Today is the first day I get to drive since having surgery a week ago. I must admit it was a little scary getting behind the wheel. Before I put the key in the ignition–which by the way, is a story in itself. Since I haven’t *used* the car in a week, I had NO idea where my keys were. Not being able to find your keys when you’re in a hurry to get the kids to school on time is an Epic Failure. Anyway, they were exactly were you wouldn’t expect them to be–in the car. FML

Anyway, I went over all the important steps. The gas is on the right. Check. Brake on the left. Check. R means reverse. Check. D means drive. Check. N means Not Going Anywhere But If You’re On A Hill You Will Roll Down It. Check.

I fastened my seat beat and said, “All right. Here we go.”

Harley buckled herself in tight to her car seat and we were off.

Hey. Whatdoyaknow. I could still do it.

And I was happy.

I noticed Harley was quietly staring out the window so I turned down the radio and asked, “So, anything you want to talk about?”

The sound of my voice must have broken the spell she was under because she answered, “Yes. I have a question.”

I smiled. “Great! What is it?”

“Do you shave your legs anymore?”

OK. Not exactly a question I was expecting, but whatever. “Yes. I still shave my legs.” Instinctively I reached down and felt the stubble on my right calf. It’s been at *least* a week since I’d shaved.

I looked at her through the rearview mirror. She seemed to be puzzled by my answer. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. Gran says she doesn’t have to shave anymore. That when you’re older the hair stops growing.”

What the hell?

Gasping. Gasping. Gasping.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “Harley. Gran is in her 60′s. She’s *a lot* older than me. I’ve GOT hairy legs. I can STILL grow hair. In fact I can grow hair like nobody’s business. You wanna feel? Feel my legs. They’re super hairy. Go on. FEEL MY LEGS!”

I *may* have overreacted just a smidge.

I went on.

“AND…I’m not OLD. I’m in my 30′s and…”

Before I could say anymore she chimed in with, “BUT YOU’RE ALMOST 40. IN LIKE 4 MONTHS AND 10 DAYS YOU’LL BE 40.”

“Wait. Are you counting down to my birthday, Harley?”

She made a face. It was the face that says You Are The Dumbest Person I’ve Ever Met. “Duh, Mommy. I’m marking off the days on my calendar.”

“But why?”

God. How long does it take to drive to her fucking school? Can’t we BE THERE YET?

“Because my birthday is right after yours. And I’m gonna be 8. You know what that means don’t you?”

Wait. So this is not really about me after all? I find this a little disappointing.

“No. What does it mean?”

“It means I get to have a birthday party sleepover. Remember? You promised.”

I was now bored with this conversation. I liked it a lot better when we were talking about me being old and turning 40 and not being able to grow hair on my legs anymore.

We pulled up next to the school then.

“Yeah. Whatever,” I said, totally deflated.

“Awesome! See you later Mommy. Glad you remembered how to drive.” She got out of the car, slammed the door shut and waved as she rolled her backpack down the sidewalk.

Kids. They’re so self involved. It’s always Me, Me, Me.

I wonder where she gets it from. Oh yeah. Tommy.

Hey: Also, check me out over at AimingLow today. There’s a new story posted.

um, let’s say you walk in the living room to find your adorable 3 year old son with his pants down to his ankles, peeing on the coffee table–right on your favorite art book, presumably ruining it.

do you:

a. gasp, then clutch your chest in true fred sanford fashion.

b. applaud his efforts yelling, “bravo. bravo!”

c. critique his performance, pointing out the places he missed.

d. pretend you don’t notice what’s happening, u-turn, and head toward the wine cabinet.

or,

e. kill him with your bare hands.

after careful consideration, i chose option a. well, actually, it was my first reaction. i all but lost my faculties. and i couldn’t breathe. when he noticed me standing there convulsing and foaming at the mouth, he laughed and pointed at me, squealing, “mommy funny. mommy terning gween.”

i was finally able to catch my breath, help the man pull up his pants, then spent the next 30 minutes getting the vile urine (which strangely enough smelled like harvest spice potpourri) off the coffee table (well, the urine that didn’t soak into the wood–nice–it sucked it up like a sponge). the book? i’m afraid it fought a tough battle, but sadly, it never saw the enemy coming, so it never really had a chance.

and the man responsible for all this? is still pointing and laughing at me. and continues to dance around singing, “i got a penis,” while playing air guitar.

