I never said I was the perfect mom

The past 24 hours has been a perfect exercise in how NOT to be a perfect mom.

Step One. Even though you know your child has been a bit under the weather, but has no specific glaring symptoms other then a low grade fever off and on, you dose them up with Motrin and Cheerios, and send them to nursery school anyway. Actually, they are one of the first to be dropped off.

Step Two. Work late, and forget to check messages until you leave work. In fact, forget to call the mommy who is supposed to be picking up your other kid, just to make sure everything is still happening as planned. Thank god, everything happened as planned.

Step Three. Get to nursery school later then expected for pick-up, and find daughter sound asleep on the floor. They don't close for another hour, and the teacher says your daughter has been complaining about an ear ache. Leave her asleep on the floor. Go home to shower and change, and make a doctor's appointment for that evening. End up being one of the last parents to pick up at nursery school, so that you can just grab her on the way to the doctor's office, since it's on the way.

Step Four. Keep both kids out until 9pm on a school night trying to fill a prescription for the ear infection your daughter has.

Step Five. Take older child to school an hour late, because you neglected to deal with homework the day before, and let him sleep in in the morning.

Step Six. Completely ignore the new rule of always wearing pants to take child to school. Squeal into school parking lot an hour late, in bathrobe and thong. Wave and smile, and shout "I love you honey" out the window as you peel out in the sand. Son is horrified.

Step Seven. When daughter suggests playing a new game, you continue to type, and say "Maybe Later." When she scoops up a handful of change and says the new game is "Make all of mommy's money disappear" say "We play that game every damn day" and continue typing.

Step Eight. When you have finally decided to shower and dress for the day, take child to library for story time, and leave her in the children's section while you go read the New York Times in the back of the library. Return to children's area only when your daughter says she is getting nervous and needs you. Bring New York Times. Do not sing or clap or dance. Sit and Read and ignore the adults acting like idiots.

Step Nine. Instead of going to yoga and doing the grocery shopping, return home to work and let your child watch TV for 3 hours. Give her a peanut butter and jelly. Almost out of jelly. Crap.

Step Ten. Fall asleep on the couch, and forget to pick up your kid until the school calls and wakes you up and the secretary announces in a cheerful voice that "you forgot your son". (OK, that one happened last month, but it could happen again at any time.)

Roosters and a wet bed

Fucking Roosters.

The previous evening did not go as smoothly as one might have hoped. The whole day was just "off" and it swept into the evening, spent with friends and friends of friends, having a lovely dinner, and lots of good conversation and vodka drinks.

But there was this undercurrent. Sick kids, all hot and sticky looking, with tired puffy eyes, and slightly choked voices and very stuffy noses. And there was some minor whimpering and cause for concern. It ebbed. It flowed. We left the gathering, ran a few quick errands, headed home....things still seeming strange-ish. Underwater, slow-moving, otherworldly off.

We got the kids clean (O, how filthy they were with their sweat and their bare feet and their chocolate cake) and in bed, and everyone was swiftly, immediately, deeply asleep.

Until 2am.

When the pitter patter of little feet was accompanied by one of the most dreaded phrases in parent-speak.

"I had a little accident".

A Note for new or soon to be parents:

There are no "little" accidents. When there is an accident of any kind, simply isolate all items that are in the surrounding area and either wash them (in the case of a wet bed) or throw them out (in the case of vomit, poop, blood or any other staining/smelling/traumatic accident). Do not attempt to sniff or inspect each individual item, hoping to save yourself time and effort. It saves no time, and requires significant effort - and you always miss something and put it back on the bed until such time as there is a SMELL and you have to go through the entire bed AGAIN trying to locate the source.

When the accident occurs at night, wash the kid, put them on the sofa with a dry blanket, throw everything in the wash, and go back to bed. Do not stand in the dim hall light in your altogether attempting to locate fresh bedding, tearing almost everything out of the linen closet in your effort to find all necessary components. There inevitably will not be an extra mattress pad or pillow when you need it, so just don't bother.

Many times, when there is an accident and the child was heretofore potty-trained and reliably dry through the night, assume illness. Even in the absence of barf. Check for fever. A dose of Motrin would not be out of the question. Because every damn time we have an accident, it turns out that there is a fever involved. Or something else. Something grosser. I'm just saying. Rather then spending time cleaning up and remaking the bed, spend the time cleaning up the kid, checking them out thoroughly, and getting them to go back to sleep.

