My shoe fetish...

... is an odd one.

Because it's not women's shoes that evoke longing in me.

It's my kids' old, ratty, outgrown ones. Like Tootie's first pair of "walking" shoes. Or the E-man's dirty little tennis shoes. Or both kids' crumbling sandals from summers past.

My dark secret — I have never yet given or thrown away a single pair of their shoes.

Instead, they're stacked on shelves in the children's closets, tucked into baby boxes or clustered in a heap on my own closet floor.

Silly, I know. It's just that each tiny pair holds so many memories:

The E-man's former double life, during which he walked at daycare, yet still crawled at home.

The Tootie's insistence on wearing her grubby, too-small sandals in 30-degree weather.

The hot pink cowboy boots, now scuffed and torn, a reward for Tootie when she finally agreed to give all her pacifiers to the Mee-Mee Fairy (who distributes old "mee-mees" to the younger babies in need of them — heh).

I remember laying in bed that winter morning, listening to her squeals when she found her fairy-delivered boots. And laughing when I heard the awkward clomp-clomp that followed.

It's been more than a year since Tootie could cram her feet into those boots. But every time I spot them on her closet floor, I smile, remembering the toddler who marched so proudly up and down the hallway in her cowgirl attire.



And then my heart hurts, just a little.

OK, so newspapers may not be around...

...by the time he's old enough to write (or shoot photos) for one, but at least the kid shows some interest in that which currently keeps his parents employed.

Or maybe he hates my reporting and thinks Daddy's pictures suck. Who knows what sort of criticisms drift through that agile mind as he peruses our day's work? (ha.)

Electrical warfare

I love light. Crave it. Need it.

Which is why, when I get up each morning, the first thing I do is pull up the blinds or throw open the curtains — on the few windows that actually have blinds or curtains, that is.

In the evening, I turn on all the lamps AND the overhead light.

The Hubs, on the other hand, can be found cooking in a darkened kitchen, using only the bulb above the stove to see what he's doing — which could account for the frequently too-rare meat. (I don't mind pink. It's the texture of red that bugs me.)

I'm sure the children remain in constant confusion — one minute they're basking in sunshine or comforting lamplight, and then, as soon as Daddy walks in, they suddenly find themselves in a freaking gloomy hobbit-hole.

Most couples fight over the thermostat. Hubs and I argue over light-bulb wattage.

In the weeks after Tootie's birth, the weather here in Arkansas went to absolute shit. Day after day, I got up to clouds, rain, sleet, ice or snow. Day after day, I drifted through the house, clutching my newborn and a roll of toilet paper. You know, for the sobbing. The endless, drenching sobbing.

"I just need the sun!" I wailed to Hubs each time I called the newsroom. "It's so dark!" ... gasp, sob, choke ...

Finally, I fled to my home state of Texas, where I spent the rest of my maternity leave soaking up light in glorious, glorious Hill Country sun.

By the time the E-man arrived, we were living (briefly) in San Antonio. So that maternity leave was basically one long, hot day. I am, however, one of those people who will happily sweat in exchange for a little serotonin.

That's why, even as we near July, this remains my favorite time of year here in Arkansas. Sun, sandals — or, better yet, bare feet. Even with mosquitoes, mono and temps in the 90s, life is good.




Oh, yeah, and God bless anti-depressants. Just a random bit of advice: Going off your meds in late November? So not a good idea.

Am overcome ...

... not by the evil mono virus, (although it's still kicking my butt) but by the linky love from This Eclectic Life and then this:



from Oh, the Joys.

Thanks so very much! Of course, because I was a leeetle behind in my blog-browsing, all the people I would have nominated have, well, already been nominated.

So I did the next best thing and finally updated my blogroll to reflect the blogs I read on a daily basis. Except, of course, when suffering from illness or hypochondria.

... and, while I sent an email to Shelly thanking her for this —



— I neglected to do so here (I know, I know, I hail from Texas and yet still no manners)...

Mommy has mono

... yet further evidence of my dorkdom. Because, really, who gets mono at age 37?

Yes, it's better than the dreadful Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, but still ... how ridiculous.

I mean, mono is supposed to be a childhood illness.

Or, back in the day, something that struck the cool kids in high school, allowing them to stay home for six weeks watching MTV while their classmates bickered over who would be the lucky soul to deliver that day's homework to the ailing basketball star.

So on Friday afternoon, when the nurse called to tell me the mono test had come back positive, I snickered.

"You're kidding, right?"

Oh, no, she assured me. Mono it is.

And apparently, despite having suffered from this stupid relentless virus since Memorial Day, I'm told it could last another FOUR WEEKS. Lovely.

When I told Hubs, his first question was, "How do you get it?"

"Well, remember, this is the one they used to call the kissing disease," I said. "So you've already been exposed. There's nothing you can do about it now."

Pause.

"No," he said. "I'm asking, 'How did YOU get it?'"

I stammered.

He laughed.

I'm quite sure it's yet another ailment the little stinkers have brought home from day care. Like the 72-hour stomach bug the E-man ever so generously shared right before I left to cover New Orleans' first post-Katrina Mardi Gras.

That time, I landed in New Orleans' makeshift ER, a tent city housed in the city's convention center. Despite my misery, I couldn't help but notice the number of young, spectacular-looking doctors and nurses. Or perhaps it was the Phenergan that turned the ER crew into something resembling the Gray's Anatomy cast.

Which brings me to this --

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that most of the doctors we see now are our contemporaries?

Friday, my doctor and I got to talking about the annviersary of Princess Di's death and where we were and he mentioned med school -- and after some quick calculating, I realized there is a distinct possibility that this guy is younger than I am.

Fresh-faced, peppy doctors and mono.

Really, I'm too old for all this.

And am just now realizing I took 12 days of vicious, "cleansing" antibiotics for naught.

