Friday, March 04, 2005

Why you don't want to be me, Part Deux

Tonight during a lull before dinner, TSMIM (for those of you coming in late, that's "That Stud Muffin I Married) and I were going through the past week. Because it seemed to us that the mature, responsible response to feeling as though you would like to mainline martinis is to figure out why you feel that way.

So, I tallied up the week. And it didn't look good. Because in addition to the usual housewifely stuff, this week looked like this:

Monday: At lunchtime--I rehearsed three Cub Scout dens in a version of The Super Bowl Shuffle. In a big, noisy, reverberating gym. After dinner, I directed their performance at the Cub Scout pack night. In front of a lot of parents I know and maybe don't like all that much.

Tuesday: More Cub Scout crappe; this time, helping the little tykes build birdhouses.

Wednesday: My usual three Wednesday appointments, plus TSMIM goes out that night to take a course

Thursday: Daughter is in an evening concert, so I have to get her ready for that, then after the concert, I have to bake four or five dozen Snickerdoodles to bring to

Friday's: field trip to the Grove with the fourth graders. Five, count 'em, five hours with the fourth grade churning butter and learning about blacksmithing and shite. Not to mention the bus ride where they were trying their damndest to out-sing each other. As loudly as possible.

No wonder I vegged out tonight and watched my new special edition DVD of Get Shorty. At times like this, I badly need to see people get beaten up.


  1. I hafta say that although I could compete, I think you win the prize for crappy week.

  2. Oh, you big whiner. Call me when you have to clean a metric ton of syrup off a ceramic tile floor and inadverdantly launch a sexual innuendo at one of your kids' teachers!

  3. Well, maybe it wasn't at a teacher. But last Saturday I was overheard telling my husband that we needed to buy our son a new G-string.

    Because he plays cello and his broke, OK?



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xxx, Poppy.