Imagine How Funny He Is When He ISN'T In Pain.

Rigel's left shoulder has been bothering him for awhile now because of an inflamed rotator cuff or a weakened fan belt or something that sounded like it had to do with a car, but didn't. ANYHOO, it's been hard for him to sleep at night since he's used to sleeping on his stomach and in this position his arm gets scrunched up under him and he wakes up all knotted. (Stop me if all this technical medical lingo gets to be too much.)

The other night he came up with the idea of switching sides in bed with me, so that when he's on his stomach his left arm could hang off the side of the bed. He even rigged up an elaborate rest for his arm fashioned from one of our dining room chairs and a pillow. (In case this is starting to sound a bit un-romantic, let me add that while we were setting all this up I was wearing my French maid nightie and the entire room was lit by scented candles.)

As I was settling into his side of the bed, I couldn't resist commenting how I finally knew what it felt like to be him:

Me: Wow. Your side of the bed IS better! No wonder you're so relaxed. I will now fall asleep in the blink of an eye. As if I don't have a care in the world.

Him: Oh REALLY? Your side is making me feel suddenly restless and manic. Even though it's past midnight I have the sudden urge to clean the bathroom. Or maybe I'll be BLOGGING.

Me: I wish I could hear you, but I'm ALREADY ASLEEP.

Him: I'm asleep, too. And I'll continue to sleep so deeply and soundly as if to defy logic, through the alarm, all loud noises, earthquakes...

Me: Hmmm. I am overcome with GRUMPINESS. I feel like I hate everyone.

Him: Oh! I see you've changed back into yourself!

Archive File: Married

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To Prove It Hasn't Gone To My Head, You Don't Have To Call Me Madame President

As a result of the absence of any other interested parties, voter indifference and the fact that I was cleaning my fingernails with a pen when the secretary queried, "Any objections from the nominee?" I have been elected PTA president.

I'm honored to be bestowed with such a title. I plan to run our monthly meetings with an iron fist, commanding respect from the crowd of tens of people. Other parents will stand and take notice at how smoothly our annual candy sale will run, and our decorations for the kindergarten graduation will put us on the map. Just to keep with protocol I've instructed the girls to call me 'Ma'am' instead of mommy, and Rigel - well he can continue to call me Your Highness but I've ordered him to take that sneer out of his voice.

I imagine Oprah will want me on her show soon. She'll introduce me, and I'll sashay in wearing a hip outfit while she yells out "It's not your momma's PTA!" We'll laugh and hug and the audience will be riveted with my exciting bake-sale stories and I'll have them in stitches with my blooper reel from Back-To-School night. Later in the interview we'll have a serious moment, where I cry as I muse on how far I've come and how, if only big-assed Pamela Walker from the third grade could see me now she'd be so sorry she poured milk on my shoes and called me a raggedy bitch.

Then, because of the exposure, I'll have all the morning shows calling me, and I'll have to choose between Regis and Kelly or Katie and Matt. I choose the Today show because deep down, I think Matt Lauer is kind of hot, even with that weird GI Joe haircut. The show goes well, and when I get back to my hotel room there is an offer to head up FEMA. I dance around and order champagne, all the while grateful for the opportunities the PTA has given this raggedy bitch from the inner city.

Let the inauguration begin!

Archive File: Offspring | This Life

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When They're Teenagers And Telling Me They Hate Me, I'll Pull This Out

Here it is! It took three cameras, a frantic cell phone call and around ten years off my life, but I got the picture!



Notice the menacing arms of the Disney security thugs visible on either side of the frame. They are ready for action in case my girls, with their superhero powers, attempt to mind-meld with Aly & AJ.

It's been so long since I've actually gotten FILM developed. I was very nervous, knowing that the fate of these precious photos, and of my girls' sanity, lay in the hands of a mere human. A mere human trained to mix up a soup of toxic chemicals, toss my disposable camera into it, spin around twice while reciting an ancient Mayan blessing and then magically pull some photos out of it with a pair of rubber tongs. I asked the clerk to make sure the technician laid off the crack that day, but then he pretended to smash my camera with his foot so I backed off.

I should get some SERIOUS mommy-karma points for this one.

Archive File: Offspring | This Life

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Not Right, On So Many Levels

When your 84-year old mother goes to see 'Wedding Crashers' before you do. With the LADIES FROM CHURCH. AND LOVED IT.