Oh, that crafty, crafty Cathy

At Lindsay of Suburban Turmoil's urging, I headed over here for a little fun with anagrams.

On entering my name, I got this: "Hey! Crafty."

Now if one means crafty in the street-smart, clever sort way, well, yeah, sure, I'll run with that.

But "crafty" as involving Hobby Lobby, glue guns and the like?

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

I am the woman who hot-glue-gunned her hair to a Christmas-tree ornament. People like me are reason that most things can be bought ready-made.

My lack of interest in arts & crafts never was a problem until --

-- I enrolled my eldest in daycare.

In October 2004, when Tootie was a mere 20 months old, I found a little note in her cubby asking all parents to "help their child" decorate a pumpkin for a Halloween contest.

Hey, this kid still eats her crayons and you want me to offer her a pair of scissors and some Elmer's glue?

Whatever. I bought a pumpkin, some construction paper and stickers, and "we" made a hula dancer. How clever, I thought. How crafty!

Then I arrived at the daycare and -- I kid you not -- some of the other kids' pumpkins were wearing outfits.

Picture it: Dressed-up, glammed-up pumpkins with teeny handmade clothes made by mothers, who, presumably also had full-time jobs.

The Tootie could have cared less. I, however, was humiliated, and I vowed right there, in front of a Cinderella pumpkin wearing a sequined ball gown, that the next project would be different.

And then came the request -- no, the demand -- that the parents, again working with their 2-year-old would-be Mini-Michelangelos -- make shoebox floats for a parade.

What the hell?

So I called my friend, Amy, who refers to herself as the blue-collar Martha Stewart.

"Hey, have you ever heard of shoebox floats?" I asked, reading aloud the latest note.

"Hmmmm..." Amy replied, aleady scouring Internet sites.

She started laughing. Hysterically.

"You should see these things," she cackled. "This might be beyond your ability."

I pulled up a few of the websites and groaned. Shoebox floats are little parade floats -- made from shoeboxes, duh -- designed to be pulled by small children.

And these -- these were quite elaborate. Some of them had actual wheels. The pumpkin-outfitting mothers would have a field day with this.

After some initial panic, I proposed making a float that resembled a wedding cake.

"OK," Amy said.

And then she rattled off a list of what I needed. Unfortunately, by the time she got to tacky glue and decoupage, I was hopelessly lost.

"Can't I just spraypaint it?" I asked.

"Oh, well, yeah, sure," she said, somewhat doubtfully.

This time, Hubs was there to bear witness to my efforts. "Um, why don't I help you?" he suggested. And, after much spraying, gluing and bickering, we finished our shoebox float.

The Tootie, by this point, had been asleep for two hours.

By now, the Hubs and I had learned our lesson. So when we found the note in the cubby about making an animal costume for the annual Christmas pageant -- well, we skipped the pageant.

There have been no such assignments in recent years. A pity, really, because now that the Tootie's older, she can do her own arts & crafts.

And when they look like something created by a 4-year-old ... well, that's because this time, they really were.

Ingredients for a Romantic Vacation

(Bearing in mind that the last time Hubs and I left town together — alone — was April 2006.)

So, back to what makes for luurrve in Denver:

1.) One hideous case of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever/Hantavirus/Bubonic Plague (no test results yet, so the disease du jour is determined via frequent Googling of all illnesses spawned by blood-sucking bugs and/or rodents)

2.) One bottle of nasty blue pills that make me feel as though someone has scrubbed down my entire digestive tract with a bottle of Clorox.

3.) Multiple anxiety attacks because the in-laws are staying at our house to care for the children. ("Will my mother-in-law rummage through my nightstand, thereby discovering the Marital Drawer 'O Fun?" or "Did I drop enough not-so-subtle hints that they are NOT allowed to drive the children anywhere unless said offspring are buckled into their respective car seats rather than stuffed into the back of my father-in-law's pickup truck?")


And then this, Saturday morning, at our Denver hotel:

"Ow! Ow! Oh, shit! Hey, help!"

Hysterical laughter and sobbing ensues.

Yes, the lower back, MY lower back — the one weakened in recent years by hauling around enough baby gear to outfit a Toddler Trek to the base camp of Mt. Everest — picked this most inauspicious time to rebel.

Still, in spite of the nausea, back spasms and Hubs' stressing out over photographing the wedding of longtime friends, we still had a good time.

Although, perhaps some of us should have refrained from mixing champagne and other assorted drinks with our Clorox meds.

One glass —



And two —



And three —




Is this dancing? A back spasm? Another symptom of tick-borne illness?

You decide.

Marital discord, with a dash of humor

SCENE: Our home, just before the children's bedtime.

TOOTIE: Mommy! Now you be the Tickle Monster!

CATHY: Mommy can't be the Tickle Monster, sweetie. Mommy's sick. Mommy has a tick-bourne disease.

Loud, rude snort from Hubs.

HUBS: You do NOT have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

CATHY: I didn't say I had Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. The doctor did. I hadn't even considered a parasitical sort of infection. I thought maybe I had a brain aneurysm.

HUBS: He ordered a blood test.

CATHY: Yes, and he also gave me antibiotics.

HUBS: He's covering the bases.

CATHY: I have all the symptoms...

HUBS: Yeah, once he said that might be what it was. Then you had all the symptoms.

CATHY: I didn't even know what the symptoms were. It's been at least six or seven years since I last Googled tick-related illnesses. Like, before we were even married.

HUBS: (Spluttering) You want to have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Because then you'll finally be able to say that you really had something. You are reveling in this.

CATHY: I am NOT reveling. I am ill. I merely feel vindicated.

Now we will pause so that, in my defense, I can share the details of today's visit to the doctor.

NURSE: So, what seems to be the problem?

CATHY: Well, I'm not really sure. I just know that I'm sick.

