Denmark. Day One.

If I had to stay at home with a small child all day, I would be.... drunk. Like, all the time.

We arrived yesterday. We're jet lagged, and I'm having technical difficulties with my laptop, so there's really nothing for me to do during the day but parent. I've cleaned everything around me in an effort to avoid intensive Mommy & Me time, and my boyfriend will be home in a half an hour to admire his gleaming home and folded laundry. So I've unnecessarily and prematurely raised the housework bar for myself here, and am basically fucked for eternity. Good one.

Three year olds. They are their own species. I don't know which one, but I know it isn't Mine. The Kid has recently taken to "Look What I Can Do!" tricks, which basically consist of her screaming "MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM!" until she has my attention, and then I have to watch her do something not repeatable or remotely worth looking up for, like shrieking and flailing her elbow in the air simultaneously. And she does this about 300 times a day. Holy fuck. She also makes up her own songs, but doesn't get any further than the first line, which she then loudly repeats over and over and over. The last one was "EVERYBODY CLAP YOUR HANDS" sung monotonously in various keys at the top of her lungs.

It's so funny to be with her in a country where children are so doted on - she tripped on the street earlier, and five people stopped and turned around to give her a big "AWWW" in sympathy. Meanwhile, I'm still dragging her down the street by her arm, figuring she'll right herself eventually. Come on, it's cold. You're three already, pull yourself together.

I'm going to go press my face against the glass pane in the front door and wait for Alan to get home.

The Piss in Yer Pants Gang knows my secret.

It's Friday night, and I'm flipping through channels. I've been stuck on psychic/medium/I see dead people tv shows lately, and I'm jonesing for a fix. I have no idea what happened to Lisa Williams, but John Edward should be on soon, thank goodness.

I somehow ended up watching Most Haunted. It's not because the show is good. The premise of the show is as follows: "Host Yvette Fielding is joined by a ghost-hunting team to investigate Europe’s spookiest sites. As experts from the paranormal field, the team attempts different methods and experiments to try and communicate with the dead."

Except every time there's a fucking noise in the building they're "investigating", every cast member jumps and shrieks like a 6-year old girl at a slumber party.

It's not like they wandered into an abandoned mental hospital because their car broke down and cell phones haven't been invented yet, THEY'RE LOOKING FOR GHOSTS.

Take right now, for example. They're in an old prison. It's night time. They're all British, and they have a film crew.

"So roight now, Oi yam walking down this corridor, and DIDJA HEAR THAT?!" Cast members cling to each other as the camera pans the room.

"Spirit, if yer there, bang on tha' window". (A muffled thump is heard as a sound man halfheartedly kicks a wall with the tip of his work boot.) "OH, FOOK! WHAT THE BLIMEY HELL WAS THAT? OH, JAYSUS CHRIST!" (OK, I may be muddling my accents, here.)

Thankfully, the crew has night vision cameras to catch the terrified, hyperventilating expressions of the cast members, I mean, experts.

"ONCE FER YES, TWO FER NO - DO YOU MEAN OOS ANY HARM?" (Thump.)

"Holy God, DIDJA HEAR THAT?!" (whispering loudly) "It means us harm!"

Eek.

By the way, I just gave birth

I forgot to mention that last week, I had another baby. The Kid has a brother!

They finally got together for a weekend in Orlando. He's 15, and about a foot taller than I am, and I love him. He's the Kid's half-brother, and his mom and I have been trying to get them together for a while, and we finally had an opportunity.

We spent two days at Universal Studios. He carried the Kid around, and held her hand, and showed her the baby dinosaurs being born.

He and I spent an evening at the resort's fitness center together, and I made the mistake of going on the machines after him. I lay down on the leg press, still on his settings, and......JUSTYN! THIS MACHINE IS BROKEN! Oh, no, wait. It's just set to three times my body weight. Let me just slide this down a little to..... 10lbs. There we go! JUSTYN! WHAT DOES THIS MACHINE DO?? Your shoulders. JUSTYN, I HAVE NO SHOULDER MUSCLES!!

He had a wonderful time.

He also enjoyed sitting next to me on all the scary rides. He promptly went home and blabbed to his mother, "Mom, Mary screamed like a total girl".

Helloooooooo...........

I lost 3 pounds!

Guess where?

This past Wednesday, I went in for breast reduction surgery.

It was a tough decision (made especially difficult by the recent death of Kanye West's mother). I'm not a big fan of general anesthesia.

Plus, I heard they put a catheter in your hoo-hoo during surgery. Also my least favorite thing.

But since my pregnancy three years ago, my boobs just haven't been the same. Not that they haven't been spectacular - they were often featured in an well-respected international magazine.

However, "tribal" just isn't my look.

