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 My go-get-em attitude has been replaced by a "What the $#& in the $#^& blazes is this %#^!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.
Damn you, pop-up tent. Damn you.