Reason Why I Am The Worst Mother in the World:  When my almost 9-year old son said, “Oh, mom!  Tomorrow is the deadline for the Science Fair!” I said, without pause, “Oh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re not participating in the Science Fair.”  (Had he not noticed he failed to pick out a project?  Had he done any work?  Uh, no.)  So, I declared him a non-participant.

Why?  Because:

1)  I hate science fair projects.  All the moms (and maybe some dads) do all the work.  What’s the point?

2)  I hate extra work.  Isn’t schoolwork during school hours enough?

3)  I am lazy.  Did I mention I hate Science Fairs?  I hate experiments.

Reason I Am The Dumbest Mom in the World:  When the water pressure in my shower fizzled, I figure it was a costly repair, probably a pipe about to explode, maybe a faucet in need of an expensive fix.  A handy friend came by to take a look at our problem.  Yeah.  Turns out that a little filter in the shower-head was clogged with mineral deposits.  He untwisted it, pulled out the filter, said, “I usually throw these things away,” and voila!  My shower-head now pulses with power.  I will be able to thoroughly rinse my hair out in the morning, unlike the past four mornings when I’ve huddled under a trickle of hot water.  I may even shave my legs.

Reason I’ll Be Able to Redeem Myself Tomorrow:  Heart-shaped pancakes.  Heart-shaped pizzas.  Homemade heart-shaped butter cut-out cookies. 

I am deeply uncool. Tragically unhip. Which explains why I had to use the “closed captioning” feature of the television last night while watching the Grammy award show.

There I am, listening carefully, trying to understand . . . “rocks and . . . red light” . . . what? So, that’s when I turned on closed captioning and saw that the song was about Roxanne . . . . put on the red light . . . Roxanne . . . put on the red light . . . Roxanne . . . put on the red light . . . Roxanne . . . put on the red light. Which still made absolutely no sense to me. I am out of touch with coolness. (I read the lyrics now and understand. But still.)

I did however totally love Corinne Bailey Rae. And I thought Carrie Underwood was lovely and sang beautifully. See? I like singers who sing words that are intelligible and comprehensible. I’m a fuddy duddy.

* * *

I saw two teenage boys step off a city bus the other day wearing the tightest “skinny” jeans I’ve seen on a boy since I was in college back in the eighties. They couldn’t have been any more form fitting if they were tights. And so the fashion swings back from “loose and baggy” to “leaving nothing to the imagination.” I’m glad my teenagers are as uncool as I am . . . they can’t be bothered to understand what is cool and what is uncool. They are too busy playing war in the back yard with Nerf guns.

* * *

Do you close your eyes at the dentist? I leave mine wide open, staring up the nostrils of the dentist and his assistant. Or gazing into the glaring light or studying the ceiling. I’m sort of afraid I’ll fall asleep if I close my eyes.

So, what about you? Eyes open or closed?

————-

Updated to say two things:

1) Yes, two of you have noticed that not only am I tragically unhip now, but I was also equally unhip twenty years ago when The Police first recorded that ridiculous “Rocks and” (okay, “Roxanne”) song. Hey! I went to Bible College, you know, and secular music was Of The Devil, you know. I would never have listened to it. (Unless it was Dan Fogelberg.) So, you caught me. I was uncool then and I’m uncool now.

2) Okay, I took poetic license. My dentist–a really gentle, kind guy–and his assistant both wear masks. I couldn’t have seen up their nostrils if I had tried. I did study the assistant’s eyelids and envied her unsaggy lids–she’s quite a bit older than me (grown kids and close to retirement), but yet, her lids aren’t all droopy like mine.

My day began at 4:00 a.m. when my 4-year old daughter pushed open my door and said, “Mommy, can I sleep with you?”  I mumbled, “Yes, climb in,” and she did.  She assumed her rightful position, curled up with her legs firmly pushed against my spine and began to cough and wiggle.

That delight lasted until 5 a.m. when I bolted upright in bed and said, “Okay!” and she whimpered, “But I don’t want to sleep in my bed!”  I replied in a fog of delirium, “I don’t care what you do . . . you can lay on your floor and watch a show!”  She agreed to this unexpected offer with glee and I turned on Nick Jr., covered her with her Dora blanket and turned off her bedroom light. 

