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.