NURSE: Could you be more specific?

CATHY: OK, well, on Memorial Day weekend, I had this awful headache that lasted for three days. I thought maybe it was sinus-related. But ever since then, I keep running a fever and having chills. I'm exhausted. And I keep feeling nauseated. I just came in because I figured if I have a fever, I must be fighting off something, and we're going out of town and I don't want to be sick the whole time. I don't know -- maybe I have a bladder infection or something ... ?

NURSE: Have you had pain down there?

CATHY: No, but the last time I felt this crappy, that's what it turned out to be.

The nurse collects a urine sample. Negative. The nurse takes Cathy's temperature and confirms, that yes, indeed, she is running a fever. HA! Doctor then enters and Cathy repeats the above details.

DOCTOR: Have you had any bites lately? You know, ticks? Or a rash?

CATHY: Gosh, I don't know. I mean, I get insect bites all the time. We do a lot of things outside. But I haven't found any ticks.

DOCTOR: (ominously) Well, people don't always realize they've been bitten by a tick. I'm sure you probably check your children, but don't always think to check yourself.

CATHY: Ummmmmm....

DOCTOR: We've had a few cases lately of tick-related illnesses. I think we'd better start some antibiotics, and I want you to run get a blood test.

CATHY: Ummmmm...

DOCTOR: What you've just described sounds an awful lot like Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

We now resume this evening's debate.

... HUBS: ... And you just threw up your arms and said, "YES! That's it! I have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever!"

CATHY: No, actually, I was a little skeptical at first. Until I got back to the newsroom and looked up the symptoms.

HUBS: And you had every one of them.

CATHY: As a matter of fact, I did. I DO. I feel like shit. And now I know why.

HUBS: Rolls eyes.

CATHY: You just don't want me to have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever because that trumps any pitiful cold or flu you've ever used as an excuse for being too sick to do something. Because if I have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, that means that for the last 10 days, I have been working and caring for children while suffering from a disease that lands many people in the hospital.

It means, buddy, that I AM WOMAN.

Update: Karma. Either A.) The mystery illness has gotten worse; B.) This medication has unpleasant side effects; or C.) I should not have been so smug. Long night ahead. This fucking sucks.

How to cultivate your very own paranoid, neurotic hypochondriac wife:

So say you're Hubs and you happen to be married to someone who, oh, maybe, has been known to go to the grocery store for the sole purpose of stocking up on canned goods in the event of a raging bird-flu epidemic. Someone whose computer at work boasts a bird-flu comic strip, taped to the monitor by giggling co-workers. Someone who (ohmigod, I cannot believe I'm about to admit this) has actually COPIED and SAVED to her desktop the government's bird-flu response plan.

Would you, on a Sunday night, while flipping through TV options, decide on ... the History Channel's Last Days on Earth?

I think not.

Because you value your sleep. Because you don't wish to be prodded awake by your insomniac spouse, who wants to know if you'll maybe teach her how to use your .30-06-- in case she ever has to, you know, fire on the intruders who are out to steal her canned goods because they were not such thorough planners?

After witnessing all the various means through which all humanity could be wiped off the face of the planet, however, I figured out why Hubs picked this particular show. It's all part of his evil plan to haul my ass out to the country. He dreams of a homestead that would allow him to stroll out the back door each morning, piss off the porch and take aim at a deer, all while clutching a mug of coffee.

It's not that I'm against the country. I am a country sort of girl. I grew up with three ducks and four pet sheep: Holly, Dolly, Ellie and Sherman. Each morning, I awakened to the crowing of the neighbor's blasted rooster (hence the beginnings of my aversion to birds) and the pecking and clucking of the hens congregating underneath MY bedroom window. (See, they targeted me long ago.)

But Hubs. Oh dear, the Hubs. He wants to live in a house just like his Grandma Hattie's, down in -- wait -- I must breeeeeathe deeeeeeeply, breeeeeeathe, deeeeeeply -- in (yikes) South Arkansas. Or in Grandma Hattie's house itself, a notion that makes me want break out into hives just before I start slugging tequila from the bottle.

Grandma Hattie's house hasn't been changed since her death in 1998. The wall calendar? It's from 1998. The magazines? Remember late 90s hair? Yeah, I know. But that's the only reading material.

Oh yeah. And it's In. The. Woods.

So during deer season, the McHubs clan all head down to South Arkansas, where they descend on Grandma Hattie's house. Now the house? It's cute. Old-fashioned. But just a tad inconvenient. (Really, I would rather not blow my hair dry in the kitchen, right next to the coffee pot, not because I mind the proximity ((bless the caffeine, god bless it)) but because I don't think other people should have to watch strands of my hair blow into their own cups.)

And there's the little matter of the toilet, which, until a few years ago, remained encircled by handicap railings. Try rising from that contraption when you're eight months pregnant and about as graceful as a bloated whale on land. Can you comprehend the humilation of getting stuck -- in the middle of the night -- and whispering loudly for Hubs to come to your rescue, even as you pray that none of the other McHubs hear you, because, really, life would stop (without the help of bird flu) if elderly Uncle A.J. saw you nude and floundering on a toilet.

But I digress.

Hubs dreams of building a house with his own two able hands out in the country somewhere.

But here's the thing. Hubs has only ever visited the country. To live in the country, miles away from any friends, at least 45-60 minutes from work, far, far away from certain conveniences, like, you know, a Pei-Wei or friendly neighborhood bar -- that, my friends, is a whole different matter. I lived in the country as a wee barefoot child, as a bored, rebellious, stuck-in-the-sticks teenager and as a college freshman. I loved my upbringing -- I did! -- and each night I still pay homage to the callouses I developed during all those no-shoes years.

But now I'm old. And staid. And hooked on pizza delivery and the availability of Indian food.

