(insert clever title here)
Jeez...what on earth did I do with my weekend? I swear to GOD, and I am not exaggerating AT ALL, that if I DON'T write this shit down, it is GONE from my head by the next week. Just gone.
I am sure that the aluminum in my anti-perspirant is giving me Alzheimer's Disease. Sadly, I am DOUBLY sure that just using hippie-dippy Tom's Deodorant is going to ruin my career and every one of my friendships.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, I was moaning about being sick on Friday. (I can't believe I forgot to mention my Marky Mark lookalike gutter man who came over on Friday. I must have been sick. I must say, when he was working on my roof with his shirt off, I was tempted to use one of those lines that I'm sure many a bored housewife has used on him. "Hey, you. Can you come tend MY gutter?")
Saturday:
9:50 AM - Went to YG's first music class with her on Saturday morning, snuffling and coughing. It was cute, all the little three-year-old girls dancing and singing little songs with the charming French music teacher. I enjoyed myself, but am feeling anxiety that I now have the responsibility to ensure that yet another child does her homework.
10:30 AM - Ran to see 15 minutes of OG's soccer game. Still the fastest on her team; still hanging back in the backfield. The Man has angst about this. (I try to let him own this one.)
12:30 PM - I refused to succumb to my cold, and went out on the Leftover Bobnoxious Birthday Dregs Party Barge Party Part 2 on Saturday. (Damn if I was going to miss another trip to the lake due to illness. I would have gone even if I had been bleeding from both ears.) Tylenol Allergy Sinus and cheap box wine saved the day. I have a great time. Later on, I have mysterious bruises and a nagging sense that I looked less than dignified hauling my tipsified ass up onto the boat, both of which confirm that I did indeed have a great time. (But my gauge of whether I drank TOO much - which is a horrible fear that I made out with someone not my husband - did not go off. So, yay for me.)
4:30 PM - back in the car. Listened to Mizzou kick Ole Miss's dixie butt on the satellite radio. Sweet.
5:00 PM - We race to Wonder Boy's birthday party. Poor OG, who has been making such enormous social progress, hit a snag with another guest, and I don't think she ever really got past it until the party was over. Though I was stressed at the time, I was very happy that she did not appear to be the instigator, and - honestly - I didn't think she was completely overreacting! For once, I was totally, and completely, empathetic with her - to the point that I even teared up a bit myself. (I believe that I have some old birthday party tears still lurking around the back corners of my psyche somewhere.) I think I decided, right then and there, that she's going to be OK in the world, and that I'm OK with her.
7:00 - Watch/listen to UT with The Man. They have a hard first half. I am secretly pleased. (I love The Man, and Austin, and even went there for grad school, but part of me hates the big UT monolith. I don't necessarily want them to lose all the time; I just want them to realize that they're a college, and not a fucking professional football team. And, I find it highly amusing that their fans start bitching and beating up on their team when they win.)
9:30 - Call my sister, wish her a happy birthday. Try to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone with OG, but my voice has finally given up the ghost. Suck on the Liquid Benadryl teat. Watch 15 minutes of SNL before dropping into a stupor.
Sunday:
8:00 AM - Hoarse, slightly hung over. I drink several cups of coffee, but still make The Man fix me a cappucino. He makes the best foam. No, that's not a euphemism.
10:00 AM - Bill and Julie have us over for their daughter's four-year-old birthday party. Jokes are made about getting started drinking early. I am not amused; yea, I am in fact, slightly sickened by these jokes. I drink a whole lot of water and eat one more piece of pizza than Weight Watchers suggests is appropriate. Urg.
1:00 - I embark upon installing Elfa shelving to create a home office for the man. I invent a new slogan: "Elfa! It's cheaper than a divorce!" which is quickly modified to "Elfa! Where the fuck is that little bag of screws?"
7:00 - It's done, with only one trip back to The Container Store. It looks fabulous. I am an awesome wife. (Not so sure about being an awesome mother though. Can't remember at all what my kids were doing for those six hours.)
8:00 - kid bedtime. There, I can't be that bad; I did find them in time to put them to bed. So there.
