Stumbling Towards Perfect

Tonight is Book Club. That's what we call it. Even though it's not mandatory that you actually read the book. Or any book for that matter. Heck, you don't even have to know where to get a book. Don't get me wrong, most of us read books - and sometimes they're even the book that was suggested for the actual book club monthly meeting, but mostly we're there for the wine. Which is necessary when trying to run away from the hecticness which is called  Being A Mom .  It's pretty much the only place I can go that doesn't require a diaper bag and for that reason alone I refuse to miss it. I used to fix dinner and make sure the girls' homework was done before I left, but now I just leave them to their own devices. I'd be a hypocrite if I forced them to eat a healthy dinner while I feasted on cucumber dill sandwiches and a chilled Riesling. Being a memeber of a Book Club is mandatory for survival, especially if you're a working mother. Not just fo...

There we were, Big V and I, sitting peacefully side by side, grinning like maniacs because (1) The Bean was not at home, (2) Dotter was exhausted and taking a nap in her bedroom, and (3) Cletus was playing on the rug in front of us, blissfully unaware of our presence. Life was good. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Like the calm before the storm. "HE POOPED!" V screamed. And yes, I mean screamed . Not spoke loudly. Not yelled. Not bellowed or shouted. He screamed. Perhaps even shrieked. "HE POOPED!" he screamed again, jumping up and at least three feet away from the baby. I stared at V as he stood pointing a shaking finger at the innocent little bundle of joy who was our son. "OH MY GOD! LOOK AT IT!" Sure enough... up the back of his diaper, down the side of the leg. Oh. My. God. Suffice it to say, V and I do not handle emergency situations well. " Do something!" "Me? What about you ?" "Why me?" "You've b...

I sympathize with the writer who struggles with a small chest . Boys can be cruel. Especially those idiot ones in high school. I was a barely budding high school senior, so you can imagine the horror I went through. I was so self-conscious of my chest. My sister was the complete opposite of me: tan, full of curves, radiant. I very much resembled a stick. With a potato for a head. My sister was worldly and knowing where I was awkward and clueless. My sister had bras from Victoria's Secret where the only things that fit me were those cotton training bras from ShopKo. (I took off the little pink bows to make them appear more womanly.) One summer day, my sister and I lounged lazily around the family room flipping through magazines and television stations. I picked up a Victoria's Secret magazine, studying the plethora of choices. (Yes, plethora, noun: overabundance; excess.) And the multitude of sizes... sizes I had never seen before. HUGE sizes and -  ...small ones. What's...

To start off with, I was totally congratulated on my pregnancy. A big, excited, "I see congratulations is in order!" complete with extended arm finger pointing at my paunch. Except I'm not pregnant. And it's unlikely I ever will be if Cletus keeps up the Every Hour Through The Night I'll Scream Out In Obvious Pain And Then Keep Screaming While You Comfort Me For The Next Twenty Minutes shit he's been pulling lately. Not that I blame him. The kid's stuck in a cage. With teddy bears doing somersaults all the way around him like some sort of Grateful Dead Infant Tribal Dance. I'd take the bear crib bumper out of there but I can't. The sitter gave it to him. She insisted that he needed something "for a baby" in his crib, that the eco-friendly breathable crib bumper (that matched perfectly with our decor) was not encouraging happy slumber. Now he can't sleep because he thinks he pissed off Jerry Garcia and he's about to be attacked by ...

This just in... The Bean has a personality just like me ! (As if I didn't know that was the reason we're constantly butting heads.) Any-whoo... So I'm sitting at work when my cell alerts me I have a new text message. It's from the Bean - and it's a video... Obviously, it's important.

No, your lasagna is not that good. In fact, it's anything but good. Actually, after thinking about it, it cannot even be considered lasagna at all. Layers of noodles, jarred spaghetti sauce and prewrapped slices of Velveeta cheese is not lasagna. It's just meatless spaghetti with really wide noodles. And prewrapped slices of Velveeta cheese. No matter how many layers you add, it's still not lasagna. So stop trying. And while we're on the issue of stopping, please stop baking steak. Cuts of steak are beautiful. But not when thrown on a cookie sheet into a 350-degree oven. Just stop.

Today I was requested to attend a private meeting. An attorney requested our department's time and advice in a private meeting. So, my co-worker and I attended this private meeting. Did I mention it was a  PRIVATE meeting? Private meetings are held at the request of a potential buyer who wishes to research options before purchasing a property. Sometimes they have wild ideas and you kind of have to reign them in and explain zoning restrictions. I'm sorry, sir, but a twenty story water park with an adjacent nuclear power plant next to the daycare center you're proposing just isn't going to work. More often than not, they're usually a normal person who just doesn't want to deal with the rumor mill quite yet. Sometimes they just don't want people to know their business. And so, the private meeting was scheduled. Now, I ask, would you take it upon yourself to join in a private meeting that you weren't invited to? Would you invite two additional fri...