Hubs, however, has romanticized the notion to such a degree that none of my warnings -- even those involving butting rams or rabid geese -- have had any effect.

Ever been treed by a sheep? Quite embarrassing, I assure you.

Example: In Hubs' world, the grandparents think it's fun to take the kids (and one game mother) out for a spin on Easter Sunday.



In my world, however, growing up, this mode of transportation was vital on Halloween for it ensured we would get to all the "good" houses before 2 a.m. One did not walk door to door where I grew up. It took too damn long. We'd have been left with the fruit & granola bars. ugh

So what does any of this have to do with the Last Days on Earth? Well, let's just say that as soon as Hubs sensed that first hint of germ- or other disaster-related anxiety emanating from my side of the couch, he pounced.

"You know, if we lived out in the country, we would be self-sufficent. We'd have a garden. I'd kill deer. When the bird flu hits, we'll be safe from all the panicked, marauding masses."

He leaned in closer, paused and said: "We'd be away from all the germs."

And I admit that in the depths of my southern, country-girl heart, I felt ... well, a flutter.

*blush*

That was enough to spur Hubs on. "Just think, we'd have everything! No rush to the store when everyone learns that bird flu is on the way! No next-door neighbors breathing their germy-germs over our fence!"

And oh, god help me as I began to swoon...

But then, in that twang, he added: "All we'd have to do is go to Sam's and stock up on some laundry detergent and toilet paper, the two things we can't grow on the farm. Heh!"

My eyes narrowed. It all became clear. Hubs isn't seeking to hide and protect his wife and lil darlins'. No, Hubs is thinking of how he can turn a deer camp into a HOME! For year-round! Whee! And, best of all, his wife would be urging him to go kill deer, rather than protesting it. I could see the fantsy he was creating: Hubs striding through the rugged door, made by his own rugged man-hands, bearing his family's dinner as his wife wept in gratitude and seven (... seven ...? how'd the extras slip in there?) children cheered.

Hubs, I realized, fantasizes about being a survivalist -- much in the way I once fantasized that a Starbucks might one day open in my neighborhood.

I glared at the deceptive, manipulating Hubs. "Honey, next weekend, why don't we head down south and you can teach me how to use that big ole gun? Because really, I think I'd rather pick off the marauding masses one by one than awaken each morning to a gun blast from "our" deer woods.

Our. Deer. Woods.

More frightening words have never been spoken.

It is my goal to never become an owner or resident of deer woods. I have promised Hubs he can buy himself a piece of land -- if we're ever not flat-ass broke, that is -- where he can build himself a little vacation spot and kill as many deer as he wants. And in exchange, I get my third, equally longed-for baby.

Oh yeah. Hubs also gets a new pickup. That's also part of the deal. But no hunting dog. I mean, we're not that stereotypical. I will grant him only so much in exchange for his sperm.

Now you must excuse me. Having fretted adequately over bird flu -- for the night -- I must now turn my attention elsewhere -- to figuring out the fifth most likely reason for our extinction. (I missed the first part of the show.)

Let's see ... bird flu and/or other hideous illnesses; an asteroid; global warming and nuclear war...

...?

Do you, too, enjoy making fun of your strange habits and quirks for others' enjoyment? Then consider entering This Eclectic Life's This Blog Blows My Dress Up contest. Winner gets a $25 Amazon gift card. Deadline is noon June 15.

Where does the time go?

I'm dusting off an essay I wrote for Musing Mama for this week's Blog Blast, sponsored by Parent Bloggers and Light Iris. Winner gets a free ticket to this year's Blogher, where you can stalk your favorite bloggers in person!



Trick or task
Essays
Written by Cathy
Monday, 15 November 2004


Help! The ability to multitask like the pros eludes me.

Until Halloween, I really thought I was doing OK. But one holiday — and the Friday from hell — proved I have yet to join the ranks of the Perfect Mommy set.

Friday, Oct. 29, 7 a.m.: Leave the house with 20-month-old Tootie. Am en route to doctor's office for Tootie's flu shot. Apply makeup at each red light and point air conditioning vents at hair in effort to dry still-damp ends. Offspring occupies herself by hurling pulverized Honeycombs to the floor. (Must vacuum this evening.)

8:30 a.m.: Leave doctor's office with sniffling Tootie who refers repeatedly to her boo-boo. Still 15 minutes away from the day care when tot develops a sudden thirst for milk. Sippy cup filled with water will not suffice. Search frantically for mee-mee (pacifier) while hurtling down highway. Arrive at day care with water stains on shirt and Honeycomb crumbs plastered to butt.

8:45: a.m.: On way to Tootie's class when we pass pumpkins from pumpkin-decorating contest. Am horrified by stark contrast between entries. Our pumpkin is a simple affair. Accessories include construction paper, gift-wrap ribbon and stickers. Other pumpkins, however, are wearing outfits! Wonder fleetingly which mommies actually have time to sew costumes for a large round vegetable...? Or is pumpkin a fruit? Pray that Tootie will not be traumatized by memories of her deficient pumpkin.

8:50 a.m.: Day care teacher asks whether I will be returning to help out with Halloween festivities. Assure her I will come back for afternoon party before rushing out the door.

9:15 a.m.: Have just sat down at desk with cup of tea when day care teacher calls in search of parent volunteers for Halloween carnival. Carnival begins at 9:40. Cannot possibly do this. Apologize profusely to teacher.

9:35 a.m.: Am overcome with guilt. Leave for day care, resolving to stay only 15 minutes. Call spouse to tell him he will have to find a Halloween costume for Tootie as I will no longer have time to look during lunch hour. Remind him that ballerinas need pink tights. Remind him costume must be purchased today as Tootie has been invited to a day care classmate's Halloween/birthday party on Saturday.

