The highlight* (*and by highlight, I mean opposite of highlight) of my Mother’s Day was The Girl telling me she would like to start seeing a therapist.

In a way, this is sort of awesome, because… wow, better her sending herself to a therapist than me dragging her to one. Smart, self-aware girl.

But on the other hand, my baby feels like she needs therapy… from someone other than me.

I’m not trying to make this about me. Really. But as shitty as I feel about myself these days, this feels like a complete confirmation that I am a crappy mother whose  multiple carts of baggage have fucked up everyone.

… I’m going to get into bed before 11:00 so I actually have time to write instead of feeling like I want to collapse.

… I’m going to be able to spend ten minutes in the kitchen without someone walking in. (Yes, I do realize that walking in is a misdemeanor transgression at best, but because the dog lives in the kitchen, the act of entering involves opening and closing doors - or climbing over a baby gate, which I do, because it’s QUIET, for god’s sake - and anyway, I just want to be in the kitchen by myself.)

… I’m going to be able to walk into a bathroom, both and work and at home, and not find poop in the toilet.

… I’m going to be able to fit in my size 10 clothes. Or maybe my 12s. Or perhaps my 14s. Yep, it’s that bad. I can’t believe the toll this past year has taken on me. I’m rejoining the gym tomorrow.

… the world will come to its collective senses and eliminate the words “mommy makeover” from the lexicon. And perhaps eliminate mommies who get makeovers from my orbit. Or is that asking too much?

… I am going to not only buy cards for special occasions like birthdays and Mother’s Day, I am actually going to mail them. Perhaps even far enough in advance that the recipients receive them on, or prior to, said special occasion.

Conclusion from all of this? I am not a role model.

It’s feast or famine with this thing, isn’t it.

Lots going on here, most of it positive, I guess. Working ridiculously hard but having a nice amount of control over the where and when, so spending as little time in the office as possible.

Girlie’s birthday was today. Her party was last night  - six kids over, two of them adorable boys - and she was kind of a demanding, bossy pill who locked herself in the bathroom at one point. Thus confirming that drama-queeniness is hereditary. Today my mom and stepdad came down to take her/us out for fancy lunch/dinner and she was a sullen, lethargic pill. TEENAGERS, oh my.

Last Saturday, my dad sent me an email to let me know he was sending Girlie her birthday present and also including some family jewelry that my aunt was [finally] passing along to me. On Sunday, I had a massive guilt trip and decided that I would reach out to him and perhaps meet him for an afternoon in a neutral location. On Monday, he sent another email to let me know that he has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Because I was not feeling guilty enough, it seems.  I sent a quick “sorry to hear that” email back but haven’t sent the more heartfelt message yet. My conflict aversion knows no bounds. 

Nor does my complete lack of self-discipline, but that’s another post altogether. Enough for now.

*  Finally done with Anthropology.  Two more classes to go. Currently in my “Thesis” class which is “Disabilities Studies” and amazingly interesting even though the workload is staggering.  But I expeceted as much being 400 level and all.  After that I have a Philosophy course and I’m done with College. There will be no person ever happier to graduate than I shall be.  One word:  CAKE. 

*  My baby turns 5 on Tuesday and we had a party at the Arts Center planned for her and 7 little-girlfriends where they are going to make hearts and hands out of clay.  (I love our Arts Center, as would Homer).   Then at 12:30 last night, after crawling into bed with me, she started throwing up.  Yuck on so many levels including the rescheduling of the birthday party to next week and a huge juggling of the bakery order and 400 phone calls.  Not to mention laundry.   I am hoping this will teach her to roll-with-the-punches but I’m not sure that’s the life-lesson one should have to focus on around ones 5th birthday.  I was thinking more like “Barbie isn’t real”.

* Gabbos’ new job is rockin and his “medical condition” is so much better since the move.  His commute sucks worse but other than that it’s great.

* Sort of related to the last 2 points…Gabbos needs a new lot of undershirts - esp. now that he has a new, “nicer” job.  I know this because I put on one of his old ones at 1:00 last night after changing out of my night-shirt which the girl made “ick” all over.  The embedded man-armpit-smell wasn’t a huge improvement over “ick”.  I know…Gross….my life is….sorry…but yeah.  Anyway, must go to Marshall’s at some point over the weekend to replace everything in Gabbos’ undershirt drawer or I’m afraid he’ll get a bad reputation as “smelly guy” or something. 

