Back in the trenches.

This is not their beautiful mother
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Inspired by KathyR, I am going to make art--yes!--Art! out of the fact that I don't actually have anything to say. Enjoy the following Random Stream o' Crap:

We got back from Florida yesterday. Which was fine, although I was saddened to have to leave adult conversation (actually, XXX-rated immature class-clown commentary) with Joke.

So by Sunday evening, we were home. And dealing with our children. Who pretty much ignore me in favor of Mario Party 7 or whatever. You know, if I had long blonde hair and a pink evening gown like Princess Peach, I'd get a hell of a lot more attention around here.

For some reason--maybe it was traveling all day--I didn't really feel like finishing all the paperwork that I was supposed to bring to the sixth (I think, I lose count) child shrink/psychologist-type professional That Stud Muffin I Married and I were going to see Monday.

This appointment was to begin the process of figuring out why our son is so much like us, i.e., weird. Well, duh, genetics. Yet for some reason, we keep SPENDING BIG BUCKS to find this out from the pros.

This morning I got up fairly early (for me--and anyway, hello? It is Martin Luther King day and I should have been able to sleep late) and finished the paperwork. At times like this, I wish I could just act like Ron and Harry at Hogwarts and make stuff up. I mean, he's ten years old now--how the hell am I going to know how old he was when he first sat up unsupported? But I did a good, responsible job--i.e., when I didn't know, I left the space blank instead of making shit up--and got the copies made at the copy place.

And then That Stud Muffin I Married and I made it through the two-and-a-half hour long consultation.

Then we needed a quick lunch so we went to this place I've been passing for years. It turns out it's totally a greasy spoon diner, so I was very happy. We even sat at the counter, which is so cool, don't you think? Except the owner or manager or whoever came up and engaged us in conversation. As in, are we teachers, do we live nearby, what if life were like a Woody Allan movie, and what's with the great restaurants in Vegas that make you wear a jacket? It's difficult to ponder these deep matters with a mouthful of egg, but we did our best.

Then when I got home I decided I was just going to unpack and pick up the house and not do anything about the fact that my daughter's birthday is Saturday and have I done anything about securing space at Chuck E. Cheese's or done the invitations or anything like that? No, I have not. But my philosophy is "sufficient unto the day is the momminess thereof." In my opinion, this means that if I spend four hours on the son, I get a free pass on the daughter.

Now, I know a lot of women are all gung ho about this mothering stuff. But let's remember one crucial thing here, people. Giving birth changes a lot of things about a woman (her waist size being just one) but it doesn't completely alter the woman. I was a slacker before the term was invented, and I had perfected slackerdom before the 90s even started. I may not have a single tattoo, but I have honed my slacker skills to a very fine edge.

So I'll do the birthday party stuff tomorrow.