So Wednesday morning at 5:30am, I drove myself over to the hospital, lay there in a hospital gown, and tried not to freak out. I was so nervous, I had gotten about 45 minutes of sleep. My parents took my daughter the night before, because her school first opens at 7:30. Thankfully, my girlfriend Maria showed up at 6:30am to sit with me and hold my hand until they wheeled me in. She had the surgery 6 months ago, and was a giant help. She even took me shopping last week for all the front-clipping sports bras I'd be wearing for the next month. It was really good to have her there. She always makes me laugh, and will never tell anyone what my ass looks like when my hospital gown flies open.

Around 1pm, I woke up in recovery, only mildly aware of pain in my chest area. I groggily asked the nurse for more pain medication, and got some morphine. OOOH, MY FAVORITE! I was checked out around 3pm, and my little parents carefully helped me shuffle out to the car, with my mother eyeing my boobies the entire time.

"Holy cow, you're so flat! Did he leave you anything??"

Me: "Shut up, Ma". Except I was on so many drugs it sounded more like "SSSALLGHMMFF."

For the next three days, I stayed at my parents', while they helped me fluff my pillows, reach my ginger ale, and pull my pants on and off to pee. My mom also emptied my surgical drains, which was pretty gross. I think my dad fed me a yogurt at one point. It was nice.

I came home today, and I have nothing to do but watch Intervention and eat fruit and lay around. My boobs are back where they used to be, and after a month, I won't even have to wear a bra.

The pain isn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it would be, but I still have a whole bottle of Vicodin left!

New boobs, drugs, and lots of TV. This has been the best week EVER.

Eva Longoria it isn't.

I dragged myself to the salon the other day. When the fantastic, talented stylist, Lisa, asked what I wanted, what I had been thinking of, what hair direction I wanted to go in, I thought for a minute and quietly said, "Please fix it". I have no hair direction. And I haven't had coffee in weeks.

She flipped and brushed and smushed and pulled and tweaked for about twenty minutes, and said," I think I'm just going to rock some layers and give you something really sexy". And then clipped a twelve inch strand of hair off the back of my head to "put some volume on the top". Whatever. I wish I had a job where I could say things like "I'm gonna rock some layers".

It looked really quite fluffy and pretty when she was done, but frightened by all the layering, I immediately contacted several people to ask if I resembled an aging rock star. "It looks nice" was the general answer. And then I went to spinning class, and the sexy rockin' layers were destroyed by my gallons of sweat.

The next morning, I woke up early, knowing that this hair would require more attention than the hat I was usually willing to invest in my morning public appearances, and wielding a blow dryer and a round brush, I went to work.

And I wound up looking like Keith Urban's long-lost separated twin. On a bad day. The only "fluffing" I know how about is related to porn film production, and won't produce waves in my flattened, 80's Jon Bon Jovi hair.

I can feather, though. Is that making a comeback?

(Sigh.)

I don't respond well to stress.

I've been doing really well on my new fitness plan.

I've been doing well, that is, until my child started channeling evil spirits and stopped napping.

Yesterday she came home from daycare with a heinous cough, and we were up all night. Mostly me, though. She seemed to finally sleep through her own horriffic hacking at some point. Not me, though.

Fuck.

So I kept her home today, knowing that if I sent her in, she'd just come home with something progressively far worse.

"Your child has spina bifida".

"What? It was a cough this morning!"

"She had a cough this morning and you knowingly sent her in to daycare? Well, now it's spina bifida, and it serves you right, you neglectful, sorry excuse for a mother."

However, she was already home on Monday because of Veteran's Day. You know what? I've already spent three years supporting a veteran, aka, her no-child-support-paying-father. TAKE MY KID AND LET ME WORK!!!

My workload is now up to my neck, and Satan the Child spent the day trying to open every bleach bottle, painting the cats, exploring the medicine cabinet, and seeing how far she could turn the dials on the stovetop. I don't know what happened to her, but I will sacrifice goats and virgins to get my former, well-behaved child back immediately.

Then the phone rings, and it's my beloved boyfriend, mumbling into his cell phone. He said something like, "Hey, baby! I'm in a yacht off the coast of Malaga! You should be here... it's 22 degrees (72F), and.... " and I lose interest and start scowling at my computer screen again.

You should be here. It's 85, I'm in my underwear, and my living room is covered in maple syrup. Spain, schmain.

Needless to say, I had a frenzied large handful (ok, several handfuls) of Halloween candy for lunch. Mostly while desperately trying to have ONE PHONE CONVERSATION while my child screamed "I'M DONE NAPPING! I'M DONE NAPPING!" from behind her bedroom door, roughly seven minutes after I put her down for a nap. For dinner, we had French toast. In case you don't know the recipe, it's bread, eggs, cream, vanilla, and sugar, fried in butter and topped with butter and sugar, because the rest of the maple syrup is stuck in the grout of my living room floor tile.

Yeahp.

For my midnight snack, I'm having a large handful of laxatives and three gallons of water, 'cause I ain't going out like that. If you'd like to lodge a complaint, please feel free to post one. My response will sound something like hissing and spitting, and it will be on your phone, about two hours after you fall asleep.

Love ya.

Mean it.

Come pick up my kid.

Terrible threes??

