ABOUT ME

About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby 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.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

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.

8 comments:

Pricilla said...

Better Jack Nicholson than Marlon Brando in his later years...

Maybe if you swished with vodka?

Mama Badger said...

Bwa ha ha ha. I hate those days that you realize you're turning on your computer and your last cognizant memory was putting on your shirt for work. I wish I could say it gets better, but I just finished a muffin I don't remember starting...

LazyBones said...

Oh man, I remember that tired from when I returned to work. I haven't got anything to offer, except: good luck. Good luck. Damn.

Sparkling said...

Wow I just let out a big exhale. You wore me right out. Is it my imagination, or is Chuck staying home with the boys while you're working?

Working Mommy said...

one day I went into work with 1/2 my hair dried and done and the other 1/2 just chillin still wet...yeah, I'm a winner!

wm

Jana@anattitudeadjustment.com said...

THIS is why I stayed up a little later to read blogs, even though my eyes are stinging with exhaustion.

If it makes you feel any better--and I don't know how it's possible--but I think your blog has just gotten better. I blame corporate America. (Hey, there's a reason Office Space was made, so that all of us could share in a sense of camaraderie.)

(And my small adventure into dream interpretation told me that all the people in your dream are symbols of you. So is there some part of you that is a balding, raspy voiced man with a lot of fame and money?)

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