I didn’t think I’d be able to go back to sleep, but I did, only to be awakened at 6:15 a.m. when my husband woke up to prepare for his usual early-morning Friday breakfast with a few guys.  At 6:45 a.m. he told me, “It’s 6:45,” and I agreed and decided to sleep for five more minutes, as if that would help.

At precisely 6:50 a.m., I rolled out of bed, pulled on a giant hooded sweatshirt, 10-year old velour pajama pants and my glasses, grabbed my pillow and went downstairs to lay on the couch and wait for the doorbell to ring.  The schoolchild that we’re providing before-and-after-school care for arrived at 7:00 a.m. on the dot.  His mom is almost exactly my age and this boy shares a birthday with my boy.  But this morning, we had virtually nothing in common–her hair had benefited from a curling iron and she was wearing a cute outfit for work, while my hair was an uncombed tangle and I looked like I’d just stumbled from bed.  Which I had.  She kind of laughed, but I do not take that personally.  I am a mess in the mornings.  

I showed the boy into the living room where he watched television while I crawled back into bed for fifteen more minutes of sleep.  Then I woke up my son so he could get ready for school.  I prepared breakfast for him, combed his unruly hair, signed a permission slip and gave him popcorn money.  The boys left for school a little after 8 a.m. and I took a shower.  For some reason, our water pressure in the shower has, without warning, slowed to a trickle.  I am afraid to investigate the reason for this because what if I have to call the plumber again?  That can’t be good. 

But I couldn’t wash my hair because it would have taken a few hours to rinse the suds from it.  But don’t tell.  I don’t look that bedraggled.  Compared to a homeless person.

My older sons are coughing up lungs and sneezing out their brains, so we hurried through schoolwork as quickly as we could.  They are playing computer games and Nintendo in their room now, so theoretically, they are well enough to do more schoolwork, but I had developed one of those lack-of-sleep headaches, plus I didn’t want them to sneeze on me anymore.

My daughter napped for a good two or three hours on the couch.  I ate two ibuprofen tablets and drank three cans of Diet Coke, so I will live.

And this concludes today’s episode of Mel’s Blog.

What is going on?

First, 43-year old Lisa Nowak drives 900 miles wearing diapers so she can abduct and possibly murder another woman? 

Then, 39-year old Anna Nicole Smith is found dead in a hotel room?

Next, you’re going to tell me that mothers across America drink alcohol when they get together for play dates with their children!

I hatched a plan this afternoon while my ears were bleeding from the shocking amount of noise my four children produced.  When my husband arrived home at 5:30, I had my shoes laced up, a clean shirt on and my computer tucked into a bag. 

I went to the local Barnes & Noble which has an attached Starbucks.  I thought I’d work for awhile on a small writing project I have.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t get my computer connected to the Internet there.  I’ve never tried to do that before.  So, I went to the library and did my work there (still with no Internet).  I need to figure out the whole finding-WIFI-while-out-in-the-world-thing.

Working in the murmuring quiet of the library was lovely.  Staring at my reflection in the window was not quite as pleasant–outside in the rainy dark, headlights slid by, a traffic light shone red, then green, and I could see my naked face and somewhat frizzy hair in the window.   But I did get some work done, despite the distractions of my face staring back when I looked up from the computer in contemplation and thought.   

Then, I browsed the library shelves a bit, and then stopped by the store to buy some milk and other provisions before returning home at 9:00 p.m. 

I timed that so I would not have to put my daughter to bed. 

When I got home, I exercised–the amazing power of an exercise streak left me no choice–while reading P.D. James’ autobiography (checked out from the library last weekend–I am so thrifty!).  I am loving the book for so many reasons.  A glut of P.D. James murder mysteries is undoubtedly in my future.  I have several of her novels already on my shelves, just waiting. 

And with that, apparently, I’ve run out of things to say.  It’s nearly time for David Letterman and I need my beauty sleep. 

The End.

Today turned out to be a four-cans of Diet Coke with Lime kind of day.  It was a find-and-eat all the dark chocolate in the house sort of day.   This was a day in which I hollered so loudly that my throat hurt, a day in which I crumpled a pile of papers into a ball and threw them with some venom onto the kitchen floor while shouting at my son, “I HATE THIS!”  I marched out of the room, straight through the laundry room and into the boys’ bathroom where I realized I was trapped and thus, I had to emerge sooner rather than later.

