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Why I’ll Be Checking MYSELF Into a Retirement Home When I Get Old

I’ve made a decision about my future. A big, possibly life-altering decision. At 31 years old, I have decided that when I get old, I will be checking myself in to a retirement community for the remainder of my years. No moving in with the kids so they can wipe my ass in one last act of parental revenge for all the diarrhea diapers, terroristic tantrums, and for all the stretch marks, wrinkles, and gray hairs. And for wrecking my va-jay-jay… LOOK, there’s a lot to get back at them for, all of which I was totally planning on doing–even looking FORWARD to doing so– but I’ve changed my mind.

Something happened recently. Something horrible. Despicable. Painful. No, this isn’t like the time my kid ratted out my explosive poop at the doctor’s office when he could have just TAKEN ONE FOR THE DAMN TEAM.
No. This was an experience I have never experienced before in all my years. Not in life. Not in parenthood. Not ever. I never thought I would!

Recently, we moved. We went all adult-like and bought a frickin’ house. When I walk into a house, I get a vision of everything it COULD be, and while this house wasn’t some run-down, decrepit shack, it hadn’t been occupied in a little while, and seemed to have been left mid-remodel. A lot of was amazing, but a lot needed to be done. We fought with hideous peach walls. Peach, TEXTURED walls. Some of the fugliest green wallpaper with even fuglier floral border from your 1980’s nightmares, and flat white walls covered in scuffs, fingerprints, and just… ew. So much ew. But I knew it could be turned from EW to AWESOME pretty easily. That, and the ginormous fantasy-level walk in closet with custom shelves and racks are what sold me. DONE! MOVE MY ASS IN TOMORROW!

Ten minutes after we closed (not kidding), I was in the house painting walls. Before we even began the moving process, we had a large chunk of the work already done. The ugly duckling was becoming a swan before our very eyes!  There was still some fugly old wallpaper to deal with, but I decided to just tolerate that mess and focus on the main rooms for the most part. The ones I would walk into and see and recoil in absolute horror. Once the peach was murdered, the only real first floor offender left was this gigantic, hideous, golden octopus looking chandelier hangingpeach in the formal dining room. I know when I say octopus it sounds awesome, but trust me. It’s not. It’s not awesome at all.  It needed to die. Preferably in a large, Michael Bay-style explosion. That’s how my dreams went, anyway. A girl can dream, can’t she?

I had to settle for taking the mofo down and replacing it with a light fixture we already had. No explosions, no flames, no fireworks. Just taking it down, setting it on the floor, and replacing it. The lack of smashing and peeing on its ashes made me a little sad, but whatever. It was STILL just as satisfying as birthing a baby from my hoo-ha. Ohhhhh The relief! that tentacled mofo wasn’t hanging above my dinner table anymore! Unbeknownst to me, its reign of ugliness was not over. Not by a long shot.

The chande-twat came down pretty easily, but once it was time to hang up the non-twatty fixture, we had issues. One of the bolts was stripped and without two people working together, getting it up (heh) just wasn’t going to happen. Thomas called me into the dining room, already standing on a chair and holding up the fixture, and asked me come in and replace his hands holding it up so he could successfully bolt it in. He was having zero luck on his own. I’d already murdered baby-barf peach walls. I’d skinned the master bathroom walls like I was Hannibal Lector. I’d painted, shellacked, carried, moved, and face-lifted the entire damn house already, what was ONE more light fixture gonna do?

I climbed up on the chair across from him and took hold of the golden monstrosity. One second, I was eye level with my husband, and the all I saw was ceiling. No longer was I standing in a chair, or holding that stupid asshole chandelier. I was airborne. I was Superman! I was flying! …aaaaaand then I wasn’t.

I’m not sure what was worse, the sound of my body hitting the floor at full force, the rattling of the chair across the dining room, or the sound that came out of me once everything else came to a rest. At that moment, all I knew was pain and fear. Everything hurt. I was pretty sure I was dead. Broken both my legs, my arm, my feet. Shit was gonna have to be amputated.

There I laid, screaming my face off, all limbs in the air like a dead bug, with a shocked husband staring down at me, still standing in his chair, holding up the light fixture- unable to move because if he let the thing go, all the wires would come ripping out of the ceiling and then he’d have a broken wife and a broken dining room- asking me over and over again if I’m okay. NO I’M NOT OKAY I’M DYING! I’M DEAD! MY LEGS ARE BROKEN SOMEHOW THIS IS GOING TO END WITH ME HAVING TO POOP INTO A BAG FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!
I don’t know why my brain always goes to poop. It just does.

I guess what sounded like a cracked out donkey shitting out a turd the size of an elephant alerted one of my lovely children that something was wrong, because moments later, Holden appeared in the doorway. “What happened? What’s going on??”
Momentarily, I felt a little relief. I knew there wasn’t much he could do, as I’m a full grown woman and he’s an 8 year old boy, but even just him kneeling down and doing a little “there, there” pat on my head would have helped. Instead of consoling his poor dead bug mom, I heard “I’m just gonna…” and as I looked over and saw him slowly backing out of the room, what what do I see staring back at me from just a few inches away? Yep. The golden octo-bitch, exacting its final revenge.

Parker was nowhere to be seen. Probably sitting his pointy ass on the couch laughing about how now there would be no one to force him to eat his vegetables or brush the rat’s nest on his head he calls hair.

Once I finally composed myself enough to return to human position to look myself over, I found what I can only describe as road rash down the back of my arm (no skin in sight!), a shin-length bruise on the front of each of my legs, a big toe nail broken in half and bleeding all over the place, a random bruise on my stomach, and the realization that if I fell down as an old lady and couldn’t get back up, my family would just leave me to die.

And that is what lead to the decision to move my old ass into a retirement community when the time comes. No shitty ass for my kids to wipe while laughing so hard I fart dust in their faces, but that’s okay, because I will still be getting the last laugh, for I have also decided what they will be inheriting once I finally kick the bucket, and it ain’t money. It’s that mother fucking chandelier.

Renaming this bruise/weird injury Pocahontas, because it has officially painted with all the colors of the wind.

A post shared by Jenny Schoberl (@holdinholden) on

Posted on October 14, 2015 by Holdin' Holden 1 Comment
Holdin' Holden

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