About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Monday, June 30, 2008
I may have eaten my cats
Ah, lovely June 30...
It has the distinction of being the 181st day of the year (182nd in leap years). It’s also Terry Funk’s birthday (I found him on Wikipedia and the dude has a Myspace page—we could be friends!). In 2005 Spain legalized same-sex marriage on this date. And it’s Saint Martialis Day.
But most importantly, it’s the Night Before the I Go Back to Work Full-time Day.
I have had this day marked on the calendar for the last year. Sometimes I looked at the date with anticipation, like on days when Junior was fed, dressed, and bushy-tailed and it was 7:54 a.m. and I feared I would start crawling the walls.
But most days I dreaded this day. Like when Junior and I first hung out at a bookstore, him on my lap eating Cheerios and me drinking coffee and shooing away the pigeons that were trying to eat his dropped Cheerios. Or when we would take long walks at Rocky Neck and the old, jogging people would wave at us and say how large Junior was.
This past weekend I handled the anxiety by doing what any freaking out person would do: I binge ate and drank. I belted down a bottle of Hangar Vodka (a treat from the trusty Clan MacGregor) and then stuffed myself like Eric Carle’s "The Very Hungry Caterpillar."
On Friday I ate Key Lime pie, pepperoni and cheese, pancakes, pizza, hamburg, french fries, ice cream sandwiches, a chocolate bar, and a box of Wheat Thins. On Saturday it was more of the same. But more pie.
I’m lucky that Charles keeps telling me it’s temporary and that if I can’t handle being away from Junior all week we’ll find a way to make it work. I’m happy to hear that because I’ve already decided if I can’t hack it I’ll become a cocktail waitress at the local casino. I figure with all that walking I’ll have buns of steel and maybe even affect a flirtatious greeting for the gambling tippers like, “Hey Suga you gonna role a snake eye for little ole me?”
(God I’ll be punched out my first night on the job by some other waitress who thinks I’m naïve and corny. Or better yet, I’ll punch some sweaty, fat gambler who has a bulbous nose and who tries to pinch my ass while I’m leaning down to get his stray poker chip.)
This plan may need some tweaking. And more vodka.