TGIF

Ooo, a weekend! I'm so excited. I'm a little hesitant to tell you what we're doing, because I don't want to make anybody jealous. But I can tell you're dying to find out, so read on:

Friday
No school. God, I hate no-school days. This morning will be tolerable. It's the afternoon that's a bitch. However! Because I'll still harbor some fantasy that I'm borderline-competent, maybe when Caleb is napping we'll do something fun! and together! that good moms do with their kids, like make cookies!!! Which will be really fun for, like, two minutes and 29 seconds until Evan starts whining about how he wants a cookie before the oven is even heated and Jensen starts telling him to shut up and then they argue about who gets to help and somebody drops an egg on the floor and then I discover we're out of flour and Evan is still whining and Jensen thumps him on the back of the head and I start yelling which wakes up the baby who then screams for the next 45 minutes and I can get nothing else done and when Jeff (finally!) gets home the kitchen is a disaster, I'm a stark-raving bitch and two-thirds of the kids are crying and Jensen is big-kid surly and there are no cookies and I'm cracking open a beer.

Okay. So much for Friday. Let's move on.

Saturday
I already hate Saturday. This morning Jeff leaves at 5:45am and won't return until Sunday. This day? Is the reason that God invented television and McDonald's. I will wake up Saturday morning already having abandoned any thoughts of competency. I suck. This is the day that I probably won't even take a shower. Doesn't matter, though, because I won't see another human being besides the children, who don't notice whether I get to eat, much less groom. My only adult interaction will occur on Facebook, which I will check compulsively but will have me in a total funk by about 12:30 pm because nobody is sending me messages because everyone else has a life.

And because I'm the sole parent here I won't even be able to drink. I'll have to self-medicate with large amounts of Doritos and left-over Halloween candy.

The only things that could make Saturday any worse would be a trip to Super WalMart, an outbreak of explosive diarrhea, or maybe a traumatic amputation.

Bleh.

Sunday
Soon after breakfast, Jeff comes home. Yea! Today has to be better, right?

Hell, no. Because you know what I get to do this afternoon? Accompany Evan to a preschool birthday party. Betcha can't guess where? Oh, all, right: Chuck E. Cheese's. Which was invented by a germ-loving, parent-hating, bioterrorist crackhead who makes the worst pizza in the world. I don't even think the place has a liquor license, which means I'll have to take a flask. I think if I fill it with peppermint schnapps the other moms probably will just think I'm chewing gum to make my breath so minty-fresh and won't suspect it's because I'm hiding out behind the whack-a-mole game doing shots. I'll try to make it behind the ski-jump-thing to curl up and pass out.

So, yeah, that's the plan. I feel a little better, having gotten this off my chest. But still: it's gonna be a long-ass weekend. Feel free to send prayers. Condolences. Benzodiazepines. Whatever.

What financial crisis?!

This could be the day that our financial system collapses for good, and nobody even understands what that could mean, and I'm scared.

That was my first thought this morning. Good morning, me!!!

It was closely followed by these thoughts: There may or may not be a presidential debate tonight, when we all need to consider our election choices very carefully. Great. (Let's hear it for strong, thoughtful leadership.) Oh, and PETA wants to use human breastmilk for Ben & Jerry's.

The world is falling apart. And I stubbornly refuse to write about it. (What could I possibly say, really?) Instead, I'm doing this meme I picked up from Sunshine, who is simultaneously funny and thought-provoking. (And she was totally my inspiration to write my very own blog.) I like the way she does memes: take it if you want it. But no obligation.

Anyway, the world is falling apart, and I thought this was fun:

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME (first pet, current car): Chocolate Odyssey

2. YOUR GANGSTA NAME (fave ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe): Vanilla Flip-flop

3. YOUR NATIVE AMERICAN NAME (favorite color, favorite animal): Orange Goldfish

4. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME (middle name, city where you were born): Kay Oskaloosa

5. YOUR STAR WARS NAME (the first three letters of your last name, first two of your first name): Meete

6. SUPERHERO NAME (2nd favorite color, favorite drink): Pink Gin

7. NASCAR NAME (the first names of your grandfathers): Harold Forest

8. STRIPPER NAME ( the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy): Love Twizzlers

9. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME (your fifth grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter): Davis Denver

10. SPY NAME (your favorite season/holiday, flower): Autumn Rose

11. CARTOON NAME (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now): Strawberry Pajamas

12. HIPPIE NAME (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree): Coffee Cypress

Now I'm going to read the news. Maybe I'll have something more than coffee for breakfast first....

