Sway of West

Chapter One“f**k meeeeeee.” I grumble through the down feathers, the pillow muffling my aggravation. The noise is relentless and loud, and the snooze button taunts me just out of arm’s reach. It’s always just out of reach. It’s 5:15am on Thursday morning, and I’m seconds away from getting physical with the alarm clock. It’s only doing its job, but I don’t care, rudely waking me up out of a dead sleep is cause for retaliation in my book. It’s a shame, too. Because it’s the kind of sleep I live for, where the temperature underneath the blankets is perfectly balanced with my tried-and-true ensemble of an antiquated tee shirt, stolen from the hubs and complete with armpit stains, and sweatpants dating back to freshman year of college. As if this smoking hot, between the sheets look wasn’t sexy enough, I add another layer of undeniable attractiveness by tucking the bottoms of those ancient sweatpants right into my socks. I’m not exactly dressed as the seductive housewife of every man’s dream, I know, but the hubby keeps the air conditioning at a temperature suitable for a polar bear and I freeze otherwise. My head swaddled inside the pillow feels so heavenly that I wind up, blindly throw out a left hook, and punch the snooze button with uncalled for aggression. But, I don’t care. My patience and general ability to tolerate life is running on fumes. My fist connects with Rocky Balboa-like finesse, scoring me another eight minutes to chase after that serene intoxication of sleep. And I try hard to bring it back, willing my mind to fade away and absorb these last fleeting minutes of peace. Only it won’t come easily. I know for a fact that it’s not going to come at all. Unfortunately, it never does. Work-related intestinal distress mixed in with the dog needing to evacuate her bowels will make sure of that, and it’s the same, goddamn maddening routine every single morning. Just kiss it goodbye already and get on with it. My subconscious is wide awake, beaming with righteousness and well aware of how this morning will play out. And as usual, it’s right on the money. I can kiss goodbye to an already fading dream world, a twilight landscape of sorts where I’m pressed against a wall and about to be kissed by some tan and scruffy, sandy-blond hottie. My hands have yet to receive the wake up message and clench tighter around the pillow, foolishly thinking they’re gripping perfectly sculpted biceps. But squeezing the flabby, feather down instead of the anticipated 100% pure muscle only magnifies my level of dissatisfaction with both the alarm clock and the earth’s daily rotation within the solar system. It physically pains me to transition out of the dream world to reality, I’m infatuated with experiencing a life that is not my own and it’s my escape. And for the last few years, my only escape. Vivid and random cinematic experiences that entertain and satiate my needs overnight, recharging my ability to situate myself vertically and get through the day. Sometimes I can extract a meaning or a purpose, although that’s not the reason I look forward to the getaway from reality. Come to think of it, most of my dreams don’t have an obvious meaning, and that’s just fine by me. It’s the escape that I look for, a breakaway from the consuming, every day doldrums of parenting. Maybe I borderline on depression, I don’t know. I do know that I’ve been blessed with a wildly colorful imagination and I use it to self-medicate every f*****g chance I get. I hear floorboards creaking ever so slightly as four paws cautiously make their way around the bed. Phoebe’s hungry, and she wants her food. Stat. She’s mastered the art of getting me to do what she wants before I’m even fully awake. Silently cursing her, I don’t open my eyes because I know she’s right there staring at me, eyes fixated while simultaneously channeling her Jedi powers to make me rise out of bed and feed her chubby butt. “Phoebs. Go lie down.” I mumble into the pillow. “Gooooo.” It’s the same exact conversation every morning, almost word-for-freaking word. Sometimes expletives are necessary, it all depends on my anticipated amount of incoming daily work-related bullshit, level of hangover, and where I’m at during my menstrual cycle. I tell myself that she’ll go away if I don’t make direct eye contact with her. But no luck. She never goes back to her bed. Ever. And yet for reasons unknown, I still cling to hope that today will be different and I’ll actually get to enjoy the eight minutes of snooze time. But it won’t, and the alarm clock sporting a shiner is proof-positive that I’m desperate for today to be different. For three whole minutes I tolerate vile dog breath in my face, only I know what’s coming next, it's her physical attempt to wake me up. Sure enough, she swings her paw wildly onto the bed, and it lands four inches away from my nose. I just barely c***k an eyelid, careful not to give away that I’m awake. Even in the darkness, I can tell she’s giving me a canine version of the you’re-an-asshole stink eye, clearly not fooled by my sub-par acting skills. I can feel my favorite state of mind slipping out of my hands for what feels like forever, but is really only another thirteen short hours away, and internally agree to one more moment of silence before starting the get out of bed process. “Fffzzzzzzsssst.” Apparently I’m not moving fast enough. My moment of silence triggers Phoebe to release a rancid cloud of s**t-steam, an indication that her backside is moments away from an explosion. Good f*****g grief! Slightly suffocating and feeling defeated, I look over at Myles whose head is completely buried under his pillow. I don’t know whether to be mad that he’s ignoring Phoebe, her nuclear stink bomb, and our battle of wits, or praise him for his bullet-proof defensive strategy. I can’t stand the stench of on-deck dog feces any longer so I kiss the remaining five minutes