Monday, November 08, 2004


Ok, yeah it's Monday. The day we all dread. The day we must kick our own butts, and the butts of those we love, back into line. It's back to work for many. For me, it's back to CrackMom. I don't actually use drugs, at least not those of an illegal nature. My drug of choice is very much legal, but no less dangerous. I assure you without it, I'm a ticking timebomb. Caffeine is my vice, in just about every form it's offered, spare Coca Cola, or any of its carbonated imitations. I am CrackMom for a plethora of reasons, not the least of which is my inane ability to breakdown, or "crack" if you will, under pressure.

It's an interesting balance with me, to be honest. I'm a drama junkie, well a reformed drama junkie, which is to say I still enjoy drama but rarely have the energy to partake in it or even watch from the sidelines as others mire in it. The closest I get is Reality TV, and let's be honest here, that's really a drug in its own right. At least that's how I reassure my husband when I do the Floppy Chicken after mistakenly tuning in to The Apprentice at 9:00, only to find out it was rescheduled to 8. Yes, that somehow leaves him reassured. That's what happens when your health insurance doesn't cover therapy sessions. I only hope, for the sake of my family's sanity as well as my own, that someone somewhere will start a support group for this one day. With my luck, I'll sign up, spill my guts until I'm drooling on my own clothing, as well as the much nicer, non-breastmilk stained clothing of those sitting close by, only to find out it's all been taped for the reality show to end all reality shows. Truly. This would happen to me.

Fortunately (or unfortunately if you know me and how I'll react to what's coming next), the lawyers for the 'show' will insist that everyone who partook in this human-lab-experiment-for-money-and-all-important-ratings willingly sign a release allowing the producers to air the footage in its entirety, or edit it down to elicit the most humiliation possible. Everyone will balk. The producers will quickly turn into used car salesmen, with money and fame as their pitch. Most will sign and smirk in lame protest for being used, then console themselves with hush money for the next 6 months until air. At that point, most will sell their souls to Hollywood in an effort to extend their 15 minutes, not to exclude baring all for Playboy after initial why I never's. For those who hesitated to sign, they'll be reassured by producers that everyone will be depicted in as accurate a way as possible, and their children shall now have the means to attend college thanks to their cooperation. I, on the other hand, will be disgusted at their violation, appalled at their suggestions, ashamed at my own naivete, and ultimately, excited at the prospect of seeing myself on TV. Yeah, I'll sign. I'll undoubtedly be embarrassed to paralysis once it sinks in, what I've just done. But for those few minutes of blind bliss, I'll envision myself as the next Julia Roberts, Halle Barry, or Nicole Kidman. For a few minutes, I'll be more than a mom.

So, yep, it's still Monday. I'm still kicking my butt into gear. And apparently, my mind could use a nudge as well. I've got weekend brain. You know, the kind that only half hears the kids, and refuses to touch a single dirty dish, or piece of laundry in hopes that your husband will find it within himself to join the crusade against clean houses gone dirty, often mistakenly referred to as Good Wives Gone Bad. I'm pretty sure there's already a support group for that - men who's wives expect to much and do to little. Bring me a beer woman, they say under their breaths, hoping we'll get the message but not the insult. I know around here they meet at the local bar for Monday Night Football, and call it therapy. Nevermind the women who are waiting on them, setting us wives at home back 10 years in our struggle. Damn those hot little waitresses, shaking what they have and we can hardly remember. Smiling and flirting with our grunting, guzzling, burping husbands who are too ignorant or drunk to realize it's all for their potential tip.

Ahhh, Just another Married Monday! ooh oo ooh.

1 comment:

Jim Cota said...

Monday, indeed! Enjoyed your blog; keep it up. /Jim