Because time spent standing in the hallway arguing about where the extra mattress pad is, well, that is time better spent sleeping. And as a result of an extended period of wakefulness, you may find yourself unable to fall back asleep, and therefore trolling the internets at all hours, reading other blogrolls and keeping up to date on Supreme Court goings ons in California and Washington D.C. Which is fun, but not as fun as SLEEPING.

And then, just when you think you might actually be able to fall asleep, you hear this noise floating through the house. At first, you think it is the washer, hard at work dealing with the "little accident". Then you realize the noise is outside. Then you see a street sweeper for literally the first time ever in you r eight years as a resident of the state of Hawaii, and you stand in the window and stare in disbelief. Has it always been here ? Or is it just a mirage, a figment of my sleep-deprived imagination, some Polar Bear Express version of a street sweeper ? Does it only come through at 2:47am and somehow you have never actually been awake at the magical hour of the magical day where the street sweeping happens ? And as the noise dies away in the neighborhood, it is replaced by another sound. A squeaking, repetitive sound, accompanied by thumps and perhaps some moaning and Oh Good God please close your windows neighbors, if you are going to do that sort of thing so loudly in our peaceful family neighborhood.

But then, it gets worse. First one, then another, then an cacauphony of the aviary kind - fucking roosters. Our neighborhood is full of Fucking Roosters (I know this because we also have plenty of hens and chicks, so i got proof people. Actual fucking roosters. And what I want to know is, what the hell is so bad about cockfighting again ? Because as far as I am concerned, the less roosters the better, and if you can eliminate a rooster plus make a little money on the side, well, who am I to judge ? I'm just saying. Roosters suck.

And now dawn is breaking, and my darling will be waking up and leaving for work, and I am going to try to get maybe one more hour of sleep before I embrace the day all weepy and disheveled from lack of sleep and extra laundry.

Lets all say a little thank you that I have the fixings for bloody marys right here in my kitchen. Hallelujah.

Just who, exactly, do you think YOU are.

It's not a question.

Well, I guess it is, but I don't care what the answer is, so guess we'll just call it a rhetorical question. I have a feeling I won't be using my "?" for a while, because I am pretty much totally fucking fed up with other people's opinions about my dream being realized in the not-so-distant, oh-shit-am-I-really-doing-this future.

After the debacle last night, and the post I wrote at about 3am, I went back to bed.

I tossed.

I turned.

I may have cried a little.

I got mad - first at Mr. Headuphisass, then at myself.

I got scared - scared that I would fail. Scared that I might never be able to do this. Scared that someone else would do it first.

And then I got so damn tired from being awake thinking about it all, that I dozed off with my latest hobby - making lists in my head of things I need to do.

Because you know what, I am not going to sit here and try to predict the future. I don't know if I will succeed or fail. None of us do, really. People are losing their homes right and left, and their jobs, and families are falling apart, and none of that was necessarily something that could be predicted.

So why couldn't wild success also be possible. Or even just medium-sized success. Frankly, if I don't go bankrupt I'll feel successful. My bar is very low at this point.

Here's what I know I will finally have. The chance to do something my way. To succeed or fail on my own terms. Because when I do this, it will be all me. No one to blame but myself if things go sour. Which they won't, Mr. Headupyourass.

Little people make me feel very small

One of my favorite snarky comments about guys who act all big and tough, but are actually enormous pussies, is "he is a little, little man".

Today, I shared my dream with someone who literally made me feel like I was a 5 year old girl, with some hair-brained idea to run away from home with my Snoopy lunchbox, and had announced my plan at the breakfast table before setting out.

In short, he made me feel like a total asshole. An immature, disorganized, irresponsible fool, who just jumps wildly from one job to another due to boredom or an inability to work hard and really dedicate myself to anything long term.

I have heard, through the grapevine, some comments this person had made before. For example: When we brought home Baby V, the comment was "Doesn't she have enough going on ? Why does she need to add this drama amd chaos to her life?"

Since I am also aware that this same person has alienated others with the same insensitive, condescending, emotionally abusive bullshit....I take these comments with a grain of salt. I attempt to see the truth that is being shared so tactlessly.

And the lecture I got tonight did have some good points (not anything I didn't already know, but still) but missed the general point, which was me asking for advice based on this person's professional opinion. I thought, mistakenly, that if I made this an opportunity to "be the expert" - if I went into the evening acknowledging that this person knew more then me about this particular subject, that they might actually be willing to answer some questions, and have a conversation about what I might expect.

And side note here - if I HADN'T had this conversation, and gone ahead with my plan, I would have offended this person deeply, and possibly caused a rift....so I was hoping to avoid that whole scenatio by including this person from the get-go. Not for free advice - if the conversation had gone well there would have beem money to be made in terms of my lease and rental commission.