9:00 - I watch the new HBO series, Tell Me You Love Me. I am more or less unimpressed. If I wanted to watch thirtysomething couples ragging at each other, well, then, I'd just go hang out with my friends. (Kidding! That's a joke. LAUGH, DAMMIT, LAUGH.) The main reason to watch appears to be "Are they really doing it or not?" To me, it appears that there may be prosthetics in play, but they're clearly doing enough to where it doesn't seem to matter. But it's really, really not erotic at all. It was weirdly depressing. I will give it two episodes, like I did "John From Cincinnati," but if nobody has smiled or made any more interesting conversational interjections than "I just don't know you!" by the end of the second episode, I'm done, full-frontal and junk viewings notwithstanding.
10:00 - Damnit, there's still laundry on the bed. Why is there always laundry on my bed on Sunday nights?
11:30 - I really need to go to bed earlier.
Monday:
6:00 - Jesus, school starts early.
7:17 - I try to open up a bottle of red nail polish to do a quick touch-up. The lid is stuck. I try to jimmy it open with a pair of nail scissors, and BAM - the neck of the bottle breaks. My hands, the sink, and the floor are covered with red nail polish. FLY. ING. FUCK. There is not enough nail polish remover in the house to deal with this. I suddenly sympathize with what serial killers go through when they have to clean up a crime scene. OG yells from the next room: "MOOOOM! IT's SEVEN SEVENTEEN! WE HAVE TO GO OR I'LL BE TAAARDY!"
7:22 - I take OG to school. My hands are still covered with red nail polish, and I stink of acetate. Yay, Monday!
7:30 - I decide it's not that bad. I go on to work. Maybe they'll just think it's dry-erase marker.
10:00 AM - I trip over the legs of a table and come down onto my knees on the tile floor. Hard. More large and unsightly bruises on my legs, now.
Rest of day: Reasonably uneventful. The Man likes his office. I am good on my diet. There's still fucking laundry on the bed.
10:00 - Stewart. Colbert. Bed.
11:00 - Oooh! Reno 911 is on! I haven't seen that in months!
12:00 - I really need to go to bed earlier.
----------------------------------------------
So...on this topic, I ask this: When do I get to pull a rock star, an Amy Winehouse, and get to take time off for "exhaustion?" Would someone send me to a spa if I developed a nasty drug habit?
Because, I can, if necessary! I'm already halfway to freebasing the Benadryl...
I am sure that the aluminum in my anti-perspirant is giving me Alzheimer's Disease. Sadly, I am DOUBLY sure that just using hippie-dippy Tom's Deodorant is going to ruin my career and every one of my friendships.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, I was moaning about being sick on Friday. (I can't believe I forgot to mention my Marky Mark lookalike gutter man who came over on Friday. I must have been sick. I must say, when he was working on my roof with his shirt off, I was tempted to use one of those lines that I'm sure many a bored housewife has used on him. "Hey, you. Can you come tend MY gutter?")
Saturday:
9:50 AM - Went to YG's first music class with her on Saturday morning, snuffling and coughing. It was cute, all the little three-year-old girls dancing and singing little songs with the charming French music teacher. I enjoyed myself, but am feeling anxiety that I now have the responsibility to ensure that yet another child does her homework.
10:30 AM - Ran to see 15 minutes of OG's soccer game. Still the fastest on her team; still hanging back in the backfield. The Man has angst about this. (I try to let him own this one.)
12:30 PM - I refused to succumb to my cold, and went out on the Leftover Bobnoxious Birthday Dregs Party Barge Party Part 2 on Saturday. (Damn if I was going to miss another trip to the lake due to illness. I would have gone even if I had been bleeding from both ears.) Tylenol Allergy Sinus and cheap box wine saved the day. I have a great time. Later on, I have mysterious bruises and a nagging sense that I looked less than dignified hauling my tipsified ass up onto the boat, both of which confirm that I did indeed have a great time. (But my gauge of whether I drank TOO much - which is a horrible fear that I made out with someone not my husband - did not go off. So, yay for me.)
4:30 PM - back in the car. Listened to Mizzou kick Ole Miss's dixie butt on the satellite radio. Sweet.
5:00 PM - We race to Wonder Boy's birthday party. Poor OG, who has been making such enormous social progress, hit a snag with another guest, and I don't think she ever really got past it until the party was over. Though I was stressed at the time, I was very happy that she did not appear to be the instigator, and - honestly - I didn't think she was completely overreacting! For once, I was totally, and completely, empathetic with her - to the point that I even teared up a bit myself. (I believe that I have some old birthday party tears still lurking around the back corners of my psyche somewhere.) I think I decided, right then and there, that she's going to be OK in the world, and that I'm OK with her.