This was a bad day.  I blame pre-algebra.  Also, my hormones.  And attention deficit disorder and whatever processing disorder my son has which makes it easier for him to forget than to remember.  I blame the number 17 and the number 51 and the sneaky relationship they have with one another.  I blame the weather and the trajectory of the moon and February.  I blame the dentist and the virus in our house that makes me youngest son cough day and night.  I blame bad luck and the grimy carpet and Hillary Clinton.

At least it’s over. 

My husband didn’t return until nearly 7:30 tonight from his workday–some days are long like that–and I’m not sure which of us were more wiped out. 

Tomorrow is a new day.  Tomorrow, I will not yell.  I will smile and cheer and do six cartwheels across the kitchen floor.  I will not eat chocolate (I ate it all today).

Okay, I’m finally getting around to giving away that book I promised (Children of Men by P.D. James).  The lucky winner is Kismet! 

Meanwhile, I read Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale.  If you haven’t read it yet (published in 1986) and you are up for a feminist view of a world gone awry (thanks to fundamentalist religious nuts), let me know and I’ll send this book your way.  Leave a comment before tomorrow night (Tuesday night) and I’ll try to get both these books out at the same time.

Also, does anyone want Pat Conroy’s A Losing Season?  Although it’s about his basketball team’s losing season (his senior year at the Citadel), it’s a memoir of sorts, beautifully written.  I know virtually nothing about college basketball, but I enjoyed this book.

Leave a comment, mentioning which book you’d like and why I should pick you.  (It’s more fun to pick a winner from comments than to do it randomly, so this time, I’ll do the choosing myself.)

I have these two really stupid friends. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to shake them. I avoid them, sneer at them, treat them rudely, yet still, they hang around. They’re sucking the life out of me like a couple of starving leeches. I know! Why would these two hang around when I show them no love?

My two so-called friends are Self-Doubt and Jealousy. I looked around today and realized that they are still here, whispering in my ear, reminding me that I am nothing special, that I am a giant empty cup with a chipped rim.

Self-Doubt is the worst because she’s quiet, muttering under her breath all the time, giving me ideas, bad ideas, dim ideas about myself. I can’t help but overhear, can’t help but wonder if she’s not right, even though she doesn’t look me in the eye and pretends that she wants what is best for me. She acts like a protector of sorts, like she’s providing me some great service by standing between me and the world.

Jealousy is a loud mouth, the kind of girl that just won’t shut up. She smacks her gum and rolls her eyes and shines a high-wattage spotlight at my neighbors and at my friends, highlighting their stuff, their accomplishments, their emerald green lawns without the blemish of a single dandelion. I try to ignore Jealousy and walk into the other room, but she follows me, taunting me, asking me if I’d like a Coach purse, one of those soft leather ones . . . and I don’t even care about purses, but this purse, this unobtainable purse, the purse other women with defined lips carry, somehow, after she talks about it, I want that purse. I wonder why I don’t have that purse. What mistake did I make that I ended up here, in this family room where the carpet needs to be shampooed, without a Coach purse?

I DON’T EVEN LIKE PURSES!

She moves on to things I want, things I dream about, things I think might be nice. A vacation in a warm place. A smaller pair of jeans than I can zip up now. A book contract. Children who instantly obey and never complain about putting their stinky shoes in their own room. Whatever I have, whatever I’ve accomplished, whatever I love pales in comparison to the shiny baubles she swings in front of my eyes. Instead of being pleased for other people, Jealousy suggests that I am diminished by their joy, which is a lie straight from the pit of hell, yet a lie that I roll around in my head like a silver marble.

With friends like these, who needs Satan?

At least I see beyond their straight teeth and glossy hair and recognize these two for what they are. Jealousy and Self-Doubt are poison, the kind of poison that looks pretty and tastes sweet, but which will burn my tongue like hot sauce and sear my soul like a toxic acid.

I am a blessed woman, a thankful woman, a woman who will push open an unlocked door and walk through it without fear. (God, please open some doors!) I am grateful.

Perhaps I ought to change the locks to keep out the lowlifes.