If she starts telling me she thinks Vince Vaughn is hot I am SO NOT LISTENING.

Archive File: Random | This Life

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Promise You'll Write Me

A few days ago I took the girls with me to run some errands. We returned around 6pm, and as I was putting away groceries in the kitchen I noticed it seemed kind of dark. I started firing up for my usual Cursing Of The Lightbulbs, where I damn them to hell for burning out when I need them most. Usually, if Rigel is home I do this out loud, which serves as a sort of call-to-arms; he dutifully forays out to the garage to bring back a working lightbulb. To reward his gallantry I lay down in his lair and let him have his way with me while I praise his manliness. I'm joking - we don't really call it a lair.

But on this day, as I looked up, I noticed that all of the bulbs were working. Figuring it was some sort of freakish dimming thing going on (notice my fine knowledge of things technical!) I started turning on more lights, because this is the twenty-first century after all and we aren't Amish and I need me some light to shuck my wheat! It was around thirty minutes later, and only after I had turned on practically all the lights in the house, that I noticed I STILL HAD MY SUNGLASSES ON.

Okay, aside from the obvious nutjob aspect of this story, the troubling thing is, MY DAUGHTERS DIDN'T SAY A THING, THE ENTIRE TIME. Like they're used to my teetering on the brink of dementia. It's as if they were thinking, "Oh, look. Mommy's wearing her sunglasses in the house and turning on all the lights and muttering to herself. Sort of like when she wears her pajamas all day and then insists they're her workout clothes. Won't be long now before she shows up at our school wearing a nightie and waving a bottle of gin around. It's best we just start ignoring her now."

Later when Rigel came home and I was relaying the sunglass incident to him, he looked at me worried and said, "Hon, that story - let's keep it between you and me."

Do they let you blog from the asylum?

Archive File: Married | Offspring | This Life

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I Haven't Watched Cartoon Network For Forty Eight Hours

The girls started school yesterday. As usual in the ying-yang universe that is Kira and Kiyomi, one loooves their teacher and one hates theirs with an uncharacteristic intensity. Guess which is which? More on that later.

I am embracing my new freedom with the voracity of a feral chihuahua being liberated from Paris Hilton's purse. SIX WHOLE HOURS, PEOPLE. ALONE. IN MY HOUSE. I've compiled a list of things that I can do now, that I haven't been able to do for the last three months:

Go to the bathroom without someone barging in and asking for gum. Or beer. Oh wait, that wasn't the girls.

Go grocery shopping without Flamin' Hot Cheetos, gummy worms or Disney Adventures magazine mysteriously appearing in my cart.

Take a shower before noon.

Take a shower before noon that lasts more than three minutes.

Take a shower before noon that lasts more than three minutes and isn't interrupted by someone barging in and asking for gum.

Go for hours without hearing the words 'snack,' 'help,' or ''wake up.'

Exercise. (I said 'can' do, as in 'in the realm of possibility.')

Being able to talk on the phone without first having to give the 'Please Do Not Interrupt Me Unless You're Bleeding From A Severed Limb' speech.

Miss them.

Archive File: Offspring

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A Million Pieces

We have been glued to the TV watching coverage of the devastating conditions in the aftermath of Katrina. Every story breaks my heart into a million pieces. The scope of the tragedy is difficult to fully grasp, and I feel helpless at not being able to physically reach out and help the victims whose suffering I'm bearing witness to. I'm sure there are many of you who are feeling the same way I am; filled with the somewhat irrational desire to fill up your cars with water, food and diapers and drive the distance to bring some small measure of relief to even one person.

We've donated to the Red Cross and hope that everyone will. You can easily do so here.

As each day passes it's getting more difficult to not feel complete outrage at the ineffectiveness of our government and at the perceptible indifference of our 'commander in chief.' His misguided, glib comment about rebuilding Trent Lott's house and "looking forward to sitting on the porch" while bodies floated in the streets made me cringe.

This just about says it all: An open letter from Michael Moore to George W. Bush and I cheered when I heard this interview: Mayor to feds: 'Get off your asses'

Maggie and Michael, we are sending our prayers for Michael's family and hope that his uncle is found safe.

Charlene, as promised I am posting the name of your friend and hope that someone can provide some information on her:
Gwen Sagona
4900 Dreux Ave, New Orleans

Archive File: This Life

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