The correct choice is, “I am a human adult.”

It’s been a rough week. We moved from our house of five years into an apartment, the injury that took months of pain management and physical therapy to treat has returned, my son is nearing school-age and I’m wondering what to do with a litany of behaviors that I feel need to be corrected before he gets there in five months, and to top it off, The Walking Dead has been especially distressing lately.

So, I’ve had a glass of wine and now I’m going to tell you about all the ways in which aspects of my life correlate to Garfield the Cat.

  1. We both hate a specific day of the week.

Much like the Boomtown Rats, Garfield notoriously dislikes Mondays. For me, Mondays are great days for a couple reasons: Work is busy and goes by quickly after the weekend, and when I get home, I get to spend the whole evening, along with the two following evenings, with my family.

It’s Sundays that I loathe.

My husband works double shifts every Sunday, beginning at 10am and ending at one in the morning. That leaves me alone with my 4 ½ year-old son, which isn’t in itself a bad thing, because I obviously love him and he’s mostly a delight. But, I’m a dangerous person to leave alone. I get wrapped up in my head. I spend too much time thinking about what I should be doing, what I’ve done wrong, how I could improve myself, and what I’m missing by being cooped up without transportation the whole day. Of course, since we’ve moved, I can easily walk just about anywhere since we’re basically in the middle of the city now, but it’s still the dead of winter in the Upper Peninsula and ice-covered sidewalks and thirty-two-degree highs aren’t exactly my idea of walking weather.

Sundays are one long anxiety-fest. I spend the whole day feeding my son. He literally never stops eating. If you had to put his face on a t-shirt with his catchphrase, it would be, “I’m hungry.” He says it the moment he stops chewing. That’s normal for a growing boy, I guess. Especially one whose parents are veritable giants.  Which brings me to my next point.

 

  1. We both love to eat.

Garfield’s first love is lasagna. I do love a good veggie lasagna, and my husband makes a great couple pans full every Christmas. But I love to eat anything. I once thought about deep-fried tofu for two days straight. Like, I couldn’t stop. When I’m happy, I want to celebrate with food. When I’m depressed, which is pretty much default, I want to medicate with food. If there is free pizza at work, I may eat a slice or two out of polite normalcy, but if there is any leftover in the fridge later, I’m the first to attack it when no one’s looking. I get jalapeno Cheetos out of the vending machine at least once a week. My day revolves around what I’m going to eat and when. We had an ice-cream party at work recently, and I can honestly say I believe I’m the only person who went back to the freezer every day for leftovers until the ready-whip and sprinkles were gone. I frequently dream about cake and ice cream. I did last night.

 

Problem is, I get violently stomach-sick from gluten. This issue reared its crampy head about three years ago, and I’ve been in a love-hate relationship with food ever since. I occasionally cheat, because I love bread and figure the consequences are worth it for a good slice of garlic bread. Then someone will be talking to me and a sudden pallor will fall over my face and I count the seconds until the stop speaking so I can find the nearest, most secluded rest room.  I tested negative for Celiac twice so at this point the only real damage being done is that to my comfort and dignity. I try to be good but honestly, GF replacements taste disgusting. And my rebellious nature coupled with an unhealthy dose of self-destructive behavior means I often resort to “fuck this shit, I’m gonna eat this shit.”

 

Can you imagine if Garfield developed a gluten intolerance? Maybe he has. I haven’t read that comic in years. Is it still going?

 

  1. When I was a kid, Garfield was everywhere.

Remember when he was all the rage and people had him stuck to their car-windows with suction cups? I had a Garfield mug. A stuffed Garfield (who became best friends and possibly gay roommates with Leo the Lion). My favorite pajamas were a purple nightshirt with Garfield on them, displaying my zodiac sign, Taurus. It said something about Taureans being bull-headed. I don’t buy too much into astrology, in that I don’t read my star signs or anything, but I still find them to be mostly true. I recently found out that one of my favorite singers is married to a psychic astrologist, who legit draws up complicated zodiac charts for everyone in the Trump family and watches and predicts their shitty lives in accordance with these charts. I just wanted to say so because I find it supremely weird.