My Kid has been on a downturn lately, and I can't figure out if it's because I'm working longer hours, or I'm working longer hours because I'm constantly cleaning up after her.

The other morning I woke up to find my child and the bathroom vanity covered in the contents of my makeup bag (the worst part turned out to be on the side that you can't see!). It was like lipstick cave paintings. She also hauled off and bit a kid at school, and she cut her hand on a glass votive holder that she wasn't supposed to be playing anywhere near. Then she complained because she dripped blood on her new stickers, and I found myself yelling "WELL IF YOU DON'T WANT BLOOD ON YOUR TOYS, STOP PLAYING WITH BROKEN GLASS!!".

Watch out Britney. There's a new Mother of the Year in town.

Today her school was closed for Veteran's Day, and she spent the day at home with me, while I desperately tried to work. I just finished, about 15 minutes ago. I started roughly 16 hours ago. Chicken, egg, egg, chicken.

All's I know is, I'm tired. And she'll be in to wake me up again any minute now.

I cried because I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet.

Today at daycare, I met another mother in the hall, and recognized The Look.

I asked her how she was, an outpouring flowed from her and didn't stop for twenty minutes. She's the Other Single Mother at the Kid's school.

She seemed stressed, tired, and a little harried. The usual. But there was a look in her eye that I recognized immediately as someone who spent every hour of their day when not at work with a three-year old attached to them. She looked like someone who hadn't had a morning or evening to herself in a long, long time. I felt her pain.

I suggested that we meet up at a park this weekend, and she jumped at the idea - which was so nice. I thought I could pack some snacks and let the kids run in circles and give her some time to unwind. Then I asked her if I could have her kid over one night for a sleepover. She was a little wary, as he's been having some issues lately, and is currently seeing a behavioral therapist, but I'm feeling so healthy and relaxed lately, that some screaming toddler antics are nothing I can't handle right now. Plus, I know that a night off would restore her ten times over. At the very least, I could load both kids up with my leftover Halloween candy until they were completely wound up, and then collapsed into a deep sleep wherever they fell over.

I think it would also be nice to have more than one kid in the house. :)

I'm the relaxed one.

HA!

A (sober!) recap

I did something last week that I probably shouldn't have done sober (but I haven't had a drink in months and I'm not about to start). I read this blog from start to finish. And I've come to a few conclusions about my past year as a single parent.

• Most of my frustration comes from outside influences, such as work, and the Kid's father's lack of responsibility and financial support.


• My job at the airport was really, really horrible. Avoid working for the government at all costs.


• It's essential to have backup. I don't know what I would have done when the Kid & I got sick, if my parents weren't there to help. And sometimes, I just really, really need a day off.


• I should have been taking better care of myself, but I'm glad I know better now. Eight hours of sleep, regular exercise, and healthy, whole foods are absolutely essential for anyone who wants to be the ideal Them. If you don't get at least the minimum (which are the things I just listed), you can go through your life like a frikkin' zombie. I have emptied my house of processed foods and frankenmeats.
  

I also realize that I've reached my max load of outside interference. The thing about single parenting with a toddler is that you're still at that age of their childhood where they require routine and sameness. My kid needs to go to bed with a specific amount of blankets, toys, and water every night, according to the agreement as detailed in her backstage rider. Should I stray from the agreement, screaming and crying will commence, and my eye will twitch.

There are days that I just need to switch off the phone, and not answer any email. Since I hate all my neighbors, all my curtains are usually closed, until I am ready to deal with their music/screaming/7am construction. I kept the Kid home with me one day last week, because I had spent the previous evening stuck in traffic on the turnpike for three hours, and worked very late to make up for the lost time. I decided to sleep in the next morning, and avoid the turnpike altogether. I realize that the daily drive to her daycare is not a slow drive in the country, and I now listen to classical music to try and keep my blood pressure down. I've also gotten better at saying "no" to preserve my tranquility.

I am not great at returning phone calls, but I now understand that this is so I can stay focused on providing a safe, healthy, and relaxed environment for my kid, and so I can spend more time taking care of myself. Every phone call I avoid could be a half-hour walk for myself, and every two phone calls are an hour at the gym. I am not happy that I've isolated myself, but I don't know how else to keep my sanity. I have one friend in the area with a kid the same age, and we rarely get together. The Kid gets enough socialization during the week at daycare, and weekends are mommy time. Is that healthy? I don't know.

I feel better now than I have in years.

That photo isn't me, by the way. It's my friend Zoe, who has the healthiest body and spirit I've ever seen!

Live and learn.... :)

Little Flower's Halloweenie

With Liberty and Liquid Soap for All

This evening, my child and I were trapped in a clusterfuck of a traffic jam. For 2 1/2 hours.

Luckily, three-year olds are very entertaining, and no one had to pee or had taken any laxatives.

She knows "I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly" is a long song. Unfortunately, she can't remember anything past the first verse, so I listened to "I know an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don't know why she swallowed the fly - perhaps she'll die" repeated approximately twenty-five times in a row.