7:00 - Watch/listen to UT with The Man. They have a hard first half. I am secretly pleased. (I love The Man, and Austin, and even went there for grad school, but part of me hates the big UT monolith. I don't necessarily want them to lose all the time; I just want them to realize that they're a college, and not a fucking professional football team. And, I find it highly amusing that their fans start bitching and beating up on their team when they win.)
9:30 - Call my sister, wish her a happy birthday. Try to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone with OG, but my voice has finally given up the ghost. Suck on the Liquid Benadryl teat. Watch 15 minutes of SNL before dropping into a stupor.
Sunday:
8:00 AM - Hoarse, slightly hung over. I drink several cups of coffee, but still make The Man fix me a cappucino. He makes the best foam. No, that's not a euphemism.
10:00 AM - Bill and Julie have us over for their daughter's four-year-old birthday party. Jokes are made about getting started drinking early. I am not amused; yea, I am in fact, slightly sickened by these jokes. I drink a whole lot of water and eat one more piece of pizza than Weight Watchers suggests is appropriate. Urg.
1:00 - I embark upon installing Elfa shelving to create a home office for the man. I invent a new slogan: "Elfa! It's cheaper than a divorce!" which is quickly modified to "Elfa! Where the fuck is that little bag of screws?"
7:00 - It's done, with only one trip back to The Container Store. It looks fabulous. I am an awesome wife. (Not so sure about being an awesome mother though. Can't remember at all what my kids were doing for those six hours.)
8:00 - kid bedtime. There, I can't be that bad; I did find them in time to put them to bed. So there.
9:00 - I watch the new HBO series, Tell Me You Love Me. I am more or less unimpressed. If I wanted to watch thirtysomething couples ragging at each other, well, then, I'd just go hang out with my friends. (Kidding! That's a joke. LAUGH, DAMMIT, LAUGH.) The main reason to watch appears to be "Are they really doing it or not?" To me, it appears that there may be prosthetics in play, but they're clearly doing enough to where it doesn't seem to matter. But it's really, really not erotic at all. It was weirdly depressing. I will give it two episodes, like I did "John From Cincinnati," but if nobody has smiled or made any more interesting conversational interjections than "I just don't know you!" by the end of the second episode, I'm done, full-frontal and junk viewings notwithstanding.
10:00 - Damnit, there's still laundry on the bed. Why is there always laundry on my bed on Sunday nights?
11:30 - I really need to go to bed earlier.
Monday:
6:00 - Jesus, school starts early.
7:17 - I try to open up a bottle of red nail polish to do a quick touch-up. The lid is stuck. I try to jimmy it open with a pair of nail scissors, and BAM - the neck of the bottle breaks. My hands, the sink, and the floor are covered with red nail polish. FLY. ING. FUCK. There is not enough nail polish remover in the house to deal with this. I suddenly sympathize with what serial killers go through when they have to clean up a crime scene. OG yells from the next room: "MOOOOM! IT's SEVEN SEVENTEEN! WE HAVE TO GO OR I'LL BE TAAARDY!"
7:22 - I take OG to school. My hands are still covered with red nail polish, and I stink of acetate. Yay, Monday!
7:30 - I decide it's not that bad. I go on to work. Maybe they'll just think it's dry-erase marker.
10:00 AM - I trip over the legs of a table and come down onto my knees on the tile floor. Hard. More large and unsightly bruises on my legs, now.
Rest of day: Reasonably uneventful. The Man likes his office. I am good on my diet. There's still fucking laundry on the bed.
10:00 - Stewart. Colbert. Bed.
11:00 - Oooh! Reno 911 is on! I haven't seen that in months!
12:00 - I really need to go to bed earlier.
----------------------------------------------
So...on this topic, I ask this: When do I get to pull a rock star, an Amy Winehouse, and get to take time off for "exhaustion?" Would someone send me to a spa if I developed a nasty drug habit?
Because, I can, if necessary! I'm already halfway to freebasing the Benadryl...
1 comment:
Thank you for calling your friends "thirtysomething".
Sigh.
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