Don't let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya...

You know it’s bad when you stand still in the middle of your bedroom and think, “I’m leaving.” That was me on Tuesday. And all I could think of —in the midst of making valentines, nightly garden expert presentation prep for Miss 6:7, birthday party planning (also for Miss 6:7 who’s turning 8), DI preparations, yearbook collage making and trying to catch up on all of the work I didn’t get to each day because I was too busy working with the accountant on taxes or paying bills or de-archiving imagery or sitting in meetings or finalizing annual client gifts —was “I wonder how much tickets are to Mexico?”

Then, after Nanner’s mom took both girls home after school (could you hear my enormous sigh of relief?) and I was out running errands for work, the hubby called. I was wandering around Staples looking for round labels and the loud speaker was, well, loud. And he said, “Are you at the airport?”

Thing is. I wish I were. I wish I was going somewhere hot and sandy, where I simply raise my pinkie and an alcoholic drink with lots of salt and lime would appear.

And thing is Purse Girl is. She called from the bar at Dulles during her layover and just the thought of sitting at an airport bar with a bloody mary and no one needing anything from me sent me into a spiral of green envy with pus oozing everywhere. I told her she was no longer my friend and to never, ever call me again. She then pulled the old, “But my plane almost crashed!” I said, “Well, I wouldn’t have cared because you are no longer my friend.”

So, by the time True Blue called (she had locked herself in her room and I could hear her kids pounding on the door), we had it all planned. “We can go hang out at Jeffco (a very, small airport of the municipal variety with planes to no where really unless you are filthy rich privateers). I think they have a bar.” And me: “Yea! And we can so, like, wear halters and straw hats.” The laughter had turned to the can’t-stop-us-now variety. So I added, “AND! We can stop at the strip mall, get a spray tan and it will almost seem like it happened!”

Obviously, my fantasy life is fully intact and my reality check seems to come knocking hourly. So that’s got to be a good sign. That and the fact that I stayed and finished out the week...

And just now, since I’m undeniably OCD, I was on Facebook while blogging. And I noticed that I now have 251 friends. And I couldn’t help but think do I really? I mean, if they all knew that I was standing in my bedroom plotting abandonment of my family, would they be my BFF then?

I was feeling pretty smug. So I went and checked a few of the closest’s numbers and no one held a candle. Then I checked T-Rocks, girl from hometown I don’t really know, then->lively, gorgeous gay friend, etc....and my smugness quickly receded. To a slow moan really. (Why do I feel the need to be so damned competitive?) Geesh. And what would I actually do with 800+ FB friends anyway. Seriously. No wonder he has 15 comments for each status post. All those people who are getting his feed and all.

I also would like to mention that Bean is potty trained. No drama, barely any accidents. Just “no mo diapees.” And it was done. I wish the rest of my life could be that easy. As if.

The one thing she does do is that if she’s outside —no matter if it’s 30 degrees— she pulls her pants down and pees on the ground. Each time, splattering her pants a little less. Why she does this is completely beyond me. We’ve only done it with her once. And that was because we were at the bus stop with no potty in range. I guess her new name should be nature girl. She just likes it that way.

I’m not sure if I mentioned that I may just strangle Miss 6:7 if her unbelievable brattiness does not subside like, now. Bean has an almost 102 degree temperature all of a sudden. And Miss 6:nightmare can only complain about how we are giving Bean all of our attention. I can actually hear the hubby in there at this very moment saying, “Maybe you didn’t notice that the world doesn’t revolve around you?” I guess I feel a modicum of compassion since it’s her b-day weekend and all, but mostly I just want to clamp my hand over her smart ass mouth. And keep it there until she stops talking.

About 5 minutes ago I was thinking back with nostalgia about the weekend she was born. How I can’t believe she’s already 8. How my little girl is growing up too fast. How sad that makes me. Etc. And now I just want to find the receipt to see if Mother Nature takes returns. Because this one appears to be broken or something.

I had this beautiful vision of my life when I had two little girls. And in that vision everyone was always smiling or laughing. We were outside. It was sunny. We loved each other. We ate out every night. They wore butterfly wings or ballet tutus with their Uggs. We went on a trip to France and they both spoke the language fluently even though they’d never been there before. Our house was large and bright and white. And neat. Always, always tidy. With friends over at all times. The adults drank wine and laughed while the kids smiled and jumped rope. The kids all asked for second helpings of bruschetta and steamed artichokes. Or something like that.

But here’s the real picture:
I have two beautiful girls who fight nearly every minute they are within two yards of each other. One has a perpetual pout on her face and slams doors. The other pulls her hair when she won’t pay her attention. We end up inside because the wind has been blowing at 50+ mph since September. They both wear Uggs, but one of them peed on the other’s pair. And the wings have been shredded to oblivion. We can’t afford to go anywhere besides work. And when I try to speak french, they both say, “no mommy, no.” Our house is so small we have to sit on each other’s laps to go potty and brush teeth. And the house is strewn with the debris of each day because I’m always working and letting the bean fend for herself. I’m too stressed out to have friends over. In fact, I wish they’d all just go away so I could live in my Pjs and never shower. The adults do all drink wine, but it’s with a seriousness that indicates a mission or purpose. Certainly not frivolity. And bean refuses to eat anything that isn’t white, cheese, fruit or full of sugar. (We call it the Italian Picnic Diet.)

And since I’ve been on the topic of fantasies? The one I had of making it through this busiest week on record did not include a bunch of crying and drama and fevers when the weekend came. I pictured a three-day celebration of my oldest’s birth full of smiles and that much-needed laughter. Instead, I’m on my computer blogging, the hubby’s disappeared after his altercation with our oldest and dearest, and my glass is empty.

Happy freakin’ birthday. I don’t even know what to call her now.

And you know what? I am thankful. I have a job. My company is staying afloat and I just signed two new clients. My husband is the love of my life who made me promise to take him with me if I ran away. (And he’s employed.) And my two girls are polite, kind to others (that don’t share their blood) and they are healthy except for that occasional damnable fever. So I should just shut my effin’ mouth and drink up.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Rockstar. Nickelback. (In honor of my baby brother). I want a brand new house on an episode of Cribs. And a bathroom I can play baseball in. And a king size tub big enough for ten plus me.