And for her next trick, ladies and gentlemen, my child recited The Pledge of Allegiance. I had no idea she knew the Pledge. I was quite impressed with her diction, and amazed (and feeling slightly hoodwinked) that she got past the first line, since the old lady kept eating that fly again and again.

However, there was something a little funny with the last line. I asked her to say the Pledge again. She said it again, perfectly, but with that funny last line again.

With my hand over my mouth to muffle my guffaws, I called Kara and quietly held the cell phone over my shoulder. The child repeated the Pledge exactly as she heard it every day. When Kara realized what she was saying, she too burst out laughing.

"Do they say that before they go eat lunch?" she asked.

Apparently, I said.

Here 'tis:

I pledge allegiance to the flag
Of the United Stace of Amurika
And to the apublic for which it stands
One nation, under God, innabisible
With Liberty and Justice for all.
Go wash your hands.

The Road Less Traveled, and There's a Good Reason for It

I have never been to Orlando. I have never been to a Disney property. I have never been to Graceland.

You know why?

Because I don't want to.

Like breasts, the flavor of chocolate, and diamonds, I greatly prefer Things That are Real.

There is nothing about Orlando that tells me that there are hidden gems to find. There are no historically valuable locations. There are no breathtaking natural views. There is no fresh air and vast expanse of meadow.

There are, however, a thousand motels. Busloads of corn-fed tourists. A barrage of Mickey ears. The Waffle House. Bedazzled flip flops. The arrogant and the ignorant, and they all want to be first, and loudest, and looked at, and I want no part of them.

Although the Kid's paternal grandparents have been promising to visit since her birth, and I schlepped an 8-month old premature child to Oregon so they could initially meet, they've never been here. Couldn't make it. Never call, because that would be awkward. And yet, in December, they are deigning to swing our way, on their way to a cruise that leaves from Orlando, three hours north of us. They wanted to take my child on the cruise, but didn't invite me. I respectfully responded that my child would not be leaving dry land without me, but thank you for the invitation.

So now we're going to Orlando for the weekend, and they've extended me an invitation to stay in their three-bedroom condo. With them, the Kid's Dad who hasn't sent any money since he lost another job three months ago and has never asked if she has enough to eat, and his 16-year old son, who is the only real reason we're going.

WHAT

THE

FUCK.

First of all, to invite a three-year old on a cruise with you for a week when she has no idea who you are is insane. Secondly, to never call, never visit, and then expect her and her mother to stay in the same hotel room with the rest of the disconnected family is beyond belief. Thirdly, we had planned to get together on Sunday. Now they're asking me to come on Thursday. On Thursday, I am meant to be on the island of Tortola with my delicious boyfriend, covered in suntan lotion and erasing any memory of my everyday life. Her dad knew this. He knew my boyfriend was coming to Orlando with me, because we're flying back in Friday night to be able to get to this satanic reunion. Did he mention it to his parents? No. A greater lack of communication has not been witnessed since someone tried to teach English grammar to George W. Bush.

Orlando. Disconnected grandparents. An irresponsible and selfish biological father. One hotel room.

There is not enough liquor on the planet.

My Underground Massage

Yesterday, while I was having my eyebrows waxed, I remarked how wonderfully comfortable the table was.

"You come back tomorrow" said the Thai waxer, "I give you massage. I got hot rocks for you".

Ooh, baby. I got hot rocks for you, too!

Everything's been hurting lately, especially since that one hour with a personal trainer on Tuesday. Hitler had me stepping on and off a weight bench, and my thighs just ain't been right since.

At my nail salon, there are no massage prices on the sign. I know they're not licensed. I know Jackie's reading this right now and furrowing her hairy brows into a disturbed "V". I could give a rat's ass. I just wanted a small Asian woman to beat the crap out of me, quadraplegia be dammed.

This morning I went to spinning class. This week's theme was "Disco Spinning". I span and sang to pass the time. "It's like thunder, lightening, the way you touch me is frightening...." I didn't care who heard me. I took a shower at the gym, and realized I forgot to pack another pair of underwear. I wasn't putting the same sweaty pair back on again, thank you, or showing up for a massage commando. My internal human GPS system rapidly calculated that the mall was on the way to my massage, and if I hustled (da da da da da da da da....), I could make it.

I ran into Macy's like my hair was on fire and picked out the biggest pair of black underpants I could find and ran to the register, underpants flailing behind me. The girl at the register asked if I had any coupons. No. Did I want to apply for a Macy's card- No. Did you find everything you were - Yes. Then she pulled out the tissue paper and slowly began to nest and caress Gigantipants in some crinkly paper. For fuck's sake. Just gimme my damn drawers, lady.

Then I realized I had no purse, and either had to figure out a way to put on some panties in the car while driving (no), or somehow, smuggle them in to the salon. I folded them up like origami and stuck them in my wallet. When I got there, I asked to use the ladies' room, and ta-frikkin'-da, I was underpanted.

Good thing.

