Follicly challenged and discombobulated

Life at the ranch is moving right along. Just swimmingly as they’d say. (And when I say, ‘ranch,’ what I mean is house circa ’68 —just so we’re clear.)

I’ve barely had my head above water for over three weeks now. And a lot of that time I’ve thought, “What the hell. I’ll just drown.” So I just chose to drown my sorrows in a big ole glass of vino instead. And that seemed to work for most of the morning.

Naahhh. Just kidding. I haven’t gotten that bad. Yet. So besides the awful, awful tragedy of losing David and the subsequent torrent of worry, worry, worry over TRPL TRBL and her troubles, and the monsoonal quality that work has taken on —I’ve squeezed in some fun. Why, just today, I cleaned a big pile of poop off of the bathroom floor. Right after the side of the toilet was wiped free of spilled pee and the growing pile of soiled underpants was tossed into the sanitize cycle on the ever-so-handy, front-loading GE. Yes, you heard that correctly. Bean, who does not turn 2 for another 11 days, has decided that diapers just aren’t her thing. To her credit, she’s been making it to the potty most of the time. She even sat her little naked bum on the couch for over 20 minutes, in total fascination of Fiona on Sesame Street, with no accidents. (TV courtesy of work monsoon. I’m going for that POTY award for the 7th year in a row.)

Just to underscore my ambitions, Miss 6:7 was moving like molasses —yet again. The other night while getting showered and ready for bed. I’d just seen a news story on a pumpkin shortage in Colorado and out it spilled. “You’d better hurry up or you’re going to turn into a pumpkin!” “Not true, Mommy!” she yelled back, particularly put-upon by my obvious stupidity. “No,” I insisted. “It’s true. I just saw on the news that there’s a pumpkin shortage and kids who move too slow will turn into pumpkins to make up for the shortfall.” “No,” came the little-less-sure-of-herself reply. “Oh yes,” came my ever-growing-more-stupid-by-the-minute retort. Next thing I know, she’s in the shower crying. I chalk it up to being over tired. But it also made me feel like sh**. And I couldn’t stop laughing, which made her cry harder. Then the hubby joined in with a Cinderella reference. And so it goes. Our house can be like a freakin’ episode of Survivor with the kids cast as the contestants and us as the diabolical producers filling the pit with vipers and such. Oh therapy. Take me away.

We had a little get-away just prior to school. It was all planned. We’d head to a nice hotel and sip margs while the kids played in the pool. So we packed up all of the sh** it takes to get two young children on the road and went. We got there, checked in and it started to rain. And didn’t stop for the next three days. We ended up huddled around a fireplace in one of the hotel bars, filling the girls with mixed nuts and sliders while we watched the Olympics. Not exactly what we had pictured.

Now: flash forward and school has been back in for three weeks or so. We’re in the hum of activity that the fall always seems to usher in. Back in the day, I positively loved fall. Crisp air. Sweaters. Pumpkin spice lattes. And so on. Now I think, “OMG. How will I ever make it ‘til the holidays!”

We have about 10 or so clients who’ve all managed to synchronize so that they each have scheduled an event or launch or something for next week. Even from different industries and walks of life. Add to that the mountain of paperwork, requests for donations, time, bone marrow, meals, DNA samples, etc. that come home each day in the over-flowing and bottomless pit also known as Miss6:7’s backpack. Then add in our sweet, endearing principal who invites me to luncheons, asks for my help with various applications, and truly thinks my insight would be invaluable if I could be on this board or that (very flattering). Then there’s the garden at school. Each meeting piling on the last with the ever-growing certainty that we will indeed be able to revamp the entire school lunch program for the district, be the model for sustainability for the state/country, and change kids lives. The pressure is intense. How can I say, “Nah. I’m just not into that.” Or “Oh - that sounds lovely, but where ever would I find the time.”

And now, I’d probably have a lot more to say if only I didn’t have this con call.

PS- I forgot to mention: The cold, icy grip of fear that comes with each e-mail and Facebook notification that another one of my friends/family is supporting McPalin. I think it’s called an anxiety attack, but I haven’t had time to look it up. I’ll just call it an OH SH** moment.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Stop and Stare. OneRepublic. Steady hands, just take the wheel...And every glance is killing me.Time to make one last appeal... for the life I lead.