 

And he’s permenantly parked his lazy ass in his mother’s basement.  BIL is 41 years old - just a few months younger than me, about 18 mos. younger than Gabbos.  He has never left home. He has had the same job, working for a printer, since he graduated high school.   There is no girlfriend although there seems to be a lot of a lot of first dates of the met-online variety.  Of course, I can’t imagine there is anyone out there who would want a 2nd date with “41-and-lives-with-mother-cliche-guy”.

Wednesday my SIL, “Selma”,  babysat for my kids while I hid and did homework.  Selma also lives at home with Mom and she’s essentially the caretaker, groundskeeper, driver, etc….a completely dysfunctional relationship but that’s the way they want it so I won’t gripe about that…not today anyway.  No, today I am bitching hard about BIL.

My rage was prompted when Selma brought over Mom’s retirement statements to have Gabbos take a look at because Mom - like anyone who has money invested these days - lost about 10% of her “portfolio” last quarter.  After a quick review of the statements, Gabbos estimates that Mom lives on about $1500/month, which isn’t a whole helluva lot. I’m sure it’s not Alpo-time or anything but it’s too bad she doesn’t really have any wiggle-room at this stage in life.  It’d be nice to splurge on dessert once in a while, right?  But here’s what gets me….BIL has NEVER, in the 24 years he’s lived there since high school ended,  paid ONE DIME to help out.  He buys his own food, I guess.  That’s it.  Said food is refrigerated by electricity paid for by Mom.  He watches cable TV paid for by Mom.  He is warm and clean thanks to heat and water provided by Mom.  He should AT LEAST be paying all the houses utilities.  He does not shovel snow or cut the grass…his sister does all those things.  I’m not sure he even takes out the garbage. 

I am so completely furious about this.  Gabbos says that Mom won’t take his money, but frankly it’s not like she’s hands on with the checkbook.  BIL could pony up a check for the utilities each month, which Selma could deposit without Mom even knowing! 

Now here’s where my obsession goes off on a tangent, but bear with me. I was trying to figure out why a person would chose to be such a worm. And I was wondering this while catching a little Anderson Cooper last night, which was mostly coverage of the Pope.  BIL was an altar boy for a priest who was convicted and incarcerated for child sexual abuse.  Gabbos is “sure” that BIL wasn’t abused by this convicted child molester who had full access and opportunity.  Gabbos’ reasoning is that if BIL had told their Dad the priest had touched him, Dad would have gone to the parish and killed the priest.  While I am sure that last part is absolutely true (my Father in law was a hard-ass iron worker that hung with Bikers), what Gabbos didn’t really recognize until we talked about it was that BIL would never have told Dad to begin with. I think that I read somewhere that the physical response to the abuse makes the victim feel such guilt and confusion that they rarely tell on their abusers.  So it’s crazy to assume BIL was absolutely never abused by someone we know to be a child molester. 

Ultimately I’m just looking for some reason - any reason - why BIL is such a jackhole.  So maybe I’d give him a pass if a priest touched his weiner.  Even so, I think he needs to start paying the effing utilities so that his 82 year old mother doesn’t have to resort to food stamps and Spam.  Just sayin’. 

Ah the weekend…also known as that endless block of time when I sit and painfully do homework.  I have not been able to score any Vicodin either, so it’s just miserable. I have 1 more week of this class and during this week I need to complete about 1/2 the course work because I’ve gotten so far behind.  However I have finally finally come up with a strategy…ignore the professor’s friggin RUBRICKS and just answer the damned essay questions and take whatever grade he gives me.  So it’s a 75?  I honestly don’t give a rat’s rip.  I need a D ladies and gentlemen.  A motherfuckin’ D to get the 3 credit hours so I can blow this pop-stand. 

I’ve come full circle.  I have tasted being a straight A student and it’s delightful. But I’m done.  I’m ready to be the frat-house partying gal of my youth.  Only now it’ll be Bunco parties on the 2nd Friday night of the month with a bunch of other middle-aged ladies and playdates at the pool with my 3 and 5 year old kids and a whole lot of other little brats (and presumably no keg).  I’m taking my degree, having it framed and then then shoving it in the back of my closet where it belongs!

The only thing I want out of this education at this point is PRESENTS. Mom and Dad better be getting ready to dig deep.  Preferably by paying off my student loans (fat chance) but if not then with a HUGE gift.  Also, my husband?  Big gift!  And a party!  And Cake!  Cake! CAAAAAAKKKKEEEEE!

