So I was standing in my closet, getting dressed for the day.

I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and noticed they were tight. Like too tight to button. And naturally I convinced myself that I couldn’t button them because they had just been washed. You know, cuz jeans totally shrink when you dry them. I mean, it couldn’t have *anything* to do with the amount of calories I took in last week versus how many I put out.

That would be ridiculous.

And involves some form of math and we all know I’m terrible at math. But I’m pretty sure the results would be astoundingly depressing.

Anyway, I finally managed to get them fastened, then proceeded to do the whole bend and stretch routine to loosen them up a bit.

And that’s when I blew out the whole crotch. In rock star fashion.

Behold. The jeans that used to not be ripped in the crotch.

Just then Ethan walked in right as I was bent over, observing the damage.

He shook his head and said, “You’re going to need a really big band-aid.”

Agitated with myself, I unbuttoned my jeans, kicked them off, and threw them across the closet. They landed in the corner with a sad little thud.

Ethan watched in awe as I threw a mini tantrum.

He looked at the jeans and then back at me. “What’s the matter, Mama?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I’m too fat for my clothes right now. I ate too much last week.”

He looked at my half naked body and said, “You’re not fat, Mommy.”

I managed a smile. I mean he *is* the most adorable little man on the planet. “Thanks for saying that, E. You really don’t think I’m fat?”

“Well, maybe just a little bit.”

And then he ran out of the closet.

For sale: One adorable little boy who *may* or *may not* fully grasp the art of lying flattery.

PS. I would never eat a sandwich that my dog made me because I know for sure that he eats his own shit. What, you really think I’d eat something a *dog* made? I bet you think I’d eat out of the trash can too, huh. Oh, wait.

dear ungrateful children who call me mother,

i know it seems like i’m here to serve your every whim, but let me be the first to set the record straight.

i HAVE to take care of you. i don’t necessarily WANT to…all the time, or on weekends, or during prime time television. we all make sacrifices–get used to it.

if i don’t “meet your needs” then the state of texas will send you to live somewhere else and i will only get to visit on weekends. don’t tempt me.

but let’s clear up what the phrase “meet your needs” actually means…to me. and because i’m the oldest and the only one with a credit card and a driver’s license, my vote is the only one that counts.

you older ones text me regularly (while you’re supposed to be in class) and ask me to bring you lunch. not lunch like from taco bell, but lunch from the trendy sushi restaurant where every dish begins in the double digits. the only person who gets to spend $30 on lunch will be me. and i am smart enough to keep it from the husband. i certainly don’t need you coming home bragging to the big guy that mom brought you sushi. i can dig my own holes, thank you very much.

you also dump your laundry off in front of the washing machine as you’re flying out the door to go with your friends. in the past i’ve always put your smelly clothes in the machine, added the soap and turned it on–but no more. from now on, if you leave it there, it stays there, unwashed and molding. and here’s a question i need answering–why do your clothes smell like a boys’ locker room? you better not be going in there! boys are icky gross and usually have fungus on their feet–and on their…well, you know. do you want to get fungus? i’m just sayin.

now you little ones are no better. i do not want to wipe your butt, scratch your butt, or kiss your butt–so stop asking! i mean, your butt is smelly for obvious reasons, and why you want me to pay so much attention to it is a little unsettling. yes, e-man, i’m talking to you. i love that you love mommy, but i prefer to NOT scratch your butt. i will gladly scratch your back, but not at 2 in the morning. please stop waking me up.

i do not enjoy that you come in my room around 1am every night–to MY side of the bed, and poke me in the arm until i wake up. it’s a good way to get smacked. for all i know you’re a burglar–proceed with caution. my question is, what’s wrong with waking up your dad? why is it always me? if you want to sleep in our bed, go to the bottom, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep! see how simple that is? there’s no need to wake me up at all! climb in and shut up! no more poking. got it?