please send help.

try *teenager.*

ugh. can i just say that i loathe teenagers? and, unfortunately, i have expertise in the shark tank known as *teenager-dom.* and trust me, they all suck. and not like in a ‘oh, look, it’s a cute and cuddly post pubescent narcissist.’ no, it’s more like, someone grab me a rope and a pencil sharpener–this is going to be a doozy.

side note: ok, maybe i got a little carried away with the whole ‘pencil sharpener’ thing. really, i have nowhere to go with that. it’s just the first thing that came to mind. maybe i’m mcguyver? (and if you don’t know who mcguyver is, then you’re too young to be reading this blog)

so anyway, the latest episode in my “all teenagers are assholes” insight came this morning.

oy vey.

it’s no secret that our economy is in the toilet. BUT what might be a secret is this: neither tommy nor i have jobs. well, jobs that pay anyway. it IS a known fact that tommy sold his business over 2 years ago and has since been “retired” and i….well, i am just unemployed. basically i have no skills–except for my insane ability to master a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle in just under a week–but to date, it hasn’t paid off–monetarily–but inside, i feel like a million bucks.

where. can. i. cash. in. my. chips.

anyway, we live and die in the stock market. which, by the by, i TOLD tommy was a bad idea. whatever happened to stuffing your money in your mattress? huh? doesn’t sound like a cock-a-mamey idea now, does it? and that whole “what if your house burns down along with your mattress” thing? i got news for you people–our house hasn’t burned down yet. but the institution known as NASDAQ? well, that’s another nightmare altogether. can anyone say burning building?

so you know all those homeless people i serve at the shelter? all along you thought i did that because i’m a good person and all, but really, i do that because i’m trying to get to know my new neighbors. AND, i’m hoping that by working there i’ll get seconds when it’s triple cheeseburger night. (it all comes back to food–you notice that?)

we’re trying our best to cope in these difficult times. tommy sells his blood every four days, and well, i tried to sell mine but they told me i didn’t weigh enough. ok, so that’s not entirely true. the truth is i like my blood and prefer to keep it INSIDE my body. well, that and they ran out of cookies before it was my turn to go and i refuse (REFUSE!) to give blood and not get a cookie. i’m not a fucking idiot!

so tommy has been weak (from all the blood selling) and i’ve been cookieless and well, frankly, someone had to step up to the plate and stop the bleeding (pun absolutely intended). so i had this brilliant idea to sell my expensive car and get a less expensive, more teenager embarrassing type car. we might as well. we already have a prius, which about sent our 13 year old over the ledge when we announced its arrival. to this day she apologizes to her friends every time tommy picks her up from school in it.

oh man, do we laugh.

so i shared my idea with the older girls today, and their reaction was less than expected. no, scratch that. it’s exactly what you would expect…from assholes.

case closed.

need more proof? ok, so it went like this:

me: you know girls, times are tough. everyone is having to buckle down and tighten up. the whole world is contracting.

asshole #1: ooh. that’s gross.

me: what’s gross?

asshole #1: what you said about contracting. don’t say that.

me (sighing): what i’m trying to say is that i’m going to sell the range rover and get a more economical suv.

asshole #2: like what?

me: well, like the honda pilot. it’s a great car, we can all fit in it, and it gets decent gas mileage.

asshole #2: HONDA PILOT? OH MY GOD! SO WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TWO HIDEOUS CARS?

me (counting to 10 and then wishing the person who invented the whole counting to 10 thing would explode into like a billion pieces–IT DOESN’T WORK PEOPLE!): let me tell both of you this, right now. you suck. not only do you suck, but i wish you knew how much you actually sucked. but you know what? you can’t know that because you both suck and that’s your job–to suck. and i just have to deal with your suckiness…until you grow out of it…which won’t be soon enough…because you suck.

asshole #1: jeez mom, chill out. you’re so intense. we didn’t mean anything by it. fine. sell the car. just stop telling us we suck. jeez.

asshole #2 (crossing her arms across her chest and pouting): this is so embarrassing. are we out of money?

me: we? are WE out of money? i’m sorry. i wasn’t aware YOU had any. are you holding out on us?

asshole #2 (rolling her eyes now): you’re not funny.

asshole #1: so, am i getting a car for my 16th birthday or what?

and then somehow they both spontaneously combust. everywhere. little bits and pieces of assholishness spread like…little bits and pieces of assholishness…all over the floor. huh. weird. it seems counting to 10 doesn’t work, but wishing your teenagers would explode right before your eyes does.

oh great. now who’s going to clean up the mess on the floor?

