this one flew over the cuckoos nest

Everyone has that one crazy friend. The one that can never find her car in the Hannaford parking lot. The one who always wears her yoga pants and then wears them to bed and then the next day and the next night until they do the downward dog to the laundry basket. Today this is me.

I have always likened myself to the chicken in the coop that has all but 3 of her feathers pecked out and tries to escape every time the gate opens. The one that all the other chickens look at and cluck. She looks kind of different and no one wants the eggs that she lays. And all the little chicks peck at her tired chicken feet and boss her into giving them her last morsels of chicken feed. This was me at the PTSA meeting tonight. Truthfully, I only go to these meetings to get out of the house. I don't have anything value to add except perhaps my vote for the allocation of the funds for sweatshirts or rockclimbing wall days - I wasn't really paying attention. What I was doing was looking at all these other women - these lovely feathered chickens with nice eggs and complete thoughts and matching shoes. They cared about stuff like movie nights and healthful living and soccer. Why am I not that chicken?

Which leads me straight into losing my car for the second time today and then sitting in found car and crying for an hour. Crying for everything and nothing and who I am and who I thought I should be. Why am I so disappointed? Disappointed with myself for being disappointed? For having stretch marks? And white hairs? And inappropiate thoughts? For having a messy house and fresh kids? For being a horrible sister? And a worse wife? For all of those things and oodles more. The absolute truth of the matter is that I am all of these things today. But I don't have to be tomorrow. Tomorrow I will not text and drive (horror of horrors) and I will wear pants with a working zipper and drink fewer cups of coffee. Or I might not. I might have a repeat day. Who knows? But isn't that the beauty of each new day? Perspective after a sleep and a shower (god willing)? Why am I the shit chicken? Probably shouldn't say shit. Shit.

this woman's liberation

With the husband gone away on business (again), I am left with the usual household chores and responsibilities and all the other crappy ones that he does. Now, before anyone gets his/her knickers in a bunch, let me preface this by saying that, yes, I do believe in equality amongst the sexes and in relationships. I think that there should be a division of duties with the home, the finances and the children that works best for each individual family. Anything men can do, women can do and vice versa. Bla bla bla. That being said, there are things that are designated the "hubby" chores - not because I can't do these things, but simply because I don't want to do these things. I carried three children in my body and pushed them out of my body and it hurt - a whole lot. Because of this fact alone, I insist that I be excused from certain things that I detest. However, when one is away from the home for an extended period of time, the other must pick up the slack in these certain areas of ickiness or else the neighbors might complain. I have composed a list (remember how much I love those suckers?) of things that should be left to the menfolk.

1) unclogging the toilet. I hate this daily, yes daily, stink job. How is it possible that a 57 pound child could possibly poo bricks each and every day? I don't know but I think he is a medical marvel.

2) folding laundry. I don't mind washing, drying, schlepping the baskets, but I really don't like the folding. Especially the matching of the socks. Torture.

3) bedtime. This is way more effective when there is a tag team - good cop bad cop style. I get weary trying to be both and I think it confuses the kids when I pretend to be both. Just go the *bleep* to bed!

d) middle of the night peeing of the dogs. Obviously.

5) trash. It smells and more often than not, the racoons feast during the dark hours and leave messes that need to be addressed in the light hours.

6) checking to make sure that all of the windows, doors, bulkheads are locked and secure before sleeptime. I can never remember and so I panic and OCD takes over.

7) making the coffee. I don't know why, I just prefer that someone else does this.

So, needless to say, here I am with the plunger and threatening the kids and scooping shovels of filthy rubbish and suffering from the inability to work the wII remotes and praying that I unlocked the front door before peeing the dogs in my pjs at 2A. If you happen to bump into me this week, or if I literally bump into you with my grocery cart or van, please be kind and forgive me. I have lost my marbles.