oh, you laugh middle schooler. but here’s what i have to say to you. you’re a beating. the day you turned 13 you became some other alien life force that i don’t even recognize anymore. you suck most days and your attitude is the absolute WORST! you seem to have a scowl permanently fashioned on your once pretty face and i got news for you—it ain’t attractive. i miss the girl who used to think i was the coolest mom on the planet. now i wish you would live somewhere else until you snap out of it. here’s a tip: uncross your arms and soften your ever furrowed brow and stop telling me i’m not funny. cuz i am funny and you know it.

littlest one, i adore you, you know that. but you changing your clothes 14 times a day is taking a toll on me. you tell me to pick out your outfit and then throw a fit when it’s not the one you want to wear. PICK OUT YOUR OWN CLOTHES! and stop obsessing about how your food is arranged on your plate. ps. i’m sorry your dad has messed you up. i had such high hopes for you. oh well, good luck in therapy.

aahhhhh, i feel so much better. please read this…memorize it…live it.

you’re welcome.

signed,
your loving mother

tommy hurt my feelings yesterday. we were leaving for a meeting with my new pr firm (they rock, by the way) and JOKINGLY i said, “well, if this writing/entertaining thing doesn’t work out, i can always go out and get a real job.

he chokes (unfortunately not to death) and then laughs and says, “doing what?”

i have to say i was quite offended. i have skills. i’m sure i have lots of them. and hopefully any second now i will be able to list them…yep….any second now.

ooh, i could be a taste tester. i love food and beverage items.

i could be a professional toilet paper inspector. i would go from house to house and business to business making sure that all the toilet paper rolls were installed properly.

i could be a handbag model. i LOVE handbags–especially ones that cost more than my car. i say, the more expensive the purse, the better it HAS to be, right? but that wouldn’t work because i would spend my entire paycheck on handbags. what am i saying? what’s wrong with THAT?

those are just a few of the many jobs i would be good at. and after reviewing these perfectly fine examples of career options, let’s all keep our fingers crossed that the entertaining thing works out. i don’t really want to be a toilet paper inspector.

so i pouted a little and gave tommy the cold shoulder all the way to the meeting. why does he think he’s so smart anyway? he MAKES up companies to be in charge of that never even existed before. it’s not like that’s anything special. if he didn’t dream them up in that kooky brain of his, he’d be out of a job because the “job” didn’t exist before he made it up. what’s so special about that? at least taste tester and handbag model are REAL careers.

after the meeting i was too excited to be angry anymore, so i let him off the hook.

he dropped me off at the house so i could get my car so i could commence operation “my life sucks because i have four kids at four different schools!”

after picking up the 4th kid, we headed toward home. then something happened that was a first for me. call it baptism by urine. ethan shouted out that he was about to pee his pants. aha! i knew exactly what to do. he has a penis. and a penis can fit inside a bottle, right? so i yelled for someone to find an empty one on the floor. side note: you can always without fail find an empty gatorade or water bottle in my car. i’m not braggin, i’m just sayin. so anyway, i was handed a half full bottle of gatorade which i proceeded to pour out the window. i then threw it in the backseat at my 14 year old and said, “here you go, stick his pee pee in there!” unfortunately she’s my sensitive gag reflex child, but because of the serious nature of the unfolding events (which translates to me yelling, “if you don’t do this he will pee his pants and YOU will not only clean him up, but also my car!”) she sprung into action and helped the little man pee in a bottle while driving down the road for the very first time. i know. i was proud too.

the downside? for some reason today my car smells like urine.

so back to the story. after everyone was home, i began helping my 9th grader with a project that is due friday and isn’t it adorable that we’ve waited til the 11th hour before beginning. no surprises there. but being the sort of control freak that i am, i basically shoved her out of the way and molded the clay version of the exodus into israel myself–complete with the waters parting and moses standing on the rock, staff in hand. i was so focused on getting everything exactly the way i envisioned it that when i finally looked up, i realized i was the only one sitting at the table. i hope i get a good grade on it. it’s definitely an A in my book.

i had to tear myself away from the parting of the red sea project to take kids A and B (i think i’ll start referring to them by the order in which they were born by the letter in the alphabet that coincides with that number–it’s much easier than having to type their names, don’t you think?) to soccer practice. then i raced home, threw dinner together and asked tommy to bathe kids C and D. i needed to get back to my school (i mean kid A’s) project.

