. If that bastard kills me, you sue the hell of them."  My number comes up and I walk into the operating room. I'm still somewhat amazed that there was a full size operating room in my doctor's office. I guess that's where they tie tubes and do abortions and other uteral stuff. I hop up on the table and he's looking down at me with his mask on. I said, "Did I hear you mention that you're in the military?" He says, "Yep, sure am. Air Force." I inwardly groaned. I already had all of the needle stuff in my arm, so he just needs to administer the juice that's going to make me pass out. But here I am, on an operating table, and I just can't resist talking a little shit. Because I am apparently really stupid. So I tell him, "Oh, interesting. But you know the Air Force isn't really like the military. I mean, that's more like military support services. How much effort does it take to sit in a control room and fly a drone around?" His eyebrows shot up over his mask and he said, "Oh, really?" And that's all I remember. What I do remember is that the muscle cramps and spasms I experienced for the next two days were the most excruciatingly painful thing I have ever experienced in my life. It was worse than when I went through my second labor and delivery and the epidural didn't work. In addition to him slipping me some Special K or some other crazy shit, I had an allergic reaction to the Darvacet, so by day two of my recovery I was coming down off of the horse tranquilizer, but was laying around frantically scratching myself like some kind of fucking chimpanzee. All in all, it took me a grand total of four days to feel normal again after what was probably a one hour procedure.

I managed to get both of my daughter's bedrooms painted. I promised the older daughter that her room would be the first one that I painted, because her room had at some point in time been a baby nursery and the theme was Noah's Ark. Not so great for a seven and a half year old girl who sometimes has more drama than most of the Kardashian sisters. Since I love to paint, this wasn't that big of a deal. I managed to turn this into a "beat my own painting time" game, and I'm proud to say that I got her entire room knocked out, cutting in and rolling, in less than two hours. I really wanted to run around the house talking mad shit and flexing after that accomplishment, but there wasn't anyone else here. Just me, and it's no fun to flex by yourself.  So the older daughter's room is pink, because that's what she wanted. Curtains hung, bed skirt ironed and put on the bed, totally girled out. She loves it. I got her a couple of posters to put on the walls, and she immediately drew on them with Sharpie, I guess adding her own element to them. I was kind of taken aback by that, because who draws on posters? But then I realized that she's never had posters before and I didn't tell her not to draw on them because I thought it was common sense. Apparently not. So her Taylor Swift poster now has some lovely lip liner in black Sharpie.  Of course, as soon as I painted the older daughter's room, the younger daughter wanted hers done, too. So Mommy knocked that out. Her room is a lovely shade of darker-than-I-thought-it-would-be-when-it-dried-lavender. I still need to get her curtains hung, and get her bed skirt squared away, but I might just knock that out today. I'm feeling end-of-summer ambitious. I had some crazy fantasy that I was going to get the entire interior of the house painted this summer, but for real, why rush it? I've got this house for the next 30 or so years, so I'll space out the painting. Two rooms per summer is enough.

What I did not manage to do this summer was get myself laid. Since I put forth absolutely zero effort in accomplishing this, I can only be somewhat philosophical. The flip side to this is that I got shot down exactly zero times, which is good feeling for a 36 year old woman going through a divorce. I've always believed that things will happen when they are supposed to. Everything happens, and conversely, doesn't happen, for a reason and I guess this wasn't the summer for me, although maybe I came kind of close. Or maybe I didn't.

Everything changes in the summer. The air expands, fills with humidity. The trees fill with leaves, the pools fill with water. Our emotions feel deeper, bigger, more important and as thick as the humidity and the sunshine that can't burn it off. Summertime, man, summertime is when you can wander around with less clothes on, and you can feel your soul expanding with the possibility of something that might be, something that you always wondered about. Summer nights were made for riding around with the windows down, and making out on scratchy plaid blankets in the backyard while the cicadas scream in the trees and a hoot owl lets you know he's watching.  Of all the seasons, summer is the one when you can feel your emotions outside of your body. And that, my friends, is some powerful shit.