But in one fell swoop - where I eagerly sat forward and said "I have something I want to talk about" to the response that went along the lines of "Yeah, I heard about that and it's a terrible time to do this in this economy, and I won't help you until you have thought about this for 2 years and present me with a business plan" - I was deflated.

Defeated.

And my dream was left in a messy little puddle on the ground where it had just been thoroughly trampled.

Maybe it was some version of tough love, but whatever the case may be, this particular person will not be involved in the future. Because it IS a dream, and dreams are not necessarily rational. And my business plan is no one's business but my own. And perhaps the banks. And maybe the economic opportunity council. And perhaps the county needs to see it. But not this person. Not now.

Why yes, as a matter of fact, that WAS me in the lobster robe and no pants, dropping my son off at school.

This morning, as I do every morning, I drove my son to school wearing a bathrobe and flipflops.

I was operating under the assumption that no one would notice, or care.

I was wrong about noticing, and while I don't think she really *cared* per se, the chick in the green Escort found it endlessly amusing. I noticed her jaw drop as I made a left hand turn in front of her, and I almost wanted to stop in the middle of the intersection and say "Honey, before I had kids, I thought the same damn thing. I mean, really, who would wear a robe to drive her kid to school."

I would have had that chat, except that getting out of an SUV in a robe with no pants is, shall we say, indelicate, and I just didn't need to have a Paris/Lindsey/Britney moment right in the middle of town.

Plus I hadn't brushed my teeth. Or my hair.

So I kept on keeping on.

And after I made the decision to stay in my car, it suddenly occurred to me.

For The Love Of God, what if my car breaks down or I get pulled over or have an accident or something in the 3 blocks I drive to the elementary school? I can tell you right now, if a cop pulled me over, and saw me in my usual 7:15am getup, he would TOTALLY call for backup, and make me get out of the car, and really SAVOR the opportunity to personally humiliate a stupid haole in her LOBSTER BATHROBE who can't drive 3 blocks without breaking the law.

So, from now on I fully intend to both A. Put on Pants (under my robe) and B. Brush my Teeth before driving Max to school. You know, just in case.

It's like having to take an enormous dump. Or something.

That is the true genius of America, a faith in the simple dreams of its people, the insistence on small miracles. That we can say what we think, write what we think, without hearing a sudden knock on the door. That we can have an idea and start our own business without paying a bribe or hiring somebody's son.

BARACK OBAMA, speech at 2004 Democratic Convention


God, sorry, the post titles have been AWFUL lately, haven't they ? But so apropos, as you will see in just a moment. This post has absolutely nothing to do with going to the bathroom, so you can keep reading, confident in the fact that all potty talk is located exclusively in the title. For the most part.

I have this dream. And it had been slowly growing inside of me for years. Brewing, festering, inspiring, intimidating, gaining strength and speed and weight and size. At this point, I have to just get it out. I have to do the research, the leg work, I have to actually decide if I can DO THIS. Because if I can...if it is even vaguely possible.....I have to go for it. Have to. Otherwise, I will become a crazy person, muttering to myself and sniffling into a tissue about opportunities lost. And if someone else were to take my idea and act on it, I would have rage. Serious rage. That would just eat me up inside.

Have I mentioned that I am feeling pretty passionate about this whole situation ?

So, here's the deal. I am going to take a giant scary leap of faith. I am going to try desperately to make something happen that by all rights I should absolutely not be doing right now. I should be holding the line, paying the bills, following the rules, respecting the tenuous financial situation in this country........
I should. I really, really should. But I can't. It will eat me alive.

And for those reasons, because I want my idea to come to fruition under my loving care, until everything is signed and sealed and ready to go and I know that I have indeed succeeded in fulfilling my dream of dreams, and I am no longer just carrying them around, weighing so heavily on my heart.......I am going to be painfully, annoyingly vague here. Right up until I can make my big announcement. Which I will. Someday. Dammit. Gah. This is killing me.

Not sure how far, exactly, to take the self-righteous, sanctimonious bullcrap

I wanted to say bullSHIT in the title, but then I know some people have readers that show titles and I really didn't want to have "shit" be screwing up peoples visitors due to workplace regulations or whathaveyou, so I edited slightly.

You're welcome.

So, yeah. Self-righteous and Sancitmonious - I looked up those words and yup, I think I have that covered. I am torn. Today I was witness, once again, to someone's glaring lack of skills when it comes to handling his employees employment.