9:45 a.m.: Second call to Hubs reveals he, too, lacks time to costume-shop. Am consumed with guilt and panic. Daughter will be only toddler at party without costume. And other toddlers likely are spawn of mommies who have time to sew glittering ensembles for pumpkins.

9:50 a.m.: Am assigned to help run the "bakery" booth. Spend next 1 1/2 hours showing tiny folk how to make pretend cookies out of neon-yellow Play-Doh.

11:15 a.m.: Leave carnival. Attempt to dig play-dough out from under fingernails during drive back to work. Notice that water-stained shirt also boasts dried specks of play-dough. Resolve to begin carrying spare outfit in car.

1 p.m.: Suddenly remember I have not RSVP'd for Halloween/birthday party. Cannot possibly attend as last-minute notice would be rude. Feel guilt for depriving young daughter of socialization opportunity. Feel relieved that I will not have to mingle with mommies who turn out pumpkins resembling works of Michelangelo.

5:30 p.m.: Pick up Tootie from day care. Sugar-fueled daughter is laden with gift bags containing baked goods and carefully chosen toddler toys. Hasty count reveals that I am only mommy who did not make gift bags for daughter's classmates. Did not realize that Halloween now ranks up there with Christmas and Valentine's. Is simple night of trick-o-treating no longer adequate? Am overwhelmed by fears that gift bags are norm for every holiday and - yikes! - Veterans' Day approacheth... Resolve to make turkey gift bags to avoid similar embarrassment at Thanksgiving.

6 p.m.: Am struck during evening news by this thought: Had George W. Bush hired Perfect Mommies to oversee operations in Iraq, 380 tons of explosives wouldn't be missing. Instead, explosives would be carefully packaged in oversized gift bags, topped with jaunty, homemade bows and handed out to members of White House administration.

Two weeks later: Pulverized Honeycombs still decorate floor of car. Really, really must vacuum.

The Widow Woman -- and others of her ilk

In the two years we've lived here, our next-door neighbor has never once waved, said hello or talked to me.

She has, on the other hand, had numerous conversations with Hubs.

When he goes outside, she waves merrily and shouts a greeting. She leans over the fence and chats.

She's told him all about how she shot out a street light that shone into her bedroom window. How the former owners of our house used to have sex in the backyard. How her husband died and she has a daughter who is now grown and gone from home.

When I go outside, she ignores me.

I've tried to wave. I've tried to make eye contact. She's having none of it.

Because I'm a woman.

And because she's one of those who has long shunned the sisterhood because she sees us as competition.

I find this both annoying and sad.

I don't get these women. Why would you isolate yourself from potential friends because -- ohmigod, they might swipe the next guy who plops down on the barstool next to you right out from under your nose.

Puh-leeze.

The people who have always been there for me -- willing to listen to my post-breakup weeping, my stupid drunken ramblings or my euphoric "I've-got-a-new-boyfriend-and-he's-fabulous declarations -- well, they've been my girlfriends.

And they'll be there, always, no matter what happens in my life. And I will be there for them, because that's what women -- normal women -- do. They form fast friendships with one another, realizing that the sisterhood is the one thing you can always fall back on. The sisterhood supports you, even when you do something totally stupid. The sisterhood keeps you afloat when all other life-saving devices fail.

My husband has dubbed our neighbor "The Widow Woman." Now, my version of a widow woman is a sweet, bun-wearing granny type who drops by with brownies and gushes over my kids.

This chick is NOT a "Widow Woman." She's 40ish. Blonde hair. Tan.

She's also weathered. Weary. Hard.

And clearly disdainful of anyone sporting a pair of boobs.

So be it. I've tried. But after two years, I've given up on ever having any sort of friendship with this neighbor.

She can flirt with Hubs as much as she wants. She can walk into a bar with the assurance that she's alone, with no competition to thwart her plans for the evening.

But she'll never know the comfort, the camaraderie of being part of the sisterhood. Of knowing that your support system is only a few phone calls or emails away. Of sitting out on the deck, drinking margaritas and laughing uproariously over shared memories with your most intimate circle.

Of course, much as I love and depend on my girlfriends, even those closest to me will never be asked -- by me, anyway -- to participate in this.

Because I'm a good friend. And I would never make anyone I know watch me wrap my accident-prone self around a fucking pole.

Yes, I, too, am a thieving, lazy, disreputable and soon-to-be stubbly mom

This is really a way-behind, near-forgotten meme masked as an original post because I'm just too ... busy, swamped, lazy? ... to come up with anything creative on my own.

So, Damselfly tagged me, oh, weeks ago, for the eight-things-about-me meme that's been drifting through the blogosphere, and because I am a procrastinating sort of person (hence, the reason my job revolves around, you know, deadlines) I'm just now getting around to it.

OK, and also OTJ's Mother of all Memes kind of scared me. Like maybe one day, I, too, will understand the intricacies of the last meme of her Monster Meme. And I can't decide whether I should be allowed to possess that kind of knowledge and special power.

But I'm stalling.

So — Eight Things About Me

1.) Despite my incompetence in certain areas of personal hygiene, I have to shave my legs EVERY DAY because I can't stand to feel my own stubble. (Which is why the stubble that will result from Sunday's disaster is going to send me spinning into a vicious new cycle of personal maintenance, and, no doubt, I will find myself begging some frightening, lecturing Helga creature for a very personal wax. ("Vhat happened here?" she will ask after assessing the damage. And I will cringe in shame and terror, more so than when I had to face the stylist after cutting my own bangs up to my hairline.)


2.) Despite my obsession with leg-hair removal, I've never tweezed or waxed my eyebrows.

3.) I once climbed into an itty-bitty plane with a Texas crop duster, minutes after he showed me pictures of his numerous flying accidents, one of them involving a power line, and admitted that his nickname around town was "Crash."

4.) I can peel and eat these —



and these—




and maybe even these —



by the dozen.

