Friday, September 23, 2005

Let's Learn About Friday Morning

Slumbering blissfully, the sleep of the damned, WHY LORD WHY is someone murmuring loudly, insistently, “Moooommy…mooommmy…” WHY? Tell tale murmur. 5:30 a.m. Because my kids, when they get up early, mean business.

Lying on the bed, the weight of sleep, of bliss, of near-euphoric death, peels away. WHY LORD WHY do I have to get up? I walk to her bedroom and say, “What’s wrong?” “Bottle with mauk.”

I careen down the staircase, unsure, groggy, confused. Bottle on counter. Tip some of the water out of it; pour in just enough “mauk” to make her think it’s a “bottle with mauk.” Try not to engage too much. Keep the sensors dulled so as to better court slumber again, fickle bitchy mistress, she.

Penetrate the cool blue hued bedroom of my wakeful childe—hand her the mauk bottle and she resists. I feel it coming—hysteria, insanity THIS TIME YOU WILL REALLY HAVE TO COMMIT ME. I hand it to her and assure her it is “mauk.” I close the door. All bets are off. Will she wail, please, oh please God, please deliver me.

Basically having children is as close as you’re going to get to really feeling your sanity leave the building. Like I can see it. Here’s me, there’s my sanity. It is dissolving, fraying, melting, and evaporating. My sanity is gone and now it’s official: I am insane.

I go downstairs to exercise because it’s been a toothless week in that I exercised on Monday and then not until Friday, so there is a big toothless hole in the week. Lazy sack of shit that I am. Never should have figured out that reading the paper at the dining room table is oh so much more satisfying than balancing it on the elliptical downstairs in my chambre de torture.

Après exercise, covered in an impressive, studly Lance Armstrong amount of sweat, I maneuver the morning. I decide to make tuna salad. Why not! Friday is as good a day as any to transform into a healthful matador of protein enriched fabulatude. Exercise, omega-3 fatty ass proteins, mesclun spring mix—a bitter lettuce, what better way to embrace virtue? Spicy elusive arugula...tender stinky strips of canned albacore…nay virtue is bereft without the unleavened whole grain slightly stale disk of over-long refrigerated pita bread. Matched with a baggie of sliced apples and pale burgundy fall grapes.

MZA comes in the kitchen…cranky...he has a Big Project avec the out of school lads today. Ian is wearing his new blue faux suede cowboy hat MZA got him at the dollar store. He is singing, “Farmer in the dell farmer in the dell farmer in the dell farmer in the dell…” over and over and over again. MZA says, “Can I just watch some TV?!” You know, what with the hurricane bearing down and all. “The farmer in the dell the farmer in the dell…” “Why can’t I even….” Unfinished exasperation.

Nick offers me a lengthy discourse on ancient Greek housing and agriculture and then practices some of his Uzbek, then asks how to say “welcome” in Russian. “Ask Daddy.”

Partially deaf mamacita brushes teeth and can only vaguely hear mounting chaos downstairs, “I said to…Ian can you STOP IT? Nick, are you READY?” Then I hear my name, over again, insistently now. “Do you think I can ask Marie for the bike rack? Do you have her number?”

Her number is on a square yellow sticky that may or may not be next to the computer in the basement. “Can I borrow your car?”

I know there is something wrong; something missing. I grab my purse, cram whole grain pita masterpiece and bag o’ fruit THAT I REALLY WISH WAS A BAGEL SLATHERED IN CREAM CHEESE into my purse and walk to MZA’s car. Rear view mirrors all wrong, terrible auto radio selection—where are my stations? Ian runs to the car, “Bye mommy!” And I barrel out of the driveway…wait for obsessive POLISH DOG WALKER to pass with two large black unknown breed dogs, then peel out.

I figured out what’s wrong: I don’t have my glasses. They’re in my car. It’s OK. I only need them to READ, especially on the computer. Pull into work and Mathew Blades, my favorite morning radio moron cops to not knowing who NORMAN BATES is. I think if you are the host of a radio show in WASHINGTON DC you should be fired on the spot if you don’t know who Norman Bates is. PERIOD. His sidekick asks him and he says, “Uh, was he the guy who played the scary guy in Psycho?”

NO, I AM, AND YOU’RE FIRED!!!!!!!!!!!


Cynicism is another word for reality

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