Heather Christena Schmidt

There. I said it. Sometimes I turn the lights down real low. I light some candles. I put on something sexy. I break out the baby oil and the nearest banana-shaped object. And I turn on Lord of the Rings.

Okay, I don’t really do that. REALLY …

But in all seriousness, this is just one of my many Monday morning revelations. I have these often. I’d say every Monday morning. Maybe every morning during the week when I have a brief period of time alone to lay in bed and think without Yo Gabba Gabba on the TV or Barbies wedging their way up my ass.

Monday Morning Revelation #1:

If I could dry hump a hobbit, I would.

Ever since I was in high school and I read The Hobbit, I have been in love with those books. I don’t know if it’s the underlying metaphysics, the fantastical stories, their bizarre and disgusting feet that are both horrifying and beautiful, or the size of Gandolf’s beard (you know what they say about a man with a big beard…), but I cannot get enough of them. I would dry hump that shit to the ends of the shire.

You can imagine, then, my antics when I was sitting at the computer one day and saw that the trailer for The Hobbit – the movie – was released. I nearly creamed my razor-lined, chastity belt that keeps my husband (clearly not a hobbit, despite his horrifying feet) at bay.

But upon further reflection, I realized that the cast members of Middle Earth aren’t the only “characters” we see every day that I would dry hump. No, faithful blog followers: upon further reflection I realize there is a whole cadre of them. There was that time I considered dry humping my copy of Bertrand Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy. It’s just such a good book, and I’ve always had a thing for BR, even though he’s dead. It isn’t necrophilia if it’s just the spine of a book, right? I also have a growing list of politicians I would dry hump, and by growing I mean I’m moving onto the second notebook.

So this was the first thing I thought about upon waking this morning.

Monday Morning Revelation #2:

Old ladies doing zumba in my dreams means the old folk’s home is more loosy-goosey than I originally thought…

Last night I had a dream that I moved into the assisted living facility that my grandparent’s live in. There are a few possibilities of how this dream came about: (1) we were talking about where my grandma and grandpa are going to sit during a party we are throwing at our place next weekend; or, (2) more philosophically, I have a deep and underlying fear that I will one day become my mother, who is currently sleeping on a cot on the floor in the living room of my grandparent’s assisted living apartment.

In any event, in my dream I was horrified to see that once the doors close, so to speak, at this place, the old people get wild. We’re talking nude swimming. We’re talking old ladies taking zumba classes in their bathing suits. I always thought the place was a little loosy-goosy. My grandpa flirts with tons of the women there, right in front of my grandma (who is oblivious to it after years of learning to ignore my grandfather’s obsession with watching hardcore porn). And a few weeks ago I saw six bottles of Viagra on the medication cart.

Then I remembered that it is Veteran’s Day.

Monday Morning Revelation #3:

We can call this another holiday my husband is working.

My husband works most holidays. He works a lot of weekends too. He’s supposed to be “off” at 6, but never leaves then, and he is never really actually “off the clock” either – having set this precedent a long time ago, it just won’t go away. He’s answered the phone on the way to the bedroom before, and I’m talking about one of those rare times that sleeping was not going to occur.

Anyway, so he’s working again. If you follow me on Facebook, you know then what I do on days like today when he should be home celebrating the Veterans of our country with us: I torture myself.

First I lie in bed and think about how many extra hours he works. Holidays, extra hours, emails from home … this kind of thing adds up. Then I think about all the overtime pay he should be receiving (required by law after a certain hour, even when salaried – don’t fuck with the lady that used to work for the labor unions on labor laws…). And then there is the holiday pay he could be receiving. And then I even throw in some bonuses and raises that he didn’t receive all those years he was working tirelessly with little-to-no reward.

If I’m feeling especially self-depricating, I also add in the extra cost of damage to his personal computer, that he continues to take to work. Or the per-minute charges on our cell phone bill that are used for his job.

You get the point.

Then I lie in bed and plan a vacation with all that money to someplace super exotic. Because believe you me: if he was getting paid what he should at this point in my thought-process, we would be on a fucking exotic vacation every year. (Note: we have never taken an exotic vacation. In fact, save for a few local weekend trips, he has never allowed us to do such a thing because of work…)

Finally, I remind myself that he didn’t get paid any of this and I get up in search of the nearest anti-anxiety medication and/or depression-induced thing. Today I’m feeling a little Sylvia Plathish, so thinking I’ll drop some Xanax, eat some raw meat, and write a few poems.

So you see, faithful blog followers: these are the types of things I think of on Monday mornings. They may be revelatory. They may be a product of often under-active, boring weekends. Or they may just be another sign that I’ve lost it. What isn’t these days?

Any Monday morning revelations of your own?

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