5.) In 1996, I was some poor sap's Worst Blind Date Ever. I won't get into the specifics, but the night involved too many tequila shots and ... deleted due to lingering embarrassment.

6.) When doctors say you can't have an epidural at 9 cm, they LIE.

7.) It takes every bit of self-restraint I can muster to avoid using the word "Google" during a doctor's visit, and the only reason I try is because my former ob/gyn started describing me as "the lady who likes to research things" and the pediatrician once felt compelled to read aloud every single ingredient of my child's flu shot, just to make me shut up and leave his office.

8.) I, too, have been guilty of overlooking what I consider accidental transgressions, simply because once I've managed to cram two cranky children into their respective car seats, driven home and unloaded said children and groceries, I'm not about to return to the scene of the crime so that a bored store clerk can wrest away a cheap rubber toy from my shrieking offspring, who really should be napping. Which is why I say:




(Oh, and I'm not tagging anyone because I'm pretty sure I'm the last person to get around to this one.)

Sunday-afternoon trauma — though it's questionable who suffered more, me or the kids

Yesterday, as Hubs and I perused the newspaper, I was stricken with what — at the time — seemed a brilliant idea.

"Hey, let's take the kids swimming today."

Hubs raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously, we should," I continued, now foolishly overcome with excitement at my caffeine-inspired genius. "It's a beautiful day."

Hubs still looked skeptical. "You don't even have a swimsuit," he noted.

"Oh, we can buy one on the way," I replied, now firmly convinced we must take the children to the pool. Visions of myself sprawled on a chaise lounge and basking in the sun now danced through my (clearly) delusional mind.

And so I dashed out to the drugstore to buy swim diapers for the E-man and hair-removal lotion for myself — bikini-line maintenance having been ignored during the winter months.

An hour later, as I stood, nekkid in the bathroom, with my bikini "line" (more on that in a minute) coated with the magic hair-removal potion, the door suddenly flew open.

It was the E-man.

"Hee-hee," he chortled. And then, inexplicably — "MAAAAAAAA!!!!" he squawked, fleeing down the hallway.

"Hubs!" I called. "Comfort your son — he's been traumatized!"

Hubs: ?????????????

... and so have I ... because either A.) The ladybits are funny-looking or B.) They are terrifying to small children, which means, clearly, it's been too long since I tended to that area.

Today, looking back, I blame the haste in which I completed this procedure for the end result: A landing strip just the right size for a tiny toy F-16.

But wait, there's more. You must hear details of The Swimsut Shopping Expedition.

(NOTE: I bought my last swimsuit while pregnant with Tootie, when I decided to join a water aerobics class. (I went one time.) Actually, come to think of it, a friend gave that one to me. It was a black, tankini maternity suit. And I continued to wear it long after the births of both children. Need I say more?)

So off we went to the big department store where swimsuits had been marked down 50 percent.

Hubs was charged with entertaining the Little People while I browsed and tried on suits. However — as I stood, once again nude, in a changing room, I heard this:

"No, E-man, this way."

"Mama!"

"No, wait, Mama will be out in a minute."

And then from the Tootie — "Is Mommy in there?"

I froze, as Hubs called out a warning: "They're headed your way."

For the second time that day, the door was flung open, only this time, not only was I nekkid, but my new, ridiculous landing strip also was exposed to the women and children waiting for the next available changing room.

And again — "MAAAAAAAAA!" from the startled E-man.

And this, from the Tootie: "Mommy, is your tummy big because you're going to have another baby? Did Daddy put one there?"

Nope, no baby on board. And there's no danger of one being "put" there because Hubs is most definitely not getting anywhere near the landing strip — because once there, he would absolutely die laughing, which would rather ruin the moment.

So it was off to the pool — with a traumatized E-man, a daughter who thinks I look pregnant, and the secret knowledge of overly ... tended? clipped? manicured? ... ladybits.

... which is why any future such outings will require either copious amounts of vodka or a prescription for Xanax.

Nightly negotiations

This is my contribution to the latest Blog Blast, sponsored by Parent Bloggers and E-Harmony Marriage. The winner receives — gasp! — a date with one's spouse. Remember those? Nights of adult conversation and S-E-X? Good. Glad you do. Because I don't.

The topic:

“You know you need a date with your husband/partner when…

1.) ... you don't worry about the fact that you were unable to refill your prescription for birth control pills because any romping in the marital bed requires much scheduling and re-scheduling, as well as cooperative children who actually fall asleep after they have been tucked in for the night.

(HUBS: "Well, what about tomorrow night?"

CATHY, after flipping through unwieldy mental calendar: "Um ... no, not a good night for me. I'll be at the height of PMS and therefore soooo not in the mood. In fact, you'll be lucky if you're still alive by that point.")

2.) ... you rarely eat out because it's just too exhausting.

("No, no, no! Do NOT pour the salt on the table. No, you broke all the crayons, you don't get anymore. Quick, quick! He's choking on a lemon rind!!)

3.) ... Your lingerie was abandoned long ago for Hubs' old, oversized softball shirts, which, when paired with pink, plaid flannel pajamas, make a rather stunning bedtime statement.

(Like, "No, sweetie. You're not getting any tonight." or "I'm about to finish the book I started three months ago. How about tomorrow? After Tootie falls asleep. If we're still awake...")

Helicopter mom must land — now.

Until a few weeks ago, the E-man traipsed down the concrete stairs from our front porch to the walkway with no hesitation.

Now, he either holds up a hand for one us to hold, or he grabs the railing.

Gone is the confidence. Enter a new hesitation. And it's all my fault.

I am a hoverer. I admit it and I'm trying to change it. Given my own clumsiness, it's difficult for me to NOT anticipate the next disaster. It's time, however, to let go and allow the kids to play and tumble without imagining a trip to the ER.