twenty minutes later i wondered what could be taking so long with bathtime. first, just let me say that tommy sat down at 6 (i brought his dinner TO him) and never got up again. gravity is a wicked, wicked thing when it comes to his mobility in the evenings. it’s like there’s some magnetic force holding him in that position. i wonder if he’d be able to get up if the house was on fire…or say if i was coming at him with a butcher knife. i may have to try that second thing for research purposes. the only thing i asked him to do was supervise the little kids. well, that didn’t go according to plan. i walked in to find the bathroom flooded and harley spraying ethan with the shower nozzle.

i glared at tommy (who was so fucking engaged in whatever tv show he was watching, had no idea any of this was going on. i could have been naked and sawing off my appendages and he wouldn’t have noticed). i contained the water, dried off the little ones and huffed as i walked past tommy. minutes later i was thrilled to see that it was bedtime. i was so tired, but was going to have to leave to pick up kid A from soccer practice so i couldn’t relax just yet. i went to tommy and pleaded, “will you lie down with kids C and D and read to them?”

he made a tired face and said, “you know, nighttime is not good for me.”

yeah, nighttime is good for NOBODY except VAMPIRES. and you having the blood sucked out of your body doesn’t sound like such bad idea right about now.

but did i emote these feelings? did i SAY what i was thinking? NOPE. i patted him on the head and trudged off to meet my awaiting fate–to read count with elmo for the one millionth time.

this is the suck that is my life.

but wait, that’s not the end of the story. there is a silver lining. kid A found a ride home from soccer practice so i did get to enjoy a little pinot grigio. silver lining part 2: ethan crawled in bed with us around 3:30 and peed all over tommy’s side of the bed. score!

i’m such a loser. and no, i didn’t just figure this out. i’ve known it for some time, but i kept thinking that i could fake out everyone (including myself) if i just *appeared* cool.

ugh.

the writing community is a tough crowd to win over–and trying to become a member of the group is the worst! it’s like trying to hang out with the popular kids while wearing the clothes you got at goodwill. i keep smelling my armpits. maybe i have b.o?

i’m supposed to be writing a new book. i told myself when school started i would sit down in front of my computer for 4 hours a day until it was finished. know what i did last week? i worked a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. yeah, i’m THAT girl.

today’s a new day. today’s the day i will finally sit down and begin writing. but what about? i have several ideas. i need someone to tell me what to do. there’s the young adult novel i have outlined called poppy marlow. or there’s the book of short stories that’s like a memoir. or i could write another fiction novel–of which i have no story.

but knowing me, this is how this day will go down. i’ll exercise, shower (by the way, haven’t showered in 2 or 3 days–most likely DO have b.o), and then make up shit to do so that i won’t have to write. maybe i’ll organize my side of the closet. it’s pretty bad. it definitely needs some attention. ooh, ethan doesn’t have school today. maybe i could take him to chuck e cheese.

side note: see how badly i don’t want to write? i’m offering to take ethan to the place i loathe most. do you know how bad that place smells? it’s totally disgusting. the only thing it had going for it was that they served beer (past tense). sigh. do you hear my cry for help? i need an intervention.

ok. i’m going to force myself to write today. i know that once i get started it will pour out of me so fast that my fingers won’t be able to type as fast as my brain is thinking. and i will officially be out of my funk.

side note: isn’t the word “funk” the weirdest word on the planet? it’s so bizarre that any time i use it, i stare at it and wonder how is that even a word? funk, funk, funk, funk, funk…see? weird.

side note: i think my dog just farted. oh god, the smell.

so that’s it. i’m going to begin the writing process today, no ifs, ands, or buts.

BUT, i just bought a new puzzle and i’m dying to start it. maybe i’ll just work on it for a few minutes and then i’ll seriously get serious about writing.

oh my god, my dog just farted again. i think i might vomit.

it’s called, what one word best describes your mate?

i’ll go first. my word is…

CLUELESS!

heh. try and beat THAT! c’mon, i dare you.