Lost in the Supermarket

I keep meaning to write something and each week is over before it begins. I have all sorts of random thoughts that float through my head each day, only to float up and away. Never to be seen or heard from again. That’s always such a comfort to hear from a writer —isn’t it? It’s like I am so sure that you must have the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL written about 100 times by now. If only you could remember what you wrote when you finally sit down to write it... Oh. Yea. Right.

I used to pretend I could write. Once upon a time. I had this whole idea that if only that lottery would come through, I’d sit right down and start writing like some freakin’ Joyce Carol Oates or something. (That woman can flat crank out the novels.) That was even after I wrote an essay in 6th grade that was my autobiography in third person which propelled me straight into the future as an unmarried adult woman living on a cliff by the ocean writing novels. If only.

Now I’m a married pseudo-adult woman (pseudo if you factor in the wine drinking in the street proclivity) who is never alone. And who can barely find the time to sit down long enough to write a check. So no. Not a writer of any true ilk to be had here.

And even though I’m technically the writer for my ad agency, my new profession is going to meetings. Yep. I’m a professional meeting attender. I just hop from coffee shop to office building to restaurant going to meetings. It’s not all that hard if you ignore the behind-the-scenes-juggling-act required for me to actually be there. Because even though the hubby is acutely aware of my new role in life, he always seems to find a way to schedule something at precisely the same time that I have a meeting. And he can’t really help it because I always have a meeting —no matter the time of day or night. But, alas, the child care arrangements —as they inevitably fall to shreds, also fall to me to mend. So I guess you could call me a mender too. (Or a seamstress?)

The irony is that you’d think I’d be the slimmest gal on the block. What with all the running around and never sitting. Except I do have to sit in all of those meetings. (Otherwise the other attendees look at me weird or sit there quietly waiting for my presentation when I don’t actually have one.) But no. The sad truth is I may always have that 15 or so pounds I’d love to lose. I’ve tried zig-zagging from one side of the street to the other to lose it even and it still finds me. One heckuva a tailer, that weight. It must be backed by the mob or something.

But, any-who, I saw this bumper sticker today: “I don’t trust any bush but my own.” Hmm. I had to get a good look at this chick. Expecting her to be tough as shit. But no. It was a guy. And either he’d borrowed his sister’s car without looking at the bumper or he’s some enlightened dude who has a completely fresh take on this gender equality thing. Dude.

It reminded me of this other guy. The hubby and I saw his car from behind first. (Bumper sticker alert!) We were laughing out loud at the many, many ways this bumper spoke of the vagina. “Vaginas are WAY cool!” “Vagina is the new Penis” “Vaginatarian” (And many more that just are too gross to repeat.) Then we pull up beside him at the light and see he’s a he. I’m pretty sure I spit coffee all over the dashboard over that one. So that dude became Va-jay-jay Guy and I keep seeing his car all over the place.

I also thought I’d mention the sign Miss 6 (now 7) just put up on her bedroom door: “No Sella Aloud.” Another mom was over the other day and saw it. She said, “So as long as she’s quiet...” Yes indeedy.

We took the big little out for a date with the parents last night. She was on cloud nine. We went to see WALL-E and then went to Southern Sun for dinner. She asked us to swing her as we walked through the parking lot and I realized that she too pines away for the old days when she was little. I’m not the only sap around here. The topper was getting home and she got to stay up a bit after the sitter left. We sat on the couch and ate ice cream —each of her legs touching one of ours. Mom and Dad all to herself. She’s been beaming ever since.

As for Bean, well I don’t care if she is only 21-almost-22-months-old. She’s T-W-O. Case in point: we took her to Whole Paycheck with us today while Miss 6 (now 7) was at a birthday party for Purse Girl’s girl. As we were walking in, she pushed the hubby’s hands off of the cart handle and said, “No Daddy. Mommy puss.” And then kept doing that back and forth between us while grabbing lemons and biting them and yelling “YUM” at every cookie and shouting “I hun-ghee” at all of the samples. Then starting a rousing —and exceptionally loud— rendition of Old MacDonald. One woman actually jumped when she got to “E-I-E-I...” The only time she calmed down was when we got to the fish tank. And even then it was, “Ook Daddy! OOk! Fis!” But boy-oh-boy is she cute. I especially love that perpetual goose egg on her forehead where she seems to repeatedly land no matter what she falls off of or into...And when she hits/pinches/pulls your hair, she always follows with a “Sow-ee, Mommy.” No matter what.

And I’d be completely negligent if I failed to mention the hour-long temper tantrum yesterday. It immediately followed a nap wake up due to dog barking because neighbor stopped over. It was then followed by a series of “NOOOO MOMMY”s and a twisting/death-defying diaper change in which I was on the receiving end of numerous kicks and blows to the chest, neck and face. Then came the screaming/fit/crying spell, punctuated by door slamming and “FINE!” It was topped off by her putting herself in a corner and facing the wall while continuing the “Nooooo Moooommmmeeeee”s. I would walk in. She would scream. I’d turn to leave. She would scream. So I finally gave up and put on Baby Beluga. She emerged from her corner o’ shame, put her arms up to me and said, “Mommy, dance!” Victory is mine.

And now, my dear people, tomorrow is Monday. Another week begins. And I’m still stuck on the lemon aisle, holding a yellow fruit with a bite mark in it.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Expectations. Belle and Sebastian. Hey. You’re confused. Are you calm? Settle down. Write a song, I’ll sing along. Soon you will know that you are sane. You’re on top of the world again.