Only in the last year did I quit issuing dire warnings to those left in charge of my offspring. The Hubs, my parents, my in-laws — all were subjected to my lists of endless instructions.

Funny thing is, the worst thing that ever happened to one of the kids was my doing.

Picture the mama in her cute, strappy sandals, out house-hunting one Sunday afternoon with Hubs, her then-2-year-old daughter and newborn son.

Can you see her, entering a charming old home that features a bannisterless wooden staircase up to a charming attic bedroom? See how, on her way day, she picks up her toddler for fear the child will topple down the stairs?

Oops. Now watch the mama trip. See how she frantically tries to catch herself, ping-ponging between the walls, before her daughter is catapulted from her arms.

Can you see this poor mother, who is watching her toddler somersault down the stairs even as she herself is rolling after the child?

They land in a heap at the bottom, at the feet of the horrified homeowners and several other people visiting this open house.

Hubs, meanwhile, has just rounded the corner, just in time to find his child and wife crumpled at the bottom of a staircase.

Tootie, thankfully, was fine. But later, each time I imagined her tumbling, how her pink sunglasses, now bent and twisted, still perched on her tiny nose when she hit the bottom and looked up at me, questioningly ... well, I cried and cried. Because it was my fault. Because if I hadn't been so damn overprotective, she probably would have tottered down those stairs without incident. All by herself.

And now, in recent weeks, I've managed to make my son fearful of stairs.

So my promise to myself is this: I will let go of his hand and urge him to make his own way — not just down the stairs, but in all the other situations in which I am tempted to intervene.

And I will comfort myself with the knowledge that at least our stairs do have a railing.

Sigh...

Holly Homemaker Ho — yo!

It fluttered, temptingly, when my friend, Amy, and I opened the door to our favorite gift shop.

Not this particular one, but similar — vintage, colorful and cheery:



And then I realized: Ohmigod, I am caressing an apron.

So not my image. So not my thing.

So likely to encourage Hubs in his nightly amorous endeavors.

For some reason, there's something about my presence in a kitchen that brings out the wild man in my spouse. Maybe it's the way I wield the tongs, or the smell of singed eyebrows when I lean in a little too close to a burner's gas flame.

Whatever.

When I cook, he lingers. As I pour, he gropes. As I bend over to remove casseroles from the oven, he grabs.

This behavior, of course, makes me certain that Hubs nurtures certain fantasies involving a 1950s cupcake-baking domestic diva.

I am neither domestic nor a diva. Especially in a kitchen.

Still, he persists.

Which is why, even though I will never don it in a kitchen setting, I may purchase the apron anyway.

For Hubs' birthday.

ahem

Quit touching me, dammit!

I am -- how to put this? -- a delicate sleeper.

That means there are rules in our marital bed, rules that the Hubs has been ignoring lately, at much peril to his continued well-being.

The primary offense?

Touching. He keeps touching me.

A toe on the calf. A hand resting on my thigh. Or a big, hairy leg draped over both of my own legs.

It's most annoying when I'm on the brink of dozing off. Because once I'm disturbed, I have to start all over with the tried-and-true sleep rituals, one of which is a half-hour of reading.

So you can understand my chagrin? No? You think spooning is sweet?

I used to as well. Until I had two kids who shunned slumber and I started to value my own sleep about as much as those precious drops of milk I pumped umpteen times a day from my breasts, just in case Hubs volunteered to give the little darlings a bottle during the night so that I could ... you know ... maybe ... sleep?

You're pitying him, aren't you? Poor man, married to such a cold, unresponsive wife.

Did I mention the snoring? Or that he's also guilty of facing me -- another no-no -- which means he's not only directing noise in my direction but also breathing on me?

We delicate sleepers contend that breathing counts as touching.

And it must stop. Now.

All right, all right. The touching. The touching must stop. He can breathe. As long as he's turned the other way. And doing it so quietly that one might wonder if he's still alive.

Really, I'm quite reasonable. And it's not just me. He's bothering the dog too. She's very sensitive to snoring.

Note the evident weariness here, the effort to remain patient:



OK, well, the children's determination to make her part of the Pretty Pony herd might have something to do with her fatigue, but really, I mostly blame Hubs' noisiness.

All right then, I'm off to bed, where I will -- if I am allowed to fall and stay asleep -- commence dreaming of this freaking fabulous concept.

Tale of the Little Mullet Boy

It started on Easter weekend. (Yes, my son is hunting for eggs in camo. It pains me too. But focus on the hair.)



Over and over, one in-law after the other, remarked — in that tone — "That boy needs a haircut."

It was longish, yes, but when it wasn't windy, the E-man's hair curled itself into adorable little ringlets. (Insert shudder from Hubs and his ringlet-disapproving family here.)

But look — adorable, yes?



Eventually, however, even I, admirer of the blonde ringlets, had to admit the boy was developing .. well ... a mullet.

Still, outside opinions were needed. So at a Saturday night newsroom gathering, I polled those congregating around the grill. Much beer had been consumed, but a few party-goers seemed sober enough to cast judgment.

And thus I learned my sweet, little Lord Fauntleroy angel, possessor of golden lovelocks, was indeed sporting a mullet.



Not that there's anything wrong with mullets. It's just not the look I wanted to cultivate for my boy. Living in Arkansas and all ... I mean, it's bad enough that his father dresses him in hunting garb.

To hunt for fucking pastel Easter eggs. But I digress.

Sunday we headed in for the first shearing. Hubs had a camera. I had a little baggie for ringlet-capturing. I figured it would be a quick process. The Tootie, at her first haircut, sat somberly while the trim took place.

The Little Mullet Boy, however, was most displeased, as evidenced here:



And here:



By the time we got to this stage —



— the E-man was nearly mulletless.

I have no final photo, however, of his newly trimmed self, as Hubs was required to put down the camera and wrestle with a seriously pissed-off E-man.