…not with a baby! Jeez, you tell someone you’re pregnant and they immediately assume you mean you have a human growing in your uterus.

No worries here. I’m not going to give birth to another mini me anytime soon—or ever again. I shudder at the very thought of that. I mean, I don’t want the kids I’ve ALREADY birthed sometimes. What makes you think I would want another one? They’re not that cute!

So anyway, as I was saying, I’m pregnant…with overflowing emotions right now. I’m tired—scratch that—I’m exhausted. I’ve had the same headache for 3 weeks now. I’m fatigued, I’m weepy, and most days I haven’t the energy to do even the most menial of tasks. Hold the phone, it DOES sound like I’m pregnant with a baby. And I might even think it’s a possibility if A. Tommy hadn’t had a vasectomy THE DAY AFTER ETHAN WAS BORN!; or B. I wasn’t on my period right now (too much information?).

No, not pregnant. Maybe I have mono? Maybe I’m dying of some weird disease that makes you think you’re pregnant? Maybe the universe is about to exact its inevitable revenge against me?

Or maybe, I’m just tired. I do have four kids after all. And those four kids are involved in endless activities. During the day I might have time to sew that baby blanket or work a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, but come 2:30 I’m a slave to the people I once considered to be absolutely adorable. I mean I used to think these little creatures were little petit fours of ooey goodness that I hardly deserved. Now it’s clear, I’m getting exactly what I had coming to me. Call it the boomerang effect, or Karma. Whatever it is, it’s fucking annoying. And now I’m up to my earlobes in shit—which translates to soccer, field hockey, art class, gymnastics, and ballet.

I actually went to the doctor 2 days ago and had them do blood work to see if what afflicts me is real or just a figment of my overworked and underpaid imagination. I haven’t gotten the results of the blood tests yet, but I imagine they’ll tell me that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, followed with a hearty have a nice day, to which I will follow up with “suck it”—after I hang up the phone, of course.

I’m afraid my pregnancy is only the result of having too many things to do, places to be, people to please. Think I’m complaining? Well, hell yeah I’m complaining. Are you new? This is what I do. Deal with it. You’re just pissed that I’m not REALLY pregnant and you can’t point your fingers and laugh at me. Please, I’m not that big a schmuck.

I calculated the number of hours per week I’m in the car driving the crumb snatchers around. You want to know what that number is? 42 (42!) That’s 2,184 hours a year!

So really, it’s no wonder I’m tired.

Yesterday afternoon around 3 I was starving. So I called Mama’s pizza up the street and ordered 2 medium pizzas (1 sausage, 1 half pepperoni, half cheese), 2 dinner salads, and extra ranch dressing (we Texans eat our pizza with ranch dressing—you gotta try it). Then I stopped at the convenience store and picked up a 6-pack of beer. I went home, piled 3 slices on a paper plate, popped open a cold beer, sat on my bed and inhaled every bit of it. I had exactly 30 minutes before I had to be somewhere, so there was no time to waste. Just then I heard the back door open and it was Tommy. He saw the pizza buffet laid out on the counter and looked at me, puzzled.

“Are you having a late lunch? Or an early dinner?”

I tossed the empty beer bottle in the recycle bin and put the rest in the fridge for later. “I was starving, so I got a little afternoon snack.”

“Wow. Does this happen a lot? Maybe I should start coming home early more often.”

Please God, let him be joking.

“No, not all the time. Sometimes it’s cookies and milk. Sometimes it’s nachos. Sometimes it’s a happy meal from mickey d’s.”

His eyes widened. “You eat like this all the time?”

I guffawed and said, “Have you just met me? Of course I eat like this all the time. Why do you think I work out like a fiend?”

He lowered his head and then got a weird, worried look on his face. “Are you pregnant?”

