Case Study #2: "Still pissed about garbage night."

Some of you may remember Case Study #1: Garbage night in which I suffered from ire-incited insomnia while Chuck enjoyed unperturbed slumber.

Two years of ire-incited insomnia later I'd like to present Case Study #2: "Still pissed about garbage night." Alternate title: "You call that a weekend?"

Yes, I'm referring to that sandy island I spent all week dog paddling to. I went to an island all right. An island of BVDs*.



I'd like to again quote the article "Chores Can Cause Conflict in Your Marriage" by Sheri and Bob Stritof: "...74 percent of men said the chores were shared; 51 percent of women said chores were shared. Twenty-six percent of men said one person did the housework; 49 percent of the women said the same."

Chuck, your 74 percent is giving my 51 percent dishpan hands, under-eye circles, a serious backache and a mean case of the where's-the-meat-cleaver-I-would-like-to-sledgehammer-your-slumber.

A male's perception of his share in responsibilities vs. the actual amount contributed is so skewed, I bet Sheri wrote the whole fucking article and Bob came along and signed his name and went and told everyone they wrote it together.

Nice job, Bob. Have some BVDs you need laundered?

Yah, that's what I thought.

(If this is the last time the term BVD was in fashion I'm pretty old, huh?)

Sometimes the weekend feels like an island

I spend all week trying to swim to.

Yet despite all that swimming, my ass never gets smaller.

**Sigh**

(If you write a post about your patookis and Google "bikini butt" because you think a picture of a great butt would add to your post, be prepared to see a lot of pictures of Kim Kardashian's ass. Ca-ching!)

You can lie down with me if you want

A package was sitting in the mailbox today. For little old me. I raced back to the house and tore it open. I didn't even let Junior help me with the wrapping paper, that's how excited I was.

Inside I found this, from my mother:



I immediately started laughing hysterically. Both Junior and Chuck looked at me like I was crazy.

"Permission to nap?" I howled. "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard. Like what's standing between me and a good nap is permission." I fell to the floor and held my stomach. I was rolling around good.

"How about two kids? How about a flea infestation and working full time? How about a sink full of dishes, a washing machine full of clothes and a table full of empty dinner plates? Nope! That's not keeping me from repose on the couch. Permission is."

Chuck and Junior stood over me.

"Oh, that's good," I hooted. "That's really friggen good. Thank God she sent me that book. Everything is so much clearer. I now know what's keeping me from restoring my spirit."

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

"Need a hand up or are you staying on the ground?" Chuck asked.

"No, no," I said. "I'm fine right here. I'm giving myself permission to take a nap right here and now. 'Mrs. Mullet, you are free to sleep for as long as you need!' "

"You've lost it."

I placed a hand over my eyes. "If you need anything from the fridge, please step over me."



"Mommy! Get up!"

"Sssshhhh, Junior. I'm napping."

I wouldn't even go for free booze

Hmmm, I'm going to file this under "Things I do not—under any circumstances—want to do after spending a week without power, refrigeration and hot water":



As I wrote before, thanks to Hurricane Irene I'm all set with the colonial era.

I have a few more things to say about my kids' pediatrician but for now it'll have to wait. The picture of that woman making candles "the old fashioned way" is giving me a serious case of the twitches.

Top 10 signs you should switch pediatricians

1. When feeling the lump on your kid's head that was caused by a fall off the bed, the pediatrician says, "NBD" then scoffs when you ask him to explain what the hell NBD means ("No big deal").

2. You learn more about your child's health after one visit with the on-call pediatrician across the street than you did in the eight months with your pediatrician.

3. You find yourself daydreaming about the on-call pediatrician across the street a lot—like every time you make an appointment with your own pediatrician.

4. Your pediatrician admits that he kept you waiting for 20 minutes because he was in his office watching the Tour de France.

5. Your pediatrician also admits that the only reason he stopped watching the Tour de France was because one of his staff made him feel guilty about keeping you waiting.

6. During office visits, one of your pediatrician's testicles bulges to the side because his tapered jeans are too tight.

7. One of the first things your pediatrician asks you during an appointment is whether or not you noticed his new BMW in the parking lot.

8. You find yourself trying to focus on the good times with your pediatrician instead of the shit that's pissed you off: "Well, he did laugh when I threw my underwear at him..."

9. After ranting endlessly to your husband about your pediatrician, he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Do what you have to do," which in manspeak is code for "You're right but I don't want to be the one to call the office and explain why we're leaving."

10. You write a post entitled "Top 10 signs you should switch pediatricians."

I could buy a lot of wrinkle cream

I'm pooped.