And I, once the proud mother of the Happy-Hippy-Boy-of-Golden-Curls-turned-Mini-Mullet-Man, was scrabbling around on the floor, throwing damp clumps of hair into a wrinkled baggie.

(But you know, now that it's been trimmed, there's even more wave ...)

Heh.

I am an Uninvolved Parent

The first year my daughter was in day care, I joined the parents' group, which mainly organizes and runs various fund-raising projects for the center.

I sucked at it.

Which is why I dread the day I will have to either become or alienate that most fearsome of creatures: The Involved Parent.

Or, rather, mothers who join groups. School-related, sports-related, doesn't matter.

I hate groups. Even groups with causes. Remember group projects back in grade school? I was the nerd-girl who took it upon herself to do the whole project, myself, at home just so we wouldn't have to work as — you know — a group.

I'm bitchy that way.

(Unless, of course, we're talking about college physics labs and how my survival depended on the knowledge and capabilities of those who actually understood what a vertex (vortex?) was. Then, due to selfish and desperate tendencies, I was all about the group concept. Still, I got a D, which proved once again that groups are not always for the greater good — i.e. my need to pass a physics course in order to get a B.A. in journalism.)

And now, as a mama, I must regularly face — or worse, join — groups of parents? They scare me. Even the most well-intentioned ones.

PTA. Booster clubs. Various niche parent groups that show up en masse at school board meetings.

I'm sooooo not a joiner. That's probably why I like my professional role of paid observer thankyouverymuch.

Even if I weren't a journalist and allowed to take sides and urge change, I'd be more inclined to fire off letters to the editor than to join forces with other like-minded parents.

Because too often, there seems to be this weird lemming effect.

And of course, I don't like groups. Did I mention that? The fact that I hate groups?

It's why the mere suggestion of a group playdate makes me stammer inane excuses. Why I loathe children's birthday parties where all the parents linger.

Part of it, I'm sure, is that I can't seem to find common ground with the parents at these gatherings. They're talking about their kids' favorite Sunday School teacher or T-ball practice, whereas I've arrived fresh from covering a court proceeding involving a drunk, off-duty postal worker who hit a kid just stepping off a school bus. Or interviewing a Katrina evacuee who thinks she's having a nervous breakdown but isn't sure what to do about it or how to deal with her troubled teenage son. Or walking a grieving mother through the details of the night her teenage daughter was killed in a streetracing accident.

Yeah, there's a natural conversation starter.

I'm also used to the "openness" of a newsroom, where we all know who takes which anti-depressant and who's down to their last $13 and may need a ride over the weekend because he/she can't afford to buy gas.

We talk about everything.

Husbands who piss us off and why.
Sex.
Whether we drink too much.
Whether our friends drink too much.
Sex.
Whether the defendant featured in the trial of the day will end up pleading, as well as all the minute details about the defendant that we've each gleaned from our respective sources.
Our periods.
How broke we are.
Surgical procedures we would/wouldn't have done — if we ever had the money, that is.
Sex.
Or lack thereof.


We speak freely of all of this. At work. And I love it.

Oh, yeah. And we cuss. Profusely.

Hence the difficulty in taking kid to a birthday party and trying to maintain a "normal" mama persona. I dread the small talk because I'm not much good at it. Often, I'm inclined to blurt out tidbits that most people would consider waaaay TMI. (What constitutes normal, everyday conversation in my world doesn't translate well in MamaLand.)

So I'm pretty much a dud at such events. The girl in the corner with her Dixie cup of fruit punch who hides in the bathroom every 10 minutes or who's paying so much attention to her offspring, that said children are looking at her in puzzlement. (You know the technique, I know you do. It's a common tactic — pretending your kids need your immediate and constant attention so that you don't have to talk to the other people around you? Yeah, that technique. I employ it often, much to my tots' chagrin.)

What's with Mom? Why won't she shut up and just let us romp in the ball pit?

I can be extremely entertaining when I'm sharing tales of my parenting foibles or describing my various neuroses. I can't seem inject the same vivaciousness and sense of humor, however, into a discussion about whether toddlers are old enough to have speech impediments. Or which funder raiser is likely to be most effective. Or which team is doing how well -- or poorly.

Where are the newsroom mommies who offer candid, hilarious parenting confessions so freely? Or all those cool blogger moms who wouldn't flee if I forgot myself and cussed in the midst of our conversation?

Where are the mommies who make themselves vulnerable to other mommies in the name of solidarity?

Until I find them — and I know they're out there, if not in my community then surely somewhere in this state — I'll keep putting off the day I have to join anything.

Or maybe I'll just linger by the punch bowl, spiking all the other parents' drinks.

The drunker they are, the more normal I'll appear to them.

Or at least, maybe they won't remember what I said.

Maybe.

In keeping with the self-reflection so evident in this post (ha!), I'll devote the next one to describing the eight random things about myself that might surprise you — having been tagged by damselfly, who was tagged by Julie.

I promise, the revelations won't be the kind suitable for casual playdate or birthday-party conversation.

Warning: Shameless pimping...

...about to occur.

The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.

So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)

Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.

Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...

Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006

An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season

Cast:

CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.

HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.

TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.

E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.

[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]

TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)

CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.

[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]

TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”

CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.

[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]

CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...

TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!

[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]

TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!

E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]

TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.

CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.

TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?

YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?

CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]

CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?

TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?

[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.

[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.

TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!

E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?

CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.

[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]

HUBS: So, how are things going?

E-MAN: Nack! Nack!

TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!

E-MAN: Nack! Nack!

CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?

[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”

CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?

TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!

E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)

TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!

E-MAN: NIGH MAN!

[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]

TOOTIE: I need a frink!

CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]

E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!

TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?

[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]

TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.

E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}

NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.

[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]

HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.

[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]