After time spent offering cups of coffee, words of support and indignation, throwing out some ideas and possible scenarios for how this could all just be a huge misunderstanding, I am starting to think that no, there is no misunderstanding.

Someone lost their job, or at least, they appear to have lost it - we can't be sure, because they were never actually fired or given a last check or even given any sort of warning. It all went down without so much as a faretheewell. And the timing SUCKED. I mean, it could have been done earlier, or later, or not at all.....And you know what makes me really uncomfortable ? I am not an idiot. It could just as well be me. It could be me at any time, for any reason, without notice or explaination or even, actually, cause.

So do I continue to turn a blind eye ? Confident - smug, even - in my employed status? Or do I get all indignant and up in arms and quit in a blaze of glory, as Trippy would suggest with glee. Stand up to the man. Solidarity with my sisters in waiting.

Fuck.

I haven't the foggiest idea, honestly, what to do. I do know this:
I am a romantic. And of course, as a romantic, my first inclination is to stand up for the little guy. But, would they do the same if it was reversed ? Nah. Because I have been down THAT road before, and found myself out of a job and underwhelmed by the grateful throngs of supporters.

So I guess I will just soldier on. I guess. For now. Ugh. It feels shitty.

No, I wasn't drinking - I'm just not good with the clippers

Max needed a haircut. Badly.

So yesterday I pulled out the clippers and prepared myself for the task at hand. Easy peasy, right ?

I chose my guard for the clippers - not the longest, not the shortest......and got to work. And my son was instantly sporting what can only be described as a bald patch on the left side of his head. While my gut reaction was to shout "Oh fuck I fucked up!" I did not succumb. I just moved forward with confidence, in what turned out to be a never-ending quest to "even things up".

First one side, then the other. Then the back, trying to blend it with the sides. Sweat started to roll down my face. I got the scissors. Snip snip snip. Whoops. Crap. Snipsnipsnip. Fuck. Back to the clippers. Oops, wrong size guard. Shit. OK, now we need to even out some more. FUCK, why does it look like I shaved stripes onto the side of his head? Oh man. This is Not Good. Not good at all.

At this point, I am slowly realizing that my neighbors are congregating in their driveway to watch the show, and in fact, inspired by my efforts one of the neighbors is ALSO getting a haircut.

"It must be haircut day !" the competing stylist called over the fence.

Ummm. Yeah. Notsomuch.

OK, focus. At least try to get the sides even. OK, well, bald is even. Let's go with that.

Now the top. Hm. Should I use the clippers, or just trim it with scissors. Let's face it, he's going to look like an ass for at least a week regardless. Does it really matter ? Let's just try to blend it a little bit over - OUCH FUCK OUCH Cut myself with the scissors. Fuck, this is so not okay.

You know what, screw this. This little project will be filed under "Epic Fail" any, so let's just pack it in and go get a bandaid. And maybe a tourniquet - those scissors are sharp little suckers.

The results: He looks like Chunk from the Goonies, I need a tetanus shot, and the entire yard is covered in hair.

That was yesterday. This morning we put a bunch of gel in there, and spiked it all up. He was thrilled. Obviously, he can't see the bald spots. He went skipping off to school, anxious to surprise everyone with his new 'do.

"Hey, Mr. G. ! Check it out ! I got a mohawk !"

"How 'bout that Max ! Who did that to you ? I mean, where did you get your hair cut ?"

"My mom did it yesterday after school ! Pretty cool, huh ?!"

"Oh yeah, very cool. Tell me - did your mother have a few glasses of wine first ?"

As my friend Jen reassured me when she heard the story: "Your reputation precedes you."

Oh WHATEVER

I am sick of myself.
I am sick of writing about myself all the gad damned time.
I am not that interesting.
I am running out of cute anecdotes.

I am VERY busy working out, and lying on my sofa pouting about all of the things I could be doing, but that I don't really care enough to do.

No drama. No mystery. No marital strife. No illness. No grief.

And it turns out, having a nice little life does not leave much up for discussion. I am not going to make stuff up. I would answer meme questions, but really....do you give a shit what my favorite restaurant is, or which celebrity I would marry?

Of course you don't. At least, I *hope* you don't. If you do then seriously, you need to Step Away From The Computer and make some more friends.