I got into the room, and was told "You take off pants". 'Kay. "Shirt". Allrighty. "Bra, too". And she stood there and waited. Thaaaaat coulda been awkward. Clean underpants in case of an emergency, CHECK!

She beat the crap out of me, and I feel wonderful.

All in all, a perfectly delightful morning.

Next week, we're Swedish

It's not that I'm not proud of being half-Danish.

I'm not even half-Danish. I just lived there and rubbed their scent on me, and they just assume I'm one of them -- much in the same way the boyfriend is convinced he's half-Brazilian. (He isn't. But it makes him happy.)

We both think we're black. Which is odd. But makes us perfectly matched, don'tcha think? He's the only Dane I know that can smoothly translate "You feelin' me?" into Danish and pull it off nicely. He thinks he's the Danish-Brazilian answer to Timbaland.

But I digress.

Ikea is finally opening in south Florida next weekend. People can start lining up on Monday, and tents and lawn chairs are permitted.

The single mom's arch enemy - The Time Monster

It's so bad, I don't even have time to write about it.

I realize that I can do approximately two things well at once. I can be a good parent, and I can hold down a job.

Or, I can be a good parent, and I can take care of myself. Taking care of myself involves going to the gym, getting to the dentist when my tooth cracks, having time to cook healthily, and/or getting enough rest.

Or, I can do three things on a mediocre level. I can sort of parent, kind of take care of myself, and make a half-hearted attempt at being a good employee. I alternate this with practically cleaning my house, and almost getting my car fixed. Let's say I've had two solid weeks of getting six half-baked activities practically accomplished. Mind you, I'm not really sleeping. Then, one of my friends breaks an arm, loses a parent, or has a kid's birthday.

Oh, fuck.

OK, so I can make an attempt at being a good friend, feed my kid microwaved and processed food, go the the gym twice, and get through the work I need to be doing by skipping two nights of sleep. (Not in a row. In order to balance everything else, I can't abuse drugs or Starbucks. It doesn't count if it was unintentional, like that time my doctor gave me Wellbutrin for PMS and I was up for 41 hours, but got a whoooole lotta of work done.)

But then I realize I have books that needed to go back to the library two weeks ago. And DVD's. So now I owe the library $50, and my car still isn't fixed, and I can't remember shit, because I haven't had a good night's sleep since 2003. And I still haven't mailed those get-well cards. Now my own kid has a birthday. And she gets several lovely gifts, most of which require assembly. With tools. OK, we cut out the gym one day. We put off going to the dentist. I can stick wheels on until 2am, but I'm definitely not doing laundry. The car will have to wait. Rewriting some web content will definitely have to go on the back burner until the weekend.

Oh, the weekend. Thank goodness for the weekend.

Except it's Sunday afternoon, and I have a week's worth of "oh craps" sitting in front of me...

Where's that Wellbutrin?

I'm sorry if I haven't sent you that get-well card yet, or a thank you card for all the support you've given me, or the fantastic gift you sent The Kid. I'm sorry if I haven't returned a phone call. Or two. I'm sorry if we haven't gotten together, or I keep rescheduling lunch because we've been sick, or suddenly it's Friday, and well past your lunch break.

I'm sorry. I don't mean it. I love you. I hope that we can still be friends, even if I'm having trouble keeping my head above water right now. It doesn't mean you're not incredibly important to me.

I'm really very tired.

My Kid Turned Three

I have a three-year old.

I took her to the zoo. Most of my photos are of slow-moving birds. Mostly, because the monkeys were a bitch to catch on film. And that tortoise? The tortoise was like a boulder with legs. Very camera-friendly.

She loved the carousel. She also loved the ice cream cake I made her. She doesn't know it took four hours to make. (Melted ice cream is slidy. Remember that piece of culinary wisdom.)

She spent a big chunk of her day covering paper (and my living room) in (washable) paint.

Not so tough NOW, are ya??

You know what's better than walking outside with the garbage and seeing your neighbor, who you can't stand, sitting on the curb in handcuffs surrounded by police cars?

Yeaaaaaah........

Nothin'!

S'me!

Once, when I was moving, I decided to finally delete all the old messages on my answering machine. There were about 90. About 45 of them were from Jackie, and as I was hitting "FORWARD", "DELETE", I realized that she said "Hey, it's me" at the start of every message. So I deleted every message but hers, and was then entertained for 3 minutes by:

Hey, it's me BEEP!
He-ey, it's... me-eeBEEP!
Hey it's me (muffled due to a lot of cheese in her mouth).... BEEP!
Hey, (cough, cough), s'me BEEP!
Hey, it's MEEE! BEEP.
Hey, it's me. BEEP!

Since then, she's tried to vary her voicemail messages - Hello, this is Jackie, Greetings, Good morning, Top o' the morning to you!, Hi Mary, etc.

But this weekend, I had a crappy weekend. I didn't pick up the phone. When I finally did, I had about 9 personal messages, all from different people.

And they all started "Hey, it's me".

