Growing Up Is Hard To Do

by Cookie

Yesterday took a lot out of me.  It got me all hot and feisty, and so today I think I need to calm things down a little bit.  I’m feeling kinda empty, so today I think I’ll tell you a story.

This is the story about how I became a grown up.  Or at least I tried. It is also about the one and only time I have ever successfully lied to my parents about anything.  I am a horrible fibber, you know.  My eyes give me away every time.

So a few years back, before we had human children, We packed everyone up in our Subaru and headed out to the cottage.  Sounds like a normal time right?  Of course not.  This time was exciting .  Special even.  Husband and I were to be in charge of some shit out there.

You see, my parents lived at the lake in the summers back then.  (Since then my mom’s health has been too poor to even go out).  Even before Dad retired, he had so much holiday time that he could be out there for almost 3 months straight.  So whenever we went up, we would do some grocery shopping, but everything else was already set up.  It was so easy.

Anyway, this time they weren’t there.  It was early June, and I had already finished up with my studio for the summer and Husband had some days off to use up.  So we went during the week, before school was out, no parents, no neighbors, just us in the bush.

It was the height of the mosquito season.  The day had absolutely no fucking wind, and was muggy as hell.  I couldn’t wait to get the truck unloaded and get my ass in the water.  But first we had to unpack.

I unloaded all the animals first.  Kinda like a travelling zoo.  Three dogs and a carrier full of ferrets.  I put them in the cabin so they would be out of the way, and not fucking off into the bush.  I threw my purse and shit in there too, needing all my hands to unload all the supplies.

The bugs were horrendous.  The muggy weather was irritating.  We both started to slowly slip into foul moods.

We have a screened in porch where I started leaving all our shit in between trips up the hill to the car.  And then I grabbed the box with shit going into the boathouse.  The one with the paint in it.

The one I fucking dropped.  The one where the lid popped off and spilled paint everywhere. All over the bumper of Husband’s new truck. All over me.  Oh.My.God.  I thought for sure he may beat me to death and hide my body somewhere in the bush.  So I went the one place I knew he wouldn’t follow.

The water.

He went into the boathouse to get some turpentine and rags to clean up after me as usual, because sometimes, I am a useless human being.  And found that it had been broken into.

This is getting better by the second.  I contemplated going home.  For reals.

Now keep in mind that during all of this, the animals are all inside the cabin, wondering when the fuck we were going to let them out.  This is where our day got fun.  I climbed out of the water and went to go inside.

And the goddamn door was locked.

And I looked inside to see my purse with our keys, phones, wallets, everything on the kitchen table.  And the fucking door is locked.  And I’m dripping wet.  And Husband already wants to strangle me.  And I think to myself “Please say the box with the gin is outside still.”

What the fuck are we gonna do?   Remember no neighbors?  Fack!

Luckily, someone had broken into the boathouse to steal gas, which gave me access to every tool ever invented by man.  So I ran and got a crowbar.  And took a swig out of the gin bottle. And started to beat the shit out of the door handle. It made me feel a lot better.

Then I realized there was a better way.  There was no way the dogs locked the deadbolt, so it was only the push lock that got locked.  I could break into that in a heartbeat!  I used to do it all the time as a kid whenever my brother was in the john. I knew being an asshole in my youth would come in handy someday.

I went and got a screwdriver, removed the handle and unlocked the door.  Perfect, no one needs to know about this except me and Husband and the animals.

Except I had beaten the shit out of the doorhandle, remember?  Fuck.

So this is where the lie comes in.

I was too embarrassed to tell my Dad what really happened.  I figured they would never, ever, let us go up by ourselves again until we were like 50.  So when I called to tell him the boathouse had been broken into, I told him it looked like they tried to get into the cabin too.

And then I told the RCMP the same thing.

I am going to Hell, right after I’m done serving my jail sentence.

And that, kids, is how we realized that owning a cottage was a lot of work.  Up until then it had sorta been like a hotel, you know?

Growing up is hard to do, and sometimes, it really sucks.

 

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