Friday, May 7, 2010

Mother's Day and All That Jazz

Mother's Day is Sunday. I'm a mother. I guess I should be looking forward to this, but the truth is, I'm not.

I don't want to be home this weekend. I don't want to have to fight with the Bean about how yes, she does actually need to clean her room, whether it "works" for her or not. I don't want to listen to her ranting and going on and on about how bored she is, or how ridiculous I am, or how dumb her sister is. I don't want to have to sit through her insulting every member of the family until one of her friends calls her and asks her to hang out and then suddenly she switches personalities mid-thought into happy, cheerful, and I have to pretend to not be confused and stressed about her mood swings.

I don't want to be home and stand in front of mountains of dirty laundry, and unswept floors, and dirty dishes and the fact that no matter how many times I ask people to take off their shoes on the rug, they still feel the need to leave them in the doorframe of the kitchen, where they stood supported while they kicked them off.

I don't want to watch hours upon hours of the Disney Channel. I want to trade Hannah Montana in for any  Law & Order actor, regardless of how scary and inappropriate that show might be for an 8-year old.

I don't want to change diapers, or spoon fruit, or fix bottles, or give baths, or wipe up baby vomit.

I don't want to pay bills, or worry about paying bills, or pretend not to think about the bills when clearly, I'm thinking about them.

I want to get my hair done. And my nails. And get a pedicure while sipping wine and laughing with my friends. I want to go out to dinner with girls only because guys just don't get why I'll be so unbelievably proud that I managed to shave my entire leg and not just around the ankles so I could throw on a pair of heels.

I want to go dancing and drink fruity drinks and laugh so hard my ribs hurt.

I want to be at least twenty pounds lighter than I am and look like I did before I had the baby. I want to wear the clothes I wore before I had the baby.

I want to stay up late and fall into bed utterly exhausted with a smile on my face, with the only explanation being, "That DJ rocked!" I want to sleep until noon and pull on sweats and watch Sweet Home Alabama for the 678th time uninterrupted. I want to pull on a hat and meet a friend for a late lunch before I go home, shower, and get all dolled up again.

*sigh*

As much as I appreciate the Hallmark cards and the tissue paper covered vase, I really just want a Mother's Day that gives me a break from being a mother. I suppose that makes me about the worst mother in the world.

Purlpe Pain

At work, as in life, one should find joy in the simple things. Like writing with purple pens.

It started innocently enough. We have this insufficient database that we totally overpaid for and it basically is as effective as vacuuming your living room carpet without the hose-sucker-upper-thing connected. Anyway, last year I jotted my important info the inefficient database spits out at me in red ink on all my reports. This year I thought I'd jazz things up a bit by using purple ink. The purple makes me happy. Distracts me. "I hate this stupid program, it doesn't even work right - hey, Purple Pen! I missed you! You're so pretty..." I even purchased three identical pens, thinking what would happen if I ran out of ink in June and they discontinued my pen of choice? See, I was thinking ahead.

What I didn't think ahead about is what would happen if my purple ink plan caught on. Like, what if someone I didn't necessarily care to be associated with liked my purple pen and went out and bought one just like it, so they, too, could write in purple. And now we're like some sort of sorority sisters where purple is our identifying gang -- ... er, uh, club color. I'm way too antisocial for the "oh, how cute. You both use purple pens" commentary. Next thing you know we'll be wearing matching outfits and swapping handmade gifts. A purple bulletin board for you, and a vase with a purple ribbon for me! Yippee! I'm so excited I could just squeal myself to death!

I don't want to be President of the Purple Pen People. I want to be the sole member. I can't kick this person out. I mean, let's be honest, I'm a little old for the "I had it first" argument. (But I really did have mine first! Copy catter.)

Do I switch colors mid-year? I'm too OCD for that. I can't just switch colors mid-year. I'll hyperventilate. I'll have to start breathing in brown paper bags every time I reach for a green pen knowing the other reports are inked in a different color. I wouldn't make it more than three weeks tops.

This is seriously bad for my health. I think I might need to take some time off; a sort of medical sabbatical. A mental health extended vacation. I wonder where the Request For Leave forms are kept... I'll fill it out in purple...

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Mow & Blow, Baby. Mow & Blow.

Tall Overbearing Bald Guy: [obviously angry and annoyed] When is it illegal to mow and blow?

ME: [umm... when it's videotaped with a minor?] Excuse me?

TOBG: Don't you have some rule that says people can't mow and blow their lawns at ridiculous, ungodly hours of the day?

ME: [Ah, we're talking about lawn maintenance!] Unfortunately we do not. However, many private associations have rules governing such activity so you should check with the association.

TOBG: [increasingly loud & angry] I don't care about other associations! I only care about where I live!

ME: That's fair. Except I don't know where you live.

TOBG: [ignoring me, getting louder] People shouldn't just be allowed to mow and blow whenever they want.

ME: [distracted by the knowledge the term "mow and blow" has been used three times in less than a minute, and all I can think of now is low budget porn] .... Uh, well, you can contact the police department with a noise complaint. I assume a neighbor is doing yardwork at an unreasonable hour?

TOBG: [yelling loud, red in face, some spit can be seen flying] My idiot neighbor is out there mowing his lawn at 6 o'clock at night! I can't hear the nightly news! I've got to SHUT MY WINDOWS to hear the damn T.V.! What the hell is he doing mowing the lawn and blowing yard clippings that late at night?!

ME: [6 o'clock is late?!] Well, I actually work full time until five, so that's actually when I mow my lawn.

TOBG: [pausing] .... Well.... How am I supposed to know if he works full time?.... Anyway, he knows I watch the news every night at six. He should be considerate of that! I guess I'll just have to call the police since you refuse to help me!

ME: Yes, I think that would be your best bet. [silently thinking, "Thank God you'll be THEIR problem now!"]

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Mum's the Word!

Were you just about to call the police to try to locate me? I haven't gone missing... I've just been stuck with writing material. Ever since I promised Big V I wouldn't print hate-blogs about his stupid dog I'm at a loss. I can't tell you about how V had to reinforce the dog cage again. And again. And again. (Including his creative use of chairs, mops and vacuums - don't ask, because I can't tell you.) I can't tell you about the dog getting out of not only his pen but the actual house, or how Big V woke to the dog barking in the back yard, patio door wide open, and Satan hosting his own doggie party. I can't tell you about coming home and finding the dog sleeping peacefully on our bed, with the bedroom door shut, and his dog pen in the exact same order it was when we left. How he's getting over a 6 foot wall I have no idea. (That's how tall we reinforced it. There's cement board, plywood, duct tape, deck screws - you name it, it's in there.) But I can't tell you about any of it. And it's killing me that I can't say anything.