I picked up my keys off the counter and walked towards the back door. He was watching me, waiting for my answer. I opened the door and yelled over my shoulder, “yes, but not with a baby.”

edit: first off, i’m so PISSED because i just spent the last HOUR of my life (time i will never get back thank you very much) writing today’s post and went to publish it and it disappeared from my screen. gone. vanished. like it never existed. so i can’t promise this version of it will be as good as the now forever gone version–but i’ll try to duplicate the emotion i poured into the first draft as closely as possible. IF i don’t throw this computer out the window first.

you know it’s a bad day when your kids’ art teacher greets you at the door with, “wow. having a rough day? are you feeling all right?” i half smile (thinking maybe i have some of my leftover lunch stuck between my teeth) and say, “no, just another thursday.”

the art teacher looks confused and says, “but isn’t it tuesday?”

i look down at the ground like maybe the answer is spray painted on the tile floor and say, “right, tuesday. that’s why we’re at art class today. because it’s tuesday.” i then bop myself on the forehead (like they do in the V8 commercial) but a little too hard because my head started hurting and i grimaced from the pain. the art teacher stood there and i could tell immediately that he was afraid for my kids’ safety. he looked me up and down once more and i followed his gaze. right. my clothes. when i left the house in the morning it was 56 degrees, so i put on gray sweat pants. now it was 85 degrees and i still had on my sweats. was i a little warm wearing sweatpants in 85 degree weather? yes, but i didn’t have time to change. my shoes were orange flip flops (i’m not even sure they’re mine–i think they’re presley’s–and they’re too big), my blue “no wine til i lose the behind” t-shirt. my greasy, unwashed hair was pulled up in a not-so-fashionable ponytail. clearly i was not pulling off the i-can-wear-anything-and-still-be-smokin-hot look. then i realized something else. i wasn’t wearing a BRA!

as the art teacher and i stood there in awkward silence (waiting for whatever kid i was there to get–for the life of me, i couldn’t remember), i retraced my journey. i had been to 4 different schools, the grocery store, the ups store, the bookstore, hobby lobby and the library–all without proper bosom support and wearing questionable homeless couture. side note: i’m sure the whole “homeless look” is all the rage in paris this fall, but in fort worth texas you can get a free hot meal wearing this get up.

the art teacher smiled at me again and i smiled back, but it was so bizarre. i wanted to get the hell out of there before i could embarrass myself any further. i folded my arms across my chest, hoping to make the fact that i forgot to put on a bra not so obvious.

the art teacher obviously had nothing else to say to me, so to kill time waiting for class to be dismissed i started naming as many types of fish as i could think of (in my head, of course–i’m quite certain that if you start calling out words like TROUT, BASS, SEA URCHIN without provocation, you might get your kids taken away from you–i can’t say that with 100 per cent certainty, but i think it’s a pretty good guess.

one thing became even more crystal clear–i shouldn’t be allowed out in public.

i kept thinking, what’s taking so long? where is that kid? who am i picking up anyway? and then harley (HARLEY! yes, that’s it! i came to get harley!) came running to the door showing off her clay model of what looked like a dog in heat. i saw the teacher’s pitiful gaze fall upon my third child and i knew then that he felt sorry for her. what, with a mother who will go around town looking like she just rolled out of the gutter and all. he said goodbye and i waved. we turned to leave and i motioned for harley to hurry and get in the car. i felt his eyes on me as i opened my car door and climbed inside. one thing was for sure–i was so going to be dinner conversation. he probably couldn’t wait to get home and discuss me over cocktails. dammit! i hate giving people material. still, i didn’t really know what was the big deal. wasn’t it much ado about nothing? so what if i was wearing sweatpants? so what if my shoes were plastic…and orange…and too big? so what if i “forgot” to put on a bra? europeans don’t wear bras. i could be european. in fact, i’m quite sure i am. just not directly. directly i’m from mississippi and indiana and….possibly some inbred community in tennessee–but that’s another story–and it’s adorable. BUT indirectly, i’m very european.

i pulled down the vanity mirror and gasped–and that’s when i figured it out. i knew then why the art teacher had asked if i’d had a rough day. it wasn’t my ensemble at all. it was the fact that i only had makeup on half my face. i had put eyeliner and mascara on only one of my eyes and it was quite obvious. and the makeup on that one eye had smeared, giving the impression that somewhere along the way things had taken a nasty turn. i looked so completely ridiculous that it was hard to look at myself in the mirror. i closed the mirror, turned around to face harley in the backseat and asked, “does something look different about me today?” maybe it wasn’t as bad as i thought. she made a face and said, “you mean because you only have makeup on one side of your face? AND because your outfit looks weird?”

