it appears my laptop has crashed. and like everything else where i’m concerned, she has crashed in the most dramatic fashion. (cough, attention whore)

but really, if you’re going to go down, go down big, right? that’s always been my motto.

i don’t know what happened. i thought we were happy. i thought we had an understanding. every day for the last 2 years, i’ve sat down in front of nelly (that’s the name i gave her–the tv is telly–my stomach i call belly–the jam for my toast, jelly–i think you get the gist) with some sort of liquid beverage: in the morning, coffee; noon time, coke zero; evening, really must i say it? and stroked her keyboard til my heart’s content.

(i don’t know how i did it, but i just made using a computer sound like a cheap porno. i’ve never even watched porn on my nelly. ok, there was that one time but i couldn’t help it. midgets doing it is funny and those midget porn producers target weirdos like me. but that’s it, i promise.)

so anyway, i sat down sunday afternoon to, you know, do my business, and that’s when it happened. i powered her on (foreplay) and then instead of showing me the world, she gave me the middle finger in the form of a blue screen with this error:

unmountable boot volume

(who’s the perv now?)

unmountable? surely you jest.

boot volume? i’m not even wearing boots! and she’s never complained about the volume before. i’m loud. is this new?

the woman has gone mad. MAD i tell you!

i shut the top, paced the room, and then sat down in front of her again. “nelly,” i said, my voice quivering. “i’m sorry. whatever it is i did to upset you i’m sorry. please forgive me. i’m a schmuck. an insensitive, reckless, unappreciative schmuck. please say you forgive me. i need for us to be ok. are we ok? c’mon nelly, talk to me. show me the goods, er, i mean, you know i love you, don’t you?”

i opened her up again, rebooted, and got the same blue screen.

unmountable boot volume

“oh yeah, well fuck you too!”

and then i just walked away.

we haven’t spoken since. my stomach is in knots. i haven’t been able to sleep. i’ve really done it this time.

i thought we could get past anything. we’d been through so much already. there was the time that the e-man plucked off 17 keys from her keyboard. it was horrific. she looked so naked. she was so ashamed she wouldn’t even look at me. she had a keyboard transplant and was as good as new. then there was the time he (the same culprit) decided to pour an entire bag of sugar on her keyboard. you could hear her cries throughout the neighborhood (or maybe that was me) as i vacuumed and wiped and vacuumed some more.

but we made it.

and now this.

i picked up the phone and dialed the doctor, aka the computer guy. when i told him what was going on he audibly gasped and said, “ooh, that’s not good at all.”

desperately i shouted, “can you save nelly? er i mean, my non-living computing device for which i don’t have an unhealthy attachment to at all? huh, can you?”

he said, “i’ll be there in 30.”

true to his word, dr computer fix it man arrived, stethoscope and enema in hand.

(i made up the part about the enema. i threw that in there for tommy. he’s an old fashioned guy who grew up believing that a little pill up the bunghole cures all. sore throat? enema. sprained ankle? enema. cut your finger using a tomato knife? enema. frankly, the man is obsessed with them. maybe i should be writing less about my laptop and more on this subject? stay tuned)

i handed him nelly and said, “be gentle with her, kind sir.”

this time when i looked at him he wasn’t wearing his street clothes, but a red polyester footed bodysuit with matching cape. and patriotic music was coming from somewhere. it was weird.

his eyes sparkled, he smiled and winked at me, and then broke out in song. i don’t remember all the words to it, but basically it was about how he was going to make her better, make her happy again.

was it wrong to make out with him in the middle of my kitchen while ethan was pulling on my leg asking for yogurt? i didn’t think so either.

a few minutes later, i walked them both to the door. i stood there, said goodbye and then a single tear rolled down my cheek. i wiped it away and watched as they climbed in his ford mustang together.

funny, every guy who has ever fixed a computer of mine drives a ford mustang. what gives?

be well nelly! come home soon!

ugh, i’m sick. i feel terrible. my throat hurts so bad that every time i swallow it’s as if i’m swallowing nails.

i was achy, but not so much today. that’s good because aches, pains, and kids don’t mix well. they see me lying in the bed and they immediately assume i’m unconditionally available to fulfill every wish/whim/*need*.

so no, i don’t feel like i’m dying anymore, but i’m not exactly jumping for joy either.