Pooooooooooooooooped.

I get home from work at five. We take the kids for a walk. Make dinner. Do baths. Pajamas. Teeth brushing. Searching for lost stuffed animals. A better night light. Bed time stories.

Then there is the after dinner clean-up. Bottle washing. Sippy cup sudsing. I put laundry away. Sort bills. Make my lunch for the next day. Pick my nose. Straighten up.

Sometimes I remember to wash my face and apply wrinkle cream. Sometimes I remember to brush my own teeth. Junior told me my teeth are yellow, so I've been swishing with a teeth whitener.

Sometimes I get lost in thought and forget what I'm swishing. I find myself staring in the mirror and I think, What the hell is in my mouth?

I get into bed at 10:30 p.m. Then I lie there. My body has grown so accustomed to children robbing it of REM, it won't let me fall asleep.

They'll call for you the minute you close your eyes, it says. Don't even bother. Just lie here and obsess about things you can't control.

Ok, I answer. What shall it be tonight?

How about world hunger?

Great, I say.

At 3 a.m. the nurse next door slams her car door after working the night shift. I realize I've again had the dream where I'm dating Jack Nicholson and he gives me $1,000 cash to spend at Sephora.

What does it mean? I wonder.

I don't fucking know, my brain answers. But now you're awake and Diddlydoo will be up at 5:30. Why don't you just get up and start your day?

At 5:45 a.m. my little creep of a nine-month-old awakes. Because I am working and because I want to spend time with him, I crawl out of bed and give him a bottle. I kiss him. A lot. He falls back asleep.

I get into the shower. Shampoo my ass and soap up my hair. Chuck hands me a cup of coffee. I drink it in between shaving and yawning.

Then comes the drive into work.

My commute consists of 20 minutes on a small highway. The ride faces the sun. If I'm especially tired, the ride gets hazy and I imagine that I and my fellow commuters are moths drawn to a flame. Mindlessly heading toward that which will kill us (or at least singe our brains): Corporate America.

(You come here for the deep thoughts, admit it.)

And then. Then I arrive at work and spend a good part of the morning wiping spit up off my shirt and wondering why the hell I'm having a reoccurring dream about Jack Nicholson.

Oh shit. I just realized I'm still swishing.

Apparently memory lane is lined with dogs and crazy bosses

It's Thursday night. I've been slurpin' the vino. Getting all misty about how quickly time is passing.

So I decided to play the blog game of "Where was I on September 8th of 2010, 2009 and 2008?"

Here's what I found out:

On this day in 2010, I let my male coworker cry on my shoulder and designed a college course. In 2009, I was worrying that Junior could see dead people. In 2008, I shared my lack of knowledge about foreign dogs (Earth shattering, I know).

It hit me: Without this blog I'd have no recollection of where I've been for the last three years.

No recollection.

I'm going to need a moment to ponder whether or not that's a good thing.

Slurp, slurp.

Oops, I spent that moment guzzling.

Ooopsie.

Bug-eyed, batty lovey goodness

Junior drew this person. I love it because it looks exactly how I feel lately: on the verge of losing my shit. (If you're new here, I recently went back to work after an extended maternity leave, we've been dealing with a flea infestation and lack of power due to Hurricane Irene, and I'm out of wine.)

I also love the drawing because it's a little glimpse into the inner workings of my four-year-old son's mind. Everyone shits rainbows over babies and yes, they do smell nice after a bath, but to me this is one of the most beautiful times in my child's life. In my life.

Junior picks up the guitar and makes up songs. He tells knock-knock jokes. He tells me he wants smicken smocken smooken for breakfast. He draws freaky ass people with bug eyes.

He makes me laugh.

I never told my younger brother this, and I probably should have, but the only reason I survived my parents' divorce was because he made me laugh. He farted with his armpit. Incessantly. He'd play the cello from the closet while everyone was trying to sleep. He'd stealthily mock the tour guides on the horrible museum visits on which my father dragged us—to the point that my father would abandon us for another group.

They were the best of times, they were the...

Oh, right, you know how it goes.

So that's it. I'm in love with Junior and his drawings of people with bulging eyes. I want to freeze time. I want a guarantee that I'll live to be 100 so I can spend the next 64 years marveling at his accomplishments, the man he'll grow to be, and the glorious gift of creative expression we've all been given.

Can you do that for me?

Mama needs meat

Power. Praise be, we have power again.

Now there's just the small matter of this:



A trite matter considering but still, a matter. Thank gawd I churned all that butter when the storm hit.

I mean really, thank gawd.