Sometimes I read my old blog posts, and I wonder who wrote them.
Evidently, I have a doppelganger who’s a real Pollyanna. She writes of brilliantly happy relationships, delightfully close friendships, beautiful and gifted children, frequent manifestations of grace and good luck.
Who is this biddy, and how does she get away with publishing under my name?
I want to live her life.
I bet the chicken she was planning to cook tonight defrosted according to plan.
Mine did not.
I bet her cats didn’t poop in the living room.
I bet the enormous fluorescent lights in her kitchen aren’t dying… and if they are, I bet she’s tall enough and strong enough to change them, and put their stupid plastic shade back on.
I bet she doesn’t even have ugly plastic shades or fluorescent lights.
I bet her washer and dryer work. My washer took a walk half-way across my bathroom, ripping up the floor as it went, and died in front of the toilet.
I can afford to replace the floor or the washer, but not both… and the dryer was always a piece of shit anyway, so that will have to be replaced too.
If her washer and dryer were broken, I’m sure she could head to the laundromat. I would, if my car didn’t have a flat tire and a dead battery. My husband will fix these on his day off… unless he has to take me to the laundromat, which could take all day.
She has time to sit here and compose lovely little essays full of gooey good will. My to do list looks more like this:
• Clean the living room carpet. Vacuum the surface dust, scrub the cat detritus, vacuum again.
• Take the slip covers off the couches. Throw away the one that the cats have shredded, and order a replacement.
Yeah. Like I can afford that.
Throw everything else in the washer.
Put everything else in a bag for the laundromat.
• Bring a lamp into the kitchen. Wash the dishes and put them away. Wash the floors. Make a real attempt at cleaning that bloody glass stovetop. Do not make coffee and give up.
• Change all the bed linens. Put away all the clothes that are on the bed, on the bedposts, on the floor, on the windowsills and on the cat.
Hmm. Maybe the clothes that were on the cat should be put in the hamper.
• Go to the bathroom. Try to find the hamper, which should be somewhere under the clothes that have accumulated while I wait for a ride to the laundromat. Stare longingly at the unreachable toilet, then run into the other bathroom to take care of personal business.
• Resist the urge to brew a cup of coffee and get away from it all.
• Clear the dining room table of unpaid bills, ads offering to maximize my wealth, and schedules for the upcoming opera season.
• Fill one of the glasses that was on the table with water, and pour it on the living room plants. Discover they’re dead. Refill the glass with a gin-based concoction, and guzzle it until I suspect I too might be dead.
I’m not going to do all that. I’m going to turn away from all my responsibilities, assume my doppelganger’s personality, and tell you an amusing anecdote from my misspent youth.
It sure beats the alternative.