of precious snooze time goodbye and get my lazy a*s out of bed, just like the dog wanted me to. “Don’t worry, honeypot, I’ll feed her.” I say with sarcasm thicker than molasses, lifting his pillow to make sure he gets a whiff of what is emanating across the room and knows that I’m taking one for the team. The added sarcasm deemed necessary because lately I seem to take this one for the team almost every day. I’ve never been a morning person. I’ve also never been an afternoon, evening, or late night person either. If I had to choose, I prefer mornings, but that doesn’t mean I wake up with rays of glittering sunshine dazzling out of every orifice, raring to go out and chase life. That’s just not me, and it never has been, even in my younger years. I’m five days shy of turning 42, married to a handsome and still-loyal (I think) husband named Myles, and have a three year old daughter named Jessica. We are extremely blessed with a slightly more than modest home, and I’m the one who keeps every square inch of it dust-free, neat, and tidy. I also work full-time in the bowels of pharmaceutical, corporate America and have a shitty, 60 minute commute each way. Add all of this together and I get between 32 and 40 liberating minutes to myself every Monday thru Friday, pending Jess’s need for company in the bathroom. The number of minutes rises during the weekends, but not by much. I turn off the alarm clock and head to the bathroom, Phoebe is right on my heels, staring at me while I do my business. I can just about read her thoughts at moments like these, it’s written all over her face. It’s about time you’re up. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Let’s gooooooo, asshole hoo-man, before I go off and whiz behind the potted Parlor Palm you never water. She’s just as annoyed with me as I am with her, but until she grows opposable thumbs and can learn how to negotiate a door handle, she’s stuck waiting for me to take her outside. Like white on rice, she follows me downstairs towards her feeding bowl, her wiggling butt throws around a Louisville Slugger of a tail, loudly smacking doors and spindles and whatever else it can possibly connect with. She can’t contain her excitement, the three bottom steps are miscalculated entirely and she ends up completing a spastic forward roll into the kitchen and knocks over a counter stool. “What the f**k, Phoebe? Are you kidding me?” I whisper, still trying to keep the house quiet for reasons unknown. I’ve been awake and upright for all of four minutes and already the twitchy feeling to run and hide under the covers for the rest of the day is begging to take over. The vacuum fully engages, the pieces of kibble are snarfed up with laser-like accuracy, and 30 seconds later we’re out the side door, plastic poop bag in hand. I wait patiently for her to complete the compulsory and frantic circles, setting a target on the most perfect, pee-worthy blade of grass, and watch her soak it. With her squat complete, she starts to head back inside. I tug on her leash to keep her on the lawn and receive the asshole stink eye once again in return. “No. No. No. You need to poop out here because otherwise you’ll poop on the laundry room rug and I’m the only asshole in the house that can tolerate cleaning up shit.” And this is true. Myles’s gag reflex is among the best in his class and it gets him out of cleaning up every single biological disaster that strikes this family. The lucky bastard. My self-deprecating humor seems to do the trick, her butt retracts under her hind quarters a bit and the bowels unleash a steaming pile of loose sphincter salad. Even mid-squat, she continues to deliver the stink eye, only now it’s paired with a hint of a smile on her pinkish lips. Have fun trying to pick that up with your little baggie! And she’s right. The pick up fails miserably and the greenish-brown smear on my hand confirms that I’ve officially lost this morning’s battle of wits with the dog. Back inside she wants nothing to do with me, and that’s just fine. I know I have a much bigger battle with 35 pounds of commanding toddler coming my way. I wash my hands, flip the On switch to the coffee maker, and head back upstairs. Before waking Jess, I’m quick to take a shower but slow to get dressed, soaking in the comfort of my closet helps prepare me mentally for the day. I can’t help myself, I love my closet. It’s a walk-in, and fairly small in size. My tiny makeup table, clothes, and shoes fit snugly within the walls and being inside feels like my adult security blanket, shielding me from the exhausting demands of life that never seem to end. With the door shut, I can’t hear the everyday chaos taking place inside the house, the clothes provide recording studio-like soundproofing. I’ve often thought about ditching the table for a comfy chair so I could lock myself inside with a bottle of wine, shut out the world, and just stare at the fun dresses, shoes and handbags that I never get to wear anymore. I don’t get rid of them because I know this stage in my life is only temporary. It has to be. There will be a time in the future, who the hell knows when, that Myles and I can reconnect like real adults who love each other, and actually leave the house to thoroughly enjoy a date whenever the mood hits us. The date would take place in a restaurant that uses table linens and has an incredible wine list, and the night would end with simultaneous orgasms. Who am I kidding? At this point, I’d settle for no table linens, stale beer, and non-simultaneous orgasms if there’s a delicious bacon cheeseburger on the menu. Reality quickly sinks back in, snuffing out the date night vision and with it my hopes of reconnecting with my husband. I scramble to figure out what to wear. What was once a truly enjoyable task has transitioned into being quite painful, and now I’m hungry for breakfast, which makes the task even less fun.