ok, it was as bad as i thought.

so i’m the butt of the joke. what’s new? the only thing i’m pissed off about is that i’m not charging for my services. anybody need a completely ridiculous person to entertain your guests at your next party? pointing and laughing costs extra.

by the way–how many types of fish can YOU name? without cheating.

the first week of school, ethan refused to wear anything other than his “uniform” which consists of a long sleeve under armour shirt and black polyester warmup pants…in hundred degree heat. he calls this outfit his tennis clothes and we all play along. so basically i’m an enabler. whatever. the very first day of preschool the teacher looked at ethan’s ensemble and commented, “wow, aren’t you going to be hot in those clothes?” ethan looked down at himself and then at miss laura and said, “this my tennis cwos. i not take it off.” i smiled at the teacher and thought to myself he’s your problem til 1:30. i waved goodbye and wished her good luck before running out the door.

that week ethan would take the outfit off only so that i could bathe him, but then would hurriedly put his shirt and pants back on before someone could snatch them up and potentially try and wash or burn them (i vote burn). god forbid his clothes not smell like sour juice and 3 day old yogurt, or have suspicious looking marks on the sleeves (my guess, snot), and dirt on his pants from the playground. but most days i’m like, whatever dude.

most of you are probably cringing, mouths agape, judging me no less, but here’s the deal. he’s my 4th kid. when you have more than 3 kids you no longer sweat the small stuff. you can’t afford to–you would kill yourself. i mean seriously, everyone knows the first kid is mostly fucked. that’s your practice kid. no way that kid is going to be “normal” in the traditional sense of the word. since no manual on how to raise kids comes shooting out your va-jay-jay post placenta removal, what’s a mother to do? so the first kid becomes your experiment, aka guinea pig, and you cross your fingers and hope for the best. hey, i was a first born child and i totally turned out ok, right?

when the second kid arrives, you feel like maybe you know what you’re doing this time. you don’t make as many mistakes and you start to take the pressure off yourself. if you’re smart, you’ll stop there. 2 kids and you retain your sanity…mostly. BUT if you have to keep going, you better be ready to compromise your once very stringent rules and beliefs about parenting. cuz you’re about to get really super lazy.

by number 4, not only have you completely lost your mind, but now most things seem reasonable like, “you want to eat your cereal out of the dog’s bowl? ok, that sounds great.” and “son, be careful running into the street with those scissors!” and “you want to wear the SAME clothes 8 days in a row without washing them? i love that idea.”

see? it works.

then week 2, something happened. the long sleeve under armour shirt disappeared. no one is claiming responsibility, but i have a suspicion that it was harley. she’s brilliant. i haven’t questioned her, but a day after the shirt suddenly went missing (by the way, ethan cried for 4 hours straight when he couldn’t find the blasted shirt so i gave him a family size bag of m&ms. his poop was teal for the next 2 days) she suddenly appeared out of nowhere with his soccer shirt. yes, it’s true, the soccer shirt is back.

oy vey.

so now three weeks into school, his wardrobe has broadened much to the delight of his family and his teacher. he will wear a pair of camo pants, a pair of gray pants, a pair of sweat pants, and he rotates between the soccer shirt, his “nemo” shirt (which doesn’t have nemo on it–i’m just as stymied as you) and a shirt from the movie, cars. granted, he looks like he dresses himself and that’s because he does. and that’s all right with me.

the kicker? HE WEARS EVERYTHING BACKWARDS! his underwear, backwards, so it looks like he’s wearing a thong; his shirt, backwards; and his pants, backwards.

yeah, people stare, but whatever. strangers have actually stopped me in target and said, “did you know your son has his clothes on backwards?” i want to scream, “do i LOOK fucking retarded to you? of course i know his clothes are on backwards!” but i don’t. i just smile and say, “yes, thank you.” ugh. people drive me insane. but the ironic thing is that someone out there is probably blogging about the mother she saw in target who lets her kid wear his clothes backwards. she probably even feels sorry for me. well, just so you know, i feel sorry for me too.

we are making progress for sure. at least he’s wearing different clothes. granted, it’s the same rotation every couple of days, but we’re able to wash them free of snot stains and dried up food. one of these days maybe he will wear different clothes every day and god willing, not backwards.