And I realized how lucky I am to have people in my life that can leave a "Hey, it's me" on my voicemail - who know I'll recognize their voice, and smile.

Lucky.

:)

Fucked up in Florida

Yesterday I went to sleep for the first time in two days. Apparently, the Wellbutrin I just started taking for Mad Cow Disease (otherwise known as raging PMS) can lead to insomnia, possibly maybe.

FORTY-ONE HOURS LATER, I went to sleep for seven hours, until I was gently awakened by "I HAVE TO GO PEE ON THE POTTY!" and had several confused flashbacks to my college years until I realized it was the newly potty-trained Pee Pee The Kid.

During the worst of it ("Captain's Log, Stardate 42477.2 - I am talking into my right hand... at ...5am".) I decided to watch a film or two. The boyfriend had recently given me a stack of DVD's, because my favorite mental-break-me-time is losing myself in a two hour movie. Sadly, the movie I pulled out was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and I spent the next two hours enjoying my insomnia while feeling like I was on a combination of acid, cocaine, and mescaline, surrounded by my own hallucinations. I can only recommend you watch this film while well-rested. ("Captain's Log, Supplemental - We had ..no idea ...that Mary found Star Trek jokes so ...entertaining.")

Apart from a bad turn with the Night Crazies, I am feeling so much better. I took my rage out on my bathroom floor on Sunday, armed with a small brush and a bucket of diluted Mr. Clean. Why is Mr. Clean a man? Why isn't it Miss Clean? How many men have ever actually thought about cleaning and proactively gone out and purchased Mr. Clean? If pressed to clean, I'm sure a man would make do with shampoo on an old stinky sponge.

"What? It's good enough for your hair, but not good enough for our floor? Come on, its purpose is to clean. I did what you asked me to do. Lemme go watch the game."

Tune in next week when you'll hear Dr. Bob say....

Last week, the Kid and I were at the library, and I found a DVD set of the Muppet Show.

I haven't seen the Muppet Show in years, but it was the one show that my parents let me watch each week. The rest of the stuff I had to throw myself on the ground and cry for.

I put the DVD in, and it was like I was five years old again. I don't even think we had a color TV back then, so it was even better than when I was five. I realized that the reason my parents didn't mind me watching this was because the show had adult jokes that went right over my head - but most importantly, because it's really FUNNY! I must admit, that after I put the Kid to bed, I stayed up and watched the rest of it and laughed hysterically.

My parents acted like they were doing me some big favor. Now I know why they were really "letting" me watch.

They totally owe me a pony.

Just call me Ruth Marx

Today I made an appointment, refilled a prescription, purchased a birthday gift, chatted with friends, checked my bank account (always good for some comic relief) paid an electric bill, and watched a movie. On my computer screen.

If I didn't have a child, I might never leave the house.

I work from home. We've had bronchitis for three weeks, that got especially bad in the last week. I am rapidly becoming an agoraphobic.

Yesterday whats-his-name wanted me to look at a car he was thinking of buying while we were talking on the phone. He said, "Are you online?" Then mumbled "What am I saying, of course you're online".

Ruh row.

Why do I feel like he's caught me in my curlers?

Note to self: Get a tan.

Feverishly sexy, no?

I wouldn't say that bronchitis is all that bad. For instance, I can do a really great Tom Waits impersonation.

My First Spinning Class (Confessions of a Whiner)

As part of switching out my cardio, I went to my first Spinning class the other day.

Hoo, boy.

I instantly knew that I was the only one who had never been to the class previously, as everyone else attending looked like Anatomically Correct Man and Anatomically Correct Woman. They were wearing bicycle shorts, and stretchy tanks, and heart monitors on their wrists. And spinning shoes.

I felt like George Costanza in a terrycloth headband. But I was determined.

The instructor came over and introduced herself, and asked if I had been to a Spinning class before. As if that wasn't painfully obvious. She then helped me adjust my bike, and showed me the three positions they would be using. Then she clipped me into the pedals. (Shit!) The people on the bikes around me were already pedaling. I guess they were warming up. I wasn't warming up. It was a 50-minute class. If I started warming up, I could be finished before class even started.

She turned on the music and shut off the lights, and we started to pedal under a black light. I looked around, admiring how nice and crisp everyone's towel looked under the light. Then I noticed all the lint on my shirt. Oh, for fuck's sake. Well, now I'm distracted.

I tried to see if I could notice lint on anyone else's clothes. Either they were too far away and therefore, couldn't see mine, or I really am a mess. I really need to reorganize my entire life. I have closets I need to clean, I don't have Spinning shoes, my sleep hours are erratic, I should probably mend some fences in my family before everyone drops dead, I need a new couch, and now I have lint on my shirt.

"Turn up your resistance, and get into second position!" Miss 3% Body Fat shouted into her headset.

Everyone grabbed their handlebars and stood up. There was no way I was standing up. It had been like, eight minutes. I still have 42 to go. Pedal, pedal, pedal.

