writing – Page 7 – JM Randolph, accidentalstepmom

The Puggle, Casey, aka the Evil Brown One, has a far more subtle personality than her brother.

Jack the Fuggle is fierce and in your face with any toy he can find the instant he wakes. Casey sits and watches him play. When she jumps in, it’s pathetic. She may be genetically superior to him in every other way, but she can’t hold on to a tennis ball to save her life.

Jack was housebroken by the time we brought Casey home three days later (which is a whole other post entirely). He had a minor setback when she joined the household, but he got it together. He learned within a week to ask to go out, and rarely had accidents.

Casey couldn’t be bothered. She had a great deal of sleeping to do, and too much table food to steal to deal with these petty concerns. If it was raining, she preferred to go on the floor.

But lately, she’s developed some communication skills. She has started to learn how to ask to go out, but. . . indirectly. Passive-aggressively. The way all the girls in our house communicate. She’ll sit slightly closer to the stairs. She may gaze in the general direction of the front door. These signs are far too subtle to be noticed by the heathens, but I see them. I respond.

That’s how it started, anyway. Casey is now drunk with power regarding her newfound ability to communicate. Whenever I sit down to write, she comes and sits in front of me.

She stamps her feet.

She whines.

She dances.

She paws at me.

I have responded to this in every way I know how to respond to a dog: I’ve taken her out, I’ve fed and watered her, I’ve rubbed her ears, I’ve rubbed her belly. I’ve tried to engage her in play (to the best of her ability). I’ve given her bacon, for pete’s sake. Nothing ceases the stamping and whining and dancing. Or chewing of cables.

Me: I don’t get it. She only does this when I write.

CC: Isn’t it obvious? She thinks you’re a hack. She’s saying, “If only I had thumbs I could make her stop!” But she doesn’t.

Me: So she breaks my concentration and chews my cables. Oh my god, you’re right.

Bitch.

Long ago, in a land far away, before there were stepchildren.

I had this awesome apartment in Hoboken. There was very little in it. Some Ikea furniture and two kitchen chairs I rescued out of the trash. Brick walls, hardwood floors, and ceiling fans.

Endless uninterrupted thoughts. No one eating my cookies. Nobody in the bathroom when I needed to get in there. My world was far smaller and far less rich than it is now, but I was blissfully ignorant of that.

It’s been four and a half years since we got the kids and I moved in with CC. I have almost nothing from that apartment in Hoboken, with two notable exceptions. For some reason, those two kitchen chairs that I saved from the trash remain the sturdiest pieces of furniture in my house.

Just a pair of dinked-up wooden chairs that refuse to die. I sit in one to write. It isn’t terribly comfortable. In my house, we need a lot of chairs. There are a lot of butts.

Lately, I’ve been putting a throw pillow on the seat. I keep thinking I’ll get a chair cushion for it, but really, I can’t be bothered. #4 came in my room recently and noticed.

#4: Why are you sitting on a pillow?

Me: I’ve been trying to lose some weight and I’ve actually lost some and you know, I think my butt just isn’t as cushy as it used to be because there isn’t as much fat on it now? And so the chair sort of hurts? And I use a pillow sometimes?

She looked at me for a long time indicating her regret at ever asking. Then she said, “Why is my family so weird?” and left the room.