But it's sweet of you to pretend to be even vaguely interested in the life of a woman that takes her kids to school in nothing but a fuzzy robe and flip flops. A woman who swept her entire house, gathered a big pile of dust, and then neglected to actually sweep up said pile of dust and dispose of it. And left it there, in the middle of the hallway, to be quickly re-distributed and added to by the residents of the house and their guests. It's very kind of you to feign interest in someone who bought an enormous bag of potato chips at 8am because they were on sale due to being past the expiration date, immediately ate them in the car, and then went to the gym for an hour and got her greasy fingerprints on all of the nautilus equipment. It's so sweet of you to humor me, a woman who was 20 minutes late to work on Mother's Day because on the way to work she decided "Mama needs a new pair of shoes" and went shopping, and bought herself not one but TWO pairs, and then while she was waiting at the register tried on a bunch of rings and then left the store still wearing one of them and realized it halfway to work and had to go back to the store and admit to stealing from them, and returned the ring with such shame that she could barely walk upright, her head was hanging so low with the embarrassment of it all.

So there you have it. A slob, a criminal, a nudist, a glutton. Fascinating.
I'm so glad you're here. Don't leave. I might need bail money.

We are living in a time when vomiting and a strange rash makes people uncomfortable

Go Figure.

No, for the love of GOD I do not have the fucking swine flu. But you know what, I wouldn't mind the swine flu - at least I'd have a diagnosis and an excuse to lie in bed all day wearing a mask and looking mysterious. And itchy.

But no. I can only dream of having a name for the seventh level of hell I am currently inhabiting. However, I have to say, it's not all bad. Amidst my puking, I managed to completely eliminate the paunchy belly I was so worried about. Silly Me ! And, just *think* of the money I have saved this Cinco de Mayo - the most festive of the holy days of alcohol binging. Bonus - the unidentified skin rash ? Is reminding me of how lovely my skin *usually* is, which will lead to me appreciating it more later on, when it returns to it's usual petal-like state. Because it will. Yes it will. Oh Yes It Will. But until it does, I am pretty much persona non grata in the great big world out there. I mean, would you want to hang with someone who alternates between scratching that suspicious rash on her neck, and sticking her entire head in the toilet and hanging on for dear life? Me neither.

But friends - true friends - are always there for you. I am relieved to say that my friends have all worked hard to keep me distracted and entertained, calling and laying on with all sorts of personal angst and drama. It's almost as though they have risen to the challenge of my boredom, coming up with new levels of douche-baggery to report, dissect, and hash out over the phone. Better then a soap opera, these people, which is why I keep them around. Strictly for my entertainment.

In other news, the gym is going just swimmingly. I actually worked out with my personal trainer on Monday despite my questionable health. Though in retrospect, given the swiftly changing state of affairs vis a vis my newly svelte figure (due to the vomitous nature of my weekend) I could have forgone the session - or at least put it off - until I was back on my feed. Not feet, people, FEED. As in FOOD.

Because what it all comes down to is this. I have not eaten since Friday afternoon without puking and/or suffering excruciating stomach cramps. It's now Tuesday night. Today, I ate 1 bowl of rice, existed in utter misery for 8 hours, sipped on a coke throughout the day desperately trying to settle my stomach, and then ate a roll. I currently have the laptop pressed on my tummy, hoping that the heat will calm the roiling within. The roiling caused by, I guess, a roll. And this is day 5 - so trust me when I tell you it was worse a few days ago.

May I just say, this is completely unacceptable. My eating is just not for survival. I eat for my mental health. Eating is an activity in and of itself. I *PLAN* my eating. I *LOVE* my food. I do not diet. I do not fast. I do not count calories, or worry about fat content, or carbs, or cholesterol.

So this new no food thing? Sucks. I am hungry, but not starving. Which is TOTALLY FREAKING ME OUT. I am *always* hungry. Literally, always hungry. But it wouldn't matter if I *was* hungry, because no hunger is worth the pain caused by eating right now. I have made the mistake of eating several times each day since Saturday, when I stopped puking - and suffered tremendously as a consequence. So I am just going to sit here, and be vaguely hungry, but not hungry enough to really do anything besides loll about watching www.thedailyshow.com and harrassing old friends on Facebook.

And scratching. Oh the scratching.

Lock up your husbands - and your wives - because I am (apparently) HOTT - with 2 t's

Either I am releasing some MAD pheramones, or there was a press release telling people to make amends because I have only weeks to live.

Between the flower arrangements, phone calls, hand-written notes on pretty little notecards, and emails, I am a very hot commodity. People are DESPERATE to confess, make amends, reconnect, and repair relations with me this week.
Seriously.
Who knew.

And what I want to know is "What the fuck, people ?"

It must be my new bangs.

I knew getting bangs would totally change my life. I just KNEW IT.

Don't try this at home, people. It's powerful stuff.