yesterday i woke up feeling awful. and it was NOT the day for it. i was scheduled to appear and perform (it seems there are no limits to my functionality–i can do it all) at an event in dallas. i had to be there all day. and when i say all day, i literally mean ALL DAY. i shared my pain with tommy and he patted me on the head, fetched me 4 advil and said, “keep your chin up. just think, you’ll be home by midnight.” it was 9am. so i put on my big girl pants, slammed an energy drink and headed to dallas. thank god i was being paid well to do this.

it wasn’t midnight when i got home. it was 1:30 this morning. don’t ask. i collapsed in the bed and just as i was drifting off to sleep, ethan woke up with a raging ear ache and swollen limph nodes in his neck. i searched the medicine basket for motrin and found only the empty box. there was no bottle in sight. why exactly would i keep the box? to torture myself when i need medicine for the children only to find there is none? i’m such the trickster. too bad the only person i’m psyching out is me.

i tried convincing ethan to swallow an advil, but he kept spitting it out and yelling, “that’s lucky!” side note: ethan says “lucky” for “yucky” and “yucky” for “lucky.” don’t ask me, i have no idea what that’s about. it’s pretty funny when he says, “mommy, i’m a yucky boy.” i always say, “yep, sometimes you are.” he likes that answer.

anyway, so no go on the whole swallow a pill idea.

plan b. wait until 6am for the grocery store to open. you might ask, “what, no 24 hour drug store near you?” yes, there are several, but i was exhausted, ill, and not thinking clearly. in my present state of mind it seems to be the logical solution, but that option didn’t enter my brain space at 3am.

ethan fell asleep in my arms and i tried sleeping myself, but i couldn’t. i was holding him in an awkward position on the sofa and my head was cockeyed and i was generally uncomfortable. i hate that i’ve set up such strict parameters for sleeping. dark. fan blowing on me. quiet. positioned on left side. cool. 2 pillows–one between my legs, one for my head. i probably shouldn’t go camping anytime soon–or ever. and i probably shouldn’t go to africa. don’t you think all the jungle animals would keep me up at night? and i imagine there’s no air conditioning–or pillows.

at six o’clock on the dot, i got up, trying not to wake ethan, but my plan backfired. not only was he awake and crying, but he wanted to go to the store with me. fine. why not. 5 minutes later, we were picking out children’s pain reliever. i tore into the box before i even paid for it. ethan chewed the tablets and i felt relief in the form of acetaminophen. he’d be asleep soon and hopefully feeling better. and maybe i could go to sleep too.

ethan was out before we left the parking lot of the store.

and me? i never went to sleep. i took the e-man to the doctor (i love that my pediatrician’s office is open on the weekends!) and i was right–he has a double ear infection.

he seems to be feeling better. i, on the other hand, am not doing so well. my throat is sore. did i mention it feels like i’m swallowing nails when i swallow?

i see a big nap in my future today. but only if my kids will let me.

hey, go HERE and read this review of my book.

and then please go HERE and buy my book if you haven’t yet. pretty please? i don’t ask for much. besides you know you want to! if you’re a guy, buy it for your woman, or your mom. and if your woman IS your mom, then you might want to seek professional help. oh, and the book would make a fabulous christmas gift. (or hanukkah or kwanzaa–we don’t discriminate here)

i will even personally wrap it for you*

*not really. i’m totally lying.

all i wanted was the day off.

it started out ok. it was early morning. everyone was asleep and i decided to catch up on the few episodes of oprah i’d missed. i was 10 minutes into last friday’s show when tommy came in the room and said, “wanna go to breakfast with me?”

“what do you mean? i asked.

“i mean, let’s throw on some clothes and go eat breakfast.”

“with everyone?”

