Destroyed By Madness

I know I said I'd write this poem this morning, but it's going to have to wait. Before I go to bed tonight, I promise. I've been shanghaied by life, in its myriad impish ways...

First of all, I'm not even going to get into the nightmare we've been through with the Kid this week. I'll tell the whole story when it's over, but for now suffice to say that yesterday his Father called here to yell at him and tell him he would kick his ass if he didn't get it done by Friday. He swears he will; I'll believe it when I see it. But in the meantime I have to go to city hall first thing this morning and get an electrical permit -- which, silly me, I sort of assumed the guy I hired to do the job would have taken care of. [Except I just called and I can't. I need a licensed electrician to do it. Balls.]

Second of all, in the middle of all this Kid stuff, we plumb forgot about #1. Johnny doctor's appointment on Tuesday night, and #2. Johnny's appointment with Immigration Wednesday morning. That last one's worse, but hopefully not quite as bad as it sounds. I did send the thing in asking for a new appointment, but we haven't received any confirmation. I spent a half an hour on the phone this morning, only to be told that they can't tell me anything. We just have to sit and wait for him to either get a new appointment notice in the mail, or get deported. Ah well. On the bright side -- think of all the cash we'll save on plane fare!

(And can I just say: This is not a bitch about the immigrants -- I'm married to an immigrant, for crying out loud -- but there is no love lost between me and the USCIS. If you call the number on your English-printed form and wait on hold for twenty minutes without ever pushing a single button, and every recording that you hear while you're on hold is in both English and Spanish... is it unreasonable to assume you'll have the option of speaking English when a live person finally comes on the line? The first time I called, a Spanish-speaking operator came on and I asked for English, he disconnected me! I had to call back and wait on hold again. I got a Spanish-speaking lady this time. I asked her for English and she scolded me for "coming through on her Spanish line.")

Third -- and, in my mind, worst of all -- look at the freaking spider that was in my bathroom this morning!

Yes it is worst of all. If Johnny gets deported I can move to Ireland, live in a house we own free and clear without a mortgage, get socialized health care and not pay any taxes on my writing income. This fucker might actually touch me! (Also, okay, maybe I could clean the outside corner of the shower better, but that's not the point...)

The point is: I sat down on the toilet and saw that bastard and jumped back up and ran for Johnny. "Come kill this thing," I said, "no fucking around. No taking it outside. You kill it, do you hear me? Kill. It."

He limped in (I keep forgetting that he's broken), took a look, and said "Oh, jesus, even I'm afraid of that one." And he went for the flyswatter that my mother gave me for just this very purpose.

Yes, that is my office chair it's leaning on. Ain't Mom grand?

He couldn't swat it with the swatter because it was in the corner like that. His plan was to knock it to the ground and step on it. But when he knocked it to the ground it backed into the corner and put up its dukes. All six of 'em. So Johnny turned the swatter around and poked it to death with the handle. My hero.

He grabbed a wad of toilet paper to pick up and flush the nasty corpse, but he'd poked it so completely into the crack between the baseboard and shower, that all he got on the TP wad was dukes. All six of 'em.

"Are you sure he's really dead, though?" I asked him. "Are you sure he didn't just tuck into the crack to save himself?"

"I'm sure," says Johnny.

"And if not, he's gonna have one hell of a limp."