Moving on.

I had a Garfield birthday cake one year. My brother drew a picture of Garfield which I photocopied and distributed among my elementary school classmates to color. I’m sure Garfield manifested in other places which I can no longer remember. The original Garfield the Cat cartoon character was voiced by Lorenzo Music, a name I never forgot because it is so…musical. In an interview with Mr. Music from the 80s, he says, “Garfield appeals to the fat, lazy slob in all of us.”

 

  1. I am a fat, lazy slob,

Seriously, I am always tired. I’ve never been athletic. I like nothing more than to lie down. Sleeping if possible, but not required. I do keep myself and my surroundings clean, but I am not what one would call, “high maintenance.” I enjoy getting into pajama bottoms and a tank top the moment I get home from work, assuming I don’t have to go anywhere or see anyone. Most of my mascara ends up on my cheeks by 3pm.

I have eaten potato chips in bed. Is there a higher level of slovenliness?

I didn’t think so.

 

My son just came into my room and said, “Mama, I’m hungry.”

Here is a list of everything he’s eaten today:

-Kix (1 plate full)

-Cheerios (1 plate full)

-Half a banana

-fruit snacks

-Grapes (2 bowls full)

-A chocolate graham cracker

-2 veggie hot dogs

-a few bites of a pear that he spit out

-More grapes

-goldfish crackers

-a popsicle

-more goldfish

-more fruit snacks

 

And it’s only 6 o’clock. Which means suppertime. Which means he’s hungry again since I began that list and has told me as much. He is now in the other room making Sleestack noises and awaiting some ravioli.

 

  1. Carl died on The Walking Dead. Rick Grimes has nothing left but Judith and Michonne and the will to defeat Negan. Jadis is finally speaking in full sentences which makes her much more likeable.

 

Shit, that’s not about Garfield. And, it contains spoilers for anyone who hasn’t seen the last couple of episodes. Sorry about that.  Like I said, it’s been a rough week. And one glass of wine turned into two.

6. My new residence is on Garfield Avenue.

Which isn’t surprising, seeing as most of the streets in this neighborhood are named for presidents. Lincoln, Jefferson, Cleveland, Washington.

I asked my husband last night if he would buy the house of of his dreams if he found it on Trump Street.  I don’t think he had a clear answer but I know if it were me, I would feel compelled to write “(sorry)” after my address every time I had to list it.

Well, that about wraps it up. I always intend to write something pity about parenting, but it ends up being about myself and my perceived faults and how in the long run I have to accept them. Maybe that is a big part of parenting; accepting and embracing those things about one’s self that could get in the way of successful child rearing. When we have kids, we really push ourselves out the window to make room for the tiny thing that is in essence our ultimate representative. In my case, because my kid’s never spent any time in daycare or preschool or really with other kids to much of an extent, I feel like everything he is and does is an extension of me; who he is and what he puts out is a reflection of his parents and everything he’s absorbed in his short life. I know there are lots of other parents out there who consider themselves kind of a mess and who haven’t really figured out who/what they want to be when they grow up. I know that’s pretty normal and am grateful there are other parents out there blogging “what the hell am I doing?”

 

But I digress; this was supposed to be about Garfield.

For some further inspiration, I googled “Garfield,” and clicked a link to the offical Garfield and Friends website. The first thing you see is this pop-up:

Before you can go
to my website,
I have to make sure
you’re not a dog.

(Select only one. If you’re a dog, access is denied.)

  • I am a dog
  • I am a human KID
  • I am a human ADULT

Figuring they wouldn’t discriminate for real, I selected, “I am a dog.” And my access was denied! Seriously…I mean, I am a human adult, but what if I was a dog? I side with dogs on most things. I’m not a cat person, per se. So maybe my affinity for and affiliation with Garfield was mistaken. Either way, I clearly can’t be trusted to make good choices.

Afterall, I am probably more like Odie. A drooling idiot who frequently gets pushed off tables and deserves to be boxed up and sent to Abu Dhabi.

Or maybe that was Nermal.

Well, whatever.

I’m just along for the ride.

garfield-2

 

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