Update: My gangsta name is the lamest ever. Ever. "Vanilla Flip-flop?" I cannot imagine anything more bland. Samantha kindly jolted my memory and reminded me how much I love Cherry Garcia ice cream (but only if it's not made with breastmilk). So I'm considering a gangsta name change: Cherry Garcia Stiletto. I really don't wear stilettos, but I'm pretending to be glamorous and/or sexy. It's my blog. I can do that. Oh, and since I've eaten, I could change my hippie name to Eggo Cypress. I could go either way on that one. (Maybe the whole vanilla-name-thing was accurate, after all.)

At least he had a designated driver

Jensen flopped forward in his chair and giggled. I hauled him back up and wiped the drool off his chin. He flopped forward again. And he found this to be very funny. Lots of giggling. Followed by more flopping. While he was hanging limply forward, he noticed that the floor was actually moving. "Mom, the carpet's rolling." At least that's what I think he said. He was slurring. Badly.

My kid (age seven) was wasted. Loaded. Blotto. We were having a great time.

Not very often a parent says that, huh?

But before anybody calls child protective services, Jensen had some dental work (crowns) done yesterday. Under general anesthesia. Yuck. Oh, and before anybody else calls child protective services, I feel like I should point out that these crowns were NOT the result of us putting him to bed with a baby bottle full of Mountain Dew every night until he was five. Not that there's anything wrong with that... well, yes there is. Anyway, the dental problems had something to do with medication that he got at birth that interfered with tooth development. Not bad hygiene.

And, if you've read what I've written about my kids' teeth before, it might strike you that, on a symbolic level, this could send me into overdrive. I'm proud to report that I stayed sane, steadfastly refusing to overanalyze this.

But I digress.

In the waiting room, about 20 minutes before his procedure, they gave him a "kiddie cocktail" (as the perky nurse called it) consisting of benzodiazapines to "relax" him. It worked, emphatically. (And if this is a "kiddie cocktail," I do not want to know what's in the adult version.)

My first indication that he was in trouble was when I looked at the picture he was drawing. It was a borderline-psychedelic scribble of red lines. He told me it was something about a cannon and his name. Okay, then.

Then the giggling started. And would not stop. Except he had no muscle tone, so instead of sounding like laughter, it was just a fuzzy "eh eh eh eh eh...."

After he repeatedly slid out of his chair, I pulled him onto my lap (god, he's getting big) and restrained him with both of my arms. That's when he noticed the tv. Rachael Ray was on. He was transfixed. After several seconds of open-mouthed staring, he whispered/slurred conspiratorily, "Mom, don't tell anyone, but there are two Rachaels on tv." I became a little worried we were headed into bad-trip-land, because she is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. But he was okay with it. It made him giggle. Even more.

I had laughed until tears spilled down my cheeks, which made him giggle even more. Everyone in the waiting room was laughing. Office staff had come out to watch. He was sloppy. Then the anesthesiologist had to carry him back to the OR. Jensen certainly wasn't walking anywhere, and I wasn't up to carrying a 60-pound octopus. The doctor just laughed and said, "Buddy, you're trashed." He put Jensen in the dentist's chair, where the kid promptly passed out cold. Done.

He doesn't remember any of it. I daresay this is good. And I'll tell you that if he's ever in this condition of his own volition, I certainly don't want to know about it (maybe). And, because my parents will probably read this, I will also never ever admit to ever having been this way myself. Ever. Not even that one time at my cousin Chris's wedding.

I'm just grateful Jensen didn't puke in the van on the way home.

The devil made me do it

Oh my god. Jeff is gonna kill me for this. But it's too funny not to share. I hope you all realize how privileged you are-- almost nobody gets to see him without his glasses. Here he is in 1954:


This 60's weren't so good for him. The styles just didn't suit him. But here's a gem from 1960:


This guy totally rocked the 70's, though. Check it:

And here he is in the early 80's:

Wait a second... that really was Jeff.... Damn, must have opened the wrong picture file.

Anyway, here he is during my high school years. I would have dated him even then.... Mullets were hot. (ish)

I guess he cleaned up a bit in the 90's. I didn't know he could get his hair this straight:

Okay, I have to publish this before he figures out what I'm doing.He's such a sweetie for allowing me to do this to his photo (even if he doesn't know). And thanks a million to So...There...Then Gal for sharing this jewel of a website-- you can go here to do your own.