She walked around the room, checking everyone's heart rate monitors with a small flashlight. "If you don't have a heart rate monitor" she bellowed daintily, "check your breathing. You should be able to talk".

Girl, I could sing an entire frikkin' opera right now. You know why? It's been 9 minutes, and I'm imagining myself out for a nice ride out in the country.

She passed by me and gave me an emphatic thumbs-up.

Then my ass started to hurt. I haven't been on a bike in a long time. When the class stood up, I stood up. And it was difficult. Apparently, I have the world's biggest ass. I sat down again. Aaah. That felt temporarily better. But I think I have to pee. Yes, I have to pee. Should I go pee? No, they'll all smile smugly to themselves and think "Wow, newbie, eleven whole minutes?" I'm not peeing.

I have to pee I have to pee I have to pee I have to pee.

Now I think I have a urinary tract infection. I try standing up again. Ohhhh... better. I sit down. I should have peed before we started. If I didn't have a UTI before, I have one now. Screw this. I'm human. I'm going to the bathroom.

And then I realize I can't get my foot out of the pedal strap. Since the instructor did it, I have no idea what she did. It's like, sailing knots. And it's dark. And if I bend over, it puts pressure on my bladder. I try to gently slide my foot out, but it gets caught on my shoelaces. And suddenly, Spinning shoes make a whooole lotta sense.

I'm not sure, but I think I have a hemorrhoid. I can't tell, because my ass's gone numb, except for two points of bone that are jamming right into the rock hard seat. I have to pee I have to pee I have to pee. I wish I had one of those inflatable donut ass pillow things. And we're standing.

OK, fuck this.

I sit, I stand. I increase resistance. This is not so tough. I'm sweating. I'm drinking water. Hey, the water looks cool under the black light! Good thing I'm the Elliptical Queen. La la la la I love Aerosmith.

I made it. I'm breathing normally. I don't have a UTI or a hemorrhoid, but I will pee before the next class. I'm going back on Thursday.

:)

You should catch him when he stage dives, he might break a hip

I just got off the phone with my buddy Dan, who is four months older than me. We're 36.

Dan told me that last night, he went to an Incubus concert. It was great. However, at some point, he looked around, and suddenly realized he was old enough to be the father of many of the people around him.

And so, he officially became Old Guy. And through guilt of association, has dragged me with him.

We don't understand this. We were just 20 yesterday. And I realized, when you say things like "but I was just 20 yesterday...", you're done for.

But he continued to tell me that at the concert, when he mentioned to his beloved that he wanted a beer, his spouse's reply was "but it's a work night".

To which my immediate and unedited response was "EWWWWWWW!!!!", contentedly confirming my belief that my mental age rests somewhere around 12 1/2.

Which makes things seem stranger yet, when thinking about the boyfriend, who, next year, will be 40. Forty? Forty. I called Jackie.

"I can't get over the fact that I have a boyfriend who's going to be 40", I mumbled, still shell-shocked.

"And he's YOUR age", Jackie offered helpfully, with a mouth stuffed full of cheese, as usual.

Ah, shit.

Is 40 the new 20? Is black the new black? Does it matter that we work out all the time, curse more than our kids, listen to the same music they do, and his favorite thing to do is jump out of planes?

Sure, my pitching arm's still good enough that I could toss my panties up on stage at a Calle 13 show. Does it matter that they'd be gigantic leftover maternity panties?

No shit, Sherlock.

I hate these emails.

You're just adding to the problem, Mr. System Administrator.

Just adding to the problem.

Today's plan

gym
newsletter
promo training for property in Jamaica
SUBMIT EXPENSES!
follow up on contract emails
call tech team re: log-in issue
landing page content

Stay home and take care of sick monkey.

Relocating the office!

My neighbors have been fighting lately.

Knock-down, drag out fights where someone is usually outside my living room window, calling the other one an asshole.

It gets a little disconcerting, with my home office being in my living room, and most of my conference calls occurring over my fancy new speaker phone.

So this weekend, I relocated my office into my bedroom. I overestimated how much space my office was going to require, and joyfully got rid of a lot of useless crap in anticipation. My bedroom is now an open, airy, sparklingly fresh room, and I can watch my Danish DVD's on my flat screen monitor from my relocated, now feng shuically-correct bed. And I don't have to look guiltily at the dishes piling up in the kitchen sink.

And I can still hear the "ding" of incoming mail from the boss from the comfort of my pillow.

You can't beat that with a stick.

Now, if I can just get the neighbors to stop leaving love letters for each other with their fingers on the side of their own dirty car...

La la la la la la

Have you ever been so happy that even the darkest rages of PMS flitted past you like a tiny pink kite in the summer's ocean breeze? Of course, the 72lbs. of chocolate that I've consumed over the past couple of days have been of great assistance, but it just seems like everything has fallen into place.

I'm so happy I could pull on my sequined blue pantsuit and dance around.

(The Kid loves this song.) :)

My blissfully empty nest

Today, after two months of summer camp and two weeks off (aaaugggh), The Kid returned to daycare.

