The Demonic Pop-Up Tent

It sits there in the middle of my livingroom floor mocking me with its japanese infrastructure. I know it had to have been made in some foreign country like Japan. How else can you explain the difficulty that it's causing me?

I despise it. This inanimate object that has caused me to cuss in front my delicate children. This....this THING that refuses to cooperate. I bend it, fold it, swirl it....I do everything imaginable to it (except for weird and kinky) to put it back where it belongs. Alas, it is all in vain.

I hate a damn pop-up tent.

Red got the cursed object for Christmas this year. She was so excited when I let her keep it open in her bedroom. Her and the 3 yr old would snuggle down in it, giggling and happily playing. Perfect gift from her grandmother. But, like the the demonic car from Stephen King's Christine, this seemingly innocent entity is actually the pop-up tent from hell. I can picture Lucifer in all his evil glory having sleep overs with his little demon buddies in it.

This evening Red called me into her bedroom and requested that I put the offending object up in it's rightful place. She stated it was taking up too much space on her bedroom floor. I happily agreed. An hour later, I looked at my Red Headed daughter and silently cursed her and her Christmas gift.

I'm not stupid by any means. I can pretty much figure just about anything out. It's just that this atrocious play tent represents all the doubts that I have of my capabilities of being a single mother. I SHOULD be able to place a simple pop-up tent back in the bag that it came in. I SHOULD be able to break down my Christmas tree and stuff it back into the box from whence it came. And something as simply as placing my beautiful tree topper on said Christms tree should not make me want to denounce the Christian holiday and become a Muslim. These things should not be happening.

But, they are.

I moved into my very own home in October 2010. Before I moved any furniture, kitchen ware, bathroom items, or a tv into this fortress of singledom, I swore I would not ever need a man again. Bills? Nah, I got it covered. Picture hanging? I know my way around a hammer. Light bulb in the pump house? I can remember that. I made it my very mission in life to not need anyone with the Y chromosome. Sex? By golly that's why God invented Pricillas. I was covered in every sence.

Flashforward a few months and I am sitting on the floor cussing out a 6 yr old's play house. My go-get-em attitude has been replaced by a "What the $#& in the $#^& blazes is this %#^! all about?!" growl. I don't care about proving anything anymore. I just want the blasted thing put back into the blasted bag.

I am blessed with a slew of guy-friends more than willing to travel to my location to tackle the dreaded tent. They see it as a rescue attempt. With their testosterone soaring high, they are more than willing to sling their man-hood over their shoulder and say with gusto, "Come on little lady! It ain't that bad. It just takes know-how!" Wink. Wink.

(This is when I would kick them in their chins.)

My point is, I shouldn't HAVE to call on anyone. I should be able to look at the clearly marked instructions. The same light bulb that lives in a man's mind should also be the same one that goes off in mine; thus enabling me to assemble, hang, put on, break down, and insert anything that needs it. But, instead, I stand looking at what ever it is I am tackling and scratch my head. My wheels don't spin. The light bulb never comes on. A moth kind of flutters by, but that's about the extent of it.

I need the same things that occur in a man's head to occur within mine. How else am I going to survive out here in singledom on my own? How else will I be able to properly hang the shelf that has lived in Red's closet for years now? How else will I be able to teach the 3 yr old to pee standing up?

These are the questions that plague me at night. Now, along with the christmas tree, the shelf, and the tree topper; the pop-up tent stands for everything that makes me question my awesomness in single-land.

Damn you, pop-up tent. Damn you.