“no. just us.”

i looked at the television screen and then back at tommy. a good wife would turn off the tv, put on clothes and go eat with her husband.

i hate being the good wife.

so i put my clothes on and we drove to the restaurant to eat. we ordered our food and food to go for our 4 sleeping children we’d left at home.

we had a nice time. of course i was in a hurry to get back. after i was finished eating, i pushed away my plate and gathered my things. i hadn’t meant to be so blatant about it, but i wanted to resume ‘dia de la slug’ and this was cutting into it.

i looked up and tommy was still eating. “you in a hurry?” he asked.

i put my stuff back down on the booth and said, “no. take your time.”

so he did. we talked and talked. i could tell he really wanted to engage in conversation. it had been about a week since we’d done that. after 30 minutes of catching up with each other, he asked, “you ready to go?”

so we drove back home to find all four kids lying in our bed, watching cartoons.

chaos ensued when they saw us and they jumped off the bed and yelled, “finally! our food’s here!”

from there i started the laundry, emptied the dishwasher, helped the e-man change into yet another outfit, and prepared yogurt surprise for 4 different people.

it was only 9am.

around 10, tommy handed me a sheet of paper. i looked at it and then back at him. it was some sort of menu. at the top it read, BREAKFAST OPTIONS.

i won’t type the whole menu here because my head might explode, but i’ll give you a sampling:

• 1 cup of quinoa, rinsed and drained
• 2 cups plain almond milk
• 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
• pinch of sea salt of koser salt
• 2 medium peaches or 1-1/2 cup of frozen peaches
• 2 tablespoons of flax seed (ground)
• 2 tablespoons of chopped hazelnuts

so i looked at my beloved, somewhat confused, and said, “what’s this?”

“these are some options of what i’d like to eat every day.”

i handed him back the menu and said, “good for you.”

he pushed the menu back towards me and said, “that copy is yours.”

what the….?

“why do i need a copy? i’m not eating that. i can’t even pronounce some of the things on that menu. what the heck is a quinoa anyway?”

he seemed to be getting annoyed. “no, it’s for you so you can know what i would like for you or patricia to make me to eat.”

try not to kill him. it’s dia de la slug, remember? if you kill him then there’s more than likely going to be blood, then a huge mess and then there will be NO time whatsoever to watch oprah. try and remain calm.

he cocked his head sideways and asked, “is this ok? can you do this for me?”

be the good wife. be the good wife. be the passive aggressive martyr. oops. be the good wife.

“sure,” i managed to say behind gritted teeth and clenched fists.

and that event seemed to change the course of dia de la slug for me. it just wasn’t the same after that. i kept thinking, “when am i going to have time to run if i’m preparing alien food? where am i going to find these obviously made up ingredients? why is quaker instant oatmeal–peach flavored, no doubt–not good enough?

an hour later, the kids were yelling that they were hungry again. by now it was 11. and all i really wanted now was for dia de la slug to be over with. i trudged back in the kitchen, made queso, heated up leftover pizza, doled out numerous yogurts and cut up strawberries.

it was also the day that ethan pooped every hour. i was constantly in the bathroom with him wiping his butt. after every poop, he’d change clothes. it was exhausting.

in the afternoon, the older girls had soccer practice. it was also my turn to pick up other players. on the way, my 13 year old called me and said, “mom, i forgot i have to bring a historical fiction book to school tomorrow or i’ll get a zero.”

great.

“give me some titles of some books,” i said.

“i don’t have the sheet of paper.”

“then how are we going to get the right book?”

“i’ll call a friend.”

good. because i could feel the blood seeping out of my eyes.

i dropped off the girls at soccer, drove home, picked up my 8th grader and then we headed to the bookstore. i refused to go inside. i hadn’t showered or bothered washing my face or my hair. i handed her my credit card and told her to hurry. 15 minutes later she came back to the car without a book.

“what happened?”

“there were like no books left. like every other kid from my school were like in there.”

side note: middle schoolers say “like” way too much.

so i told her to call the other barnes and noble. she did. no go. i told her to try borders. no luck. we drove back home and she got on the phone and was able to find the book she needed. it was at the downtown barnes and noble. it was also time to pick up the girls from soccer. so we raced downtown. i circled the block while she ran inside and then my 14 year old called and said, “mom, where are you? practice is over.” i didn’t mean to, but i yelled, “hold your god damn horses–we’ll be there in a minute!” she said, “ok, mom, sorry..” and before she could say anything else, i hung up the phone.

these people and their needs. i was so over it.

finally, after dropping off the girls that didn’t belong to me at their houses (which came after going thru the drive thru at sonic for milkshakes and also picking up dinner for my family from the mexican restaurant) we pulled in my driveway. it was 6pm.

dia de la slug hadn’t exactly turned out the way i’d planned.

ethan was whining from not having a nap. he followed me around the house crying. harley was complaining that she was starving and she wasn’t thrilled with what i’d brought home for her to eat. tommy entered the room then and said, “what’s going on?” both kids turned on me then. they whined, cried and complained to him. (this is where it gets good) he looked at me and said, “why don’t you give them what they need. YOU’RE THEIR MOTHER and it seems like their needs are not being met.”

i swear to god i had to literally will my body not to thrust forward at him, thus punching him in his ward cleaver like face.