Okay, I have to go back to my homework now.  Pfffttt.

Homer made it a month without drinking, and celebrated by drinking.

Not falling-down drunk, but happier and chattier than his normal Eeyore-like existence.

He says he wants to be able to go to the bar twice a week. I pointed out that he’s been going to the bar twice a week and drinking grapefruit juice and soda, and no one has jumped him in the parking lot to make him do shots.

I just don’t get it, and I guess I never will. I just need to keep remembering that this isn’t “Intervention,” it’s just an irritating habit.

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It’s been almost two years since I’ve seen my dad. He sent a chatty email earlier this week to see what The Girl wants for her birthday and I sent a chatty email back… but I got writer’s block when it came to the conclusion. Ordinarily I would say something like “see you soon” or “talk to you soon,” but I don’t really want to see or talk to him. Except I kind of do, because he is my dad, after all, even though he’s kind of a pompous ass who has made me nervous since I was three yers old. I’m pretty sure I don’t ever want to see my stepmother again; and Homer has made it clear that she’s not welcome in our house… so probably best to let this sleeping dog lie.

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I’ve had such a fantastic week working from home. I’ve been really relaxed and somewhat inspired and have been able to accomplish almost everything I needed to get done (two more little projects to finish over the weekend). I’ve slept till 7:30 every morning, haven’t worn a bit of makeup and probably saved about $25 in gas. The kids seemed satisfied with their low-key spring break. More, please.

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Signs of the post-bubble world, “DUH” category: Saw a Ditech commercial yesterday that advised us to make sure we can afford the payments before we take out a loan with them. Then heard today that Wachovia is actually going to start, like, verifying peoples’ incomes and assets before they give them mortgages. What a novel concept. (Bastards, the lot of ‘em.)

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I need a full-body scrub, an eyebrow wax, laser hair removal and emergency liposuction. I also chipped a front tooth (my mom was right, I shouldn’t use my teeth to open stuff) and now probably should get caps. I also want a new kitchen, hardwood floors, a new back porch with a deck, a new front entry and two updated bathrooms. All of which would be possible if I could just win the Powerball. What’s the holdup?

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I turned the air conditioner on last night for the first time this year, which may be a record. But it was 80 friggin’ degrees in the house and I was not going to have any of that. In our younger days, when we were really poor* (as opposed to now where we are kind-of-poor), I used to wait until the third week in June to turn on the air.

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Is any of this interesting? I don’t know.

I’m all about the capital letters these days…

Door #3 is going to be my new boss. In July, not January!

I’m cautiously optimistic. More optimistic than cautious for a change.

YAY!

School is killing me.  I’m fairly convinced that if it were not for school the other stressors in my life would be managable.  School, being the one thing in my life that is the MOST self-inflicted pain in my ass, I tend to blame it for everything.  But, lets face it, there is a reason the social order prescribes college, then family, not both at the same damned time.

Anyway, I’ve got 14 more weeks until I graduate.  Fourteen long, painful, tearful, suffering weeks during which I will probably feel as stressed and miserable as I have been for a while.  And since quitting isn’t an option,  I’ve been coming up with some pretty crazy desperate stategies to get me through:

1. Become a pot smoker.  I’ve never been a pot smoker before (so it’d be new!) - in fact I’ve only tried it a handful of times in my life.  I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t help me get good grades, but I’ll probably be more relaxed.
2. Go to the ER, tell them my herniated disc is in spasm, and get a prescription for Vicodin.  Now, my back is fine for once, so I’d have to do some acting, but seeing as how I’ve actually gone to the ER for actual back pain, I know the drill and know it’d be fairly easy, although a bit time consuming.  I also know that when I’m on Vicodin I’m not only happy and relaxed but I’m efficient and tireless. Of course the constipation and itching is a downside, but I might be willing to deal with.
3. Run away from home.  Oh, wait…I have no income.  And I’m too old to be a hooker.
4. Find someone I could PAY to do the rest of my homework assignments.  Especially if they would take a credit card.

The woman who ended up getting the job at the Little College is a friend of a friend. We had coffee once and hit it off, and although we never got together again I seem to have made it into her contacts. So tonight I received a warm and chatty email blast that talked about how much she loves her new job and how glad she is that they took a chance on “the corporate girl.”

And because this has nothing to do with me personally, really - I mean, how could she know - I am taking the high road and sending her a warm and chatty email back. Even if it kills me.

That’s what guitar heroes do, after all.