I had registered late, and she was put in a class with a teacher that I didn't know. I was afraid that I was being PMS'y, but after attending open house yesterday morning, and seeing that a majority of the kids in her new class were younger than her, and that the teacher seemed to pay more attention to the more mumbly boys (they understandably needed more attention, because they were less verbal), I spoke with the director and moved her to the class I originally requested. The teacher is Israeli, and very attentive. She listened to my request that the Kid's sugar intake be limited throughout the day due to my own hereditary adult issues with Insulin Resistance (last year, one of the teachers was handing out chocolate chip cookies for breakfast), and said she would do whatever she could to support me. And, better yet, her teaching assistant is the art teacher that stopped me last year to tell me the Kid was her favorite. :)

So the Kid couldn't be in a better class, and I'm deliriously happy I requested the switch.

This morning was magical. (Apart from the fact that I was carrying her backpack, her lunch bag, a banana, my purse, a pack of pull-ups, and the camera - but not the keys, and locked myself out of the house. I had to crawl back in through the living room window). It was magical because prior to this summer, I used to have to fling my kid out of the car window at 7:30, speed to work, work, and then speed back to pick her up, at which point she'd be starving, because it was 5:30pm. And all this in heels. I would glare at the other mommies standing around, sipping their lattes in their yoga pants, holding the keys to their Hummers, making plans to go get manicures after coffee.

"Am I the only one with a JOB?" I would wonder.

This morning, I rolled out of bed, pulled my hair into a ponytail, threw on my gym clothes, and took my kid to school. At 9am.

I may still very well be the only one with a job. But I am oh, so cool with that. I've realized that I have to work. I don't know what I would do with myself otherwise. While many of my girlfriends are Stay at Home Moms, and I love them and they love me, I have no idea how they do what they do. I can't imagine being at home with the Kid all day.

As Count Olaf says in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, I'm sorry, I don't speak... monkey.

My child likes to spin in circles until she falls over. She thinks snoring is fun. She eats things off the floor. She likes to tell everyone that she pooped. She dances to commercials. She does not like roasted fennel, or contemporary art, or fresh olives, or movies with subtitles. Everyone tells me that she speaks so well, and so clearly, but what they don't understand is that she has to. I'm a single mother, and I don't speak monkey. When she asks why she can't leave her toys strewn all over the grass in front of our apartment or throw garbage on the ground, I ask her if she can say "socially responsible".

"Socially asponsible" she peeps back at me.

When we're out together, I speak to her as if she was another adult. "What kind of lettuce should we get?" She points. "I don't like that one" I tell her. The red lettuce seems to spoil quickly. What about spinach?" "Yes, spinach." she says. "I like spinach". People passing by look at us strangely. She points at the other toddlers sitting in 7-foot long shopping carts shaped like small cars. "That's difficult to steer", she tells their parents. Meanwhile, their kids are muttering incoherently and trying to eat their own hands.

Don't get me wrong, I completely encourage the spinning in circles until you throw up thing, I just don't know what I would do with myself if I had to monitor that all day. I don't have the ability to be a SAHM. I used to feel bad about being a mom who enjoyed working and utilized daycare. Now I just feel like it really is the right choice for us.

Here's some photos of yesterday's walk in the park on a 1.5 mile nature loop, complete with runaway fiddler crabs and a sunning iguana:

Tor-tola, here I come...

Ya da da da da da....

Today, He Who Shall Not Be Named (no, not Voldemort. The [cough]... the [cough]... boyfriend) and I planned a little vacation.

We'll be in the (where else) Caribbean for five days - three days at my favorite hotel in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, and two days at some delicious-looking resort in Tortola.

That's right, I said Tortola.

Not tortilla.

Not Tommy Mottola.

Not Toyota Corolla.

Tor-tola.

Here's a photo:

YEAH, BABY!

RUNDETAARN! AAAHH!

I love it when my kid naps.

Mostly because I can watch old Dolph episodes on the internet.

But the beginning of this episode reminded me of Kara.

Of course, if you don't speak Danish and are mystified by the giant fascist hippo, it may not seem as funny. But he's walking through the Rundetaarn, a Round Tower in Copenhagen.

Here's my quick translation:
"Dolph is in the Rundetaarn.
Dolph never gets tired or exhausted – he never does.
Rundetaarn, you cannot be tougher than Dolph, with your many labyrinthical halls.
AAAAHHHH!
Dolph can walk many thousands of kilometers without a drop of water.
RUUUUUNDETAARN!
ARGHH!"










Kara went to the Rundetaarn.

It sounded like this:
Kara: There's an elevator, right?
Me: Sure!
Kara: Where's the elevator?
Me: Umm... I think it's right around the corner.
Kara: Come on, where's the elevator?
Me: It's right around the corner!
Kara: I'm not frikkin' kidding. Where's the elevator.
Me: I seriously think it's right around the corner. I saw it on the sign in front.
Kara: There's no elevator, is there.
Me: No.
Kara: I fucking hate you.