“I BEG YOUR PARDON!?!? THEIR NEEDS ARE NOT BEING MET? WHICH ONES? WOULD THAT BE THE ONE WHERE I WIPE ETHAN’S BUTT 3 TIMES BECAUSE HE INSISTS I’M NOT GETTING ALL THE POOP OFF? OR WOULD IT BE THE ONE WHERE HE SCREAMS AT ME BECAUSE I CAN’T PULL THAT THIRD PAIR OF PANTS OVER THE OTHER TWO HE’S ALREADY WEARING? OR WOULD IT BE THE ONE WHERE I PREPARE EVERY FOOD ITEM IN THE HOUSE AND IT STILL ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH? WOULD IT BE…”

he waves his hands in front of my face and cuts me off saying, “alright, i get it.”

but i was on a roll. “tommy, you have no idea what all i do or have done–just today. sometimes i feel so unappreciated.”

“so do i,” he snapped.

well, i’d just about heard it all.

but i didn’t want to fight with him. i wanted to punch him, but i didn’t want to fight with him.

so I apologized and left the room before i changed my mind and kicked his ass. oh, you laugh, but i could have. i had my mojo working overtime.

i went in the kitchen, poured a tall glass of red wine, and went in the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. ethan ran in the room, peeled off his clothes and said, “we can play my toys in the bathtub.” so we did.

all i wanted was the day off.

oh well, i’ll try again next sunday.

the other day i was with nazi trainer. we’re not working out together anymore–now he works on the various parts of me that are strained/tight/hurting. apparently there is such a thing as working out too much. so he’s taken it upon himself to *fix* me. oh, also he thinks the name ‘nazi trainer’ no longer applies and would like a new nickname. after a couple of sessions with him working on my various muscle groups, i think the name ‘torture specialist’ fits. but you know it just doesn’t roll off the tongue like nazi trainer, so i’m inclined to keep calling him that.

i was lying on the table and he pressed into my side.

“YOWZA!”

“does that hurt?”

“um, yeah, like a mo-fo.”

he laughs and presses harder. “how’s that?”

“well now i feel gassy. like i need to…you know.”

“oops. i’m pushing in the wrong place then.” moves hand an inch down. “how’s that?”

“OUCH! sweet jesus that hurts.”

“be quiet and breathe.”

“i can’t.”

“breathe!”

“i can’t. it hurts too much. why do you hate me?”

“BREATHE!”

i inhale. pain. i exhale. pain. but after a few more breaths, the searing pain lessens. i can relax again. then he moves more to the left. stabbing pain, stabbing pain, stabbing pain. i fight the urge to cry out your mother is satan’s life coach! he releases his deathgrip on my side and moves toward my head. side note: nazi trainer would say it was hardly a deathgrip. in fact, he would go on to say that if he was trying to hurt me, he could kill me with his thumb. (me, rolling my eyes).

so now he’s got his fingers pressed on both sides of my jaw. my eyes begin to water from the pain.

“jeez, shauna, your jaw muscles are the tightest i’ve ever felt on someone.”

“i bet you say that to all the girls.”

he laughs and says, “so, you say you’re a buddhist right?”

“well, i’m officially nothing, but i’d like to think of myself as zen-like.”

“then you’re the most stressed out buddhist i’ve ever known.”

ignoring his comment i say, “isn’t the dalai lama the cutest, sweetest man you’ve ever seen. he’s seems so peaceful.”

“yeah, and i would bet anything he doesn’t clench his jaw either. you should try meditating.”

“meditating is for people who have nothing to do. i’m busy.”

“you’re not a buddhist.”

“and you have extremely long nose hair.”

presses harder on my jaw.

“YYOOOWWWW!! MOTHER FU…..”