I Love Little Pussy/ His Coat is so Warm/ And if I Don't Hurt Him/ He'll Do Me No Harm

(No really. It's a Mother Goose rhyme. Seriously. Do I look like I'm kidding?)

Last night as my husband and I were forcing multiple pills down our cat's throat (that cat is entertaining as hell when he's high), I couldn't help but laugh out loud. See, a few weeks ago, my doctor friend used the phrase "House of Pestilence" to describe the sick state of affairs going on in her neck of the woods. And, though it was, without a doubt, a vomiting, feverish, H1N1-like seriously bad scene over there, if this was Poker (which I've never played but if drunk enough and thin enough, I may not be adverse to playing the strip version) I'd see her House of Pestilence and raise her my Royal Flush It Straight to Hell in a Handbasket.

I won't bore you with the details. (Imagine a cat, post stroke, deaf, blind in one eye, sporting a head-tilt that keeps him walking in circles and frequently falling over much like a wasted sorority girl.)

You'll just have to trust me. (Think over $1000 charged to Angell Animal Medical Center for them to tell us that he may or may not recuperate. I mean, what kind of suckers buy pet insurance?)

It's been a ride.

But, Wednesday, we are off to sunny Miami, Florida to get our thanks on. And I for, one, am wetting myself in excitement. Yes, smart asses, I DO have spare panties...this time.

The Plan:

• to pawn the kids early morning wake ups off on my parents
• to hit the beach
  
• to eat the shit out of some pumpkin pie
  
• to catch a flick or two or seven
  
• to generally soothe Dark Delia's bitchy ways so my husband and children can think happy thoughts once again.

Sick kids, sick Mommy, and out-of-town Daddy will soon be a distant memory. (Stick bout of selective amnesia here.) BUT: the sick cat part will linger. Cause he's a fucking fighter. He may not be the sharpest knife it the drawer ("Dude, it's totally not a real mouse..." and "FYI, cats are supposed to wipe their own asses."), but it turns out, he's quite a little Gloria Gaynor.

Poor, pathetic little pussy. (Nine lives, eh? Really? Really?!!)

What Would Jesus Do?

So, first of all, I totally peed in my pants yesterday. I'm not talking like full on accident here, but I definitely peed. While standing in the parking lot. While attempting to disengage my children from the vice-like grips of their seatbelts. And it was definitely enough to warrant working out without wearing any underwear.

What? I'm not embarrassed. It was like the highlight of my three year old's year.

"Mommy? You did what? Bwahhahahahahahah! Like when I forgot to put my penis down and peed all over the floor in the bathroom at the Y and then the baby walked around in it? Remember that, Mommy? Bwahahahahahahaha!"

Yeah, everybody's a fucking comedian around here.

Ok. Whatever. I was going commando. Big deal. I mean, we were just going to the gym and then home. Except, maybe we needed groceries. And maybe, I locked my keys in my car on the way into the grocery store. And maybe I had no bloody idea until I was in the checkout line.

So, I'm standing by the exit door. With my cart full of groceries and children, wearing no underwear, and without my car keys.

Fuck.
Think.
WWJD?

Aha! This is the perfect opportunity to try out my awesome new car insurance that provides roadside assistance to the tune of AAA, right? Right?!!! Uh, nope. The insurance info is uh, in. the. car. And what's the name of that insurance company anyway?

Ok. Let's try something else. I'd like to phone a friend, please Regis. My one friend, who works from home, just 10 minutes away, who has two carseats, who can pick us and our groceries up. BUT OF COURSE HE'S NOT ANSWERING THE GOD DAMNED PHONE.

Inhale. With my dying phone battery, I call my doctor friend for advice. "The police. Try the local police department," she suggests. Right. The police. Of course a nice policeman would come to the rescue of a damsel in distress. Especially, a damsel carrying two kids, seven bags of groceries and wearing no underwear. Right? Right?!!! Uh, nope. They don't do that sort of thing anymore. Budget cuts.

People are walking by me laughing. They can tell I'm naked underneath my clothes. And that I'm locked out of my car.

Finally, I call a tow truck. The guy kindly says, "I can be there in an hour." ROCK! Another hour!

So, me and the boys, we take our groceries and have ourselves a little picnic. On the filthy bench. Overlooking the parking lot. Because it's lunchtime. And, well, we have lunch stuff. Because we just went food shopping. See how things work out?

It takes the guy about $45 and three seconds to break into my car. Where the keys have been mocking me from the driver's seat for the last hour and a half. And my kids are all starry-eyed over it, wanting to know "what did the tow truck man do? How did he get into our car?"

"It was magic. Wasn't that so cool? Ok, boys, let's buckle up. We'll be home just in time for naps."

I have impeccable timing, if nothing else.

Single Momming It: Take 2

5:30am: Alarm clock goes off, signaling part 2 of my single momming it extravaganza. Because everything about being a single mom, is, well, so very EXTRA.

7:00am: My husband peels out of the driveway at the boys' school, as I yell, "later, haterz!" out the car window. They love that.

8:00am: Airport drop off. "Honey, I'm sorry your tired. It must be devastatingly hard to get on a plane and watch tv for four hours when your 3 year old woke you up at 3am. Much harder than having to go to work. Like, for instance, I do."

A-hole.

8:30am: I get to work. On time. Miracle of miracles.

11:30am: I'm sitting in the waiting room at my doctor's office, hoping and praying that she'll be able to quickly assess the myriad symptoms currently plaguing me:

Crazy night sweats why do I go to bed wearing fleece jackets and wool socks?
Moodiness that's more pronounced than usual or maybe it's just who I am
Periods that last for two weeks at a time I recently switched to the ring
Weight gain Halloween totally fucked me this year. Hello, Backfat.
Hair loss Perhaps washing my hair more than once a week would help?
Random tenderness under one arm I got nothing. It's probably cancer.

The appointment is uneventful. I go back to work.

3:00pm: I pick up my kids. "Oh, they had such a good day," their teachers beam. And it's evident that they are fucking lying to my face, because even though I have animal crackers, both kids start crying. Immediately.

3:45pm: We get home. I throw on a DVD for them. I NEVER DO THAT. But, I did it. And they were happy. And quiet. Until they weren't.

4:00pm: Are those tears, tears of hunger? (Highly unlikely. Because my kids don't eat, remember?) Dinnertime!

4:15pm: The front doorbell rings. It's a guy who wants to sell me new, energy efficient, double-paned windows. I listen patiently and ask him to, "kindly disregard the stench of burning fish sticks," all the while giving him the finger in my head. Don't you hear my kids crying, Buddy? Get the hell outta here!

4:30: The front doorbell rings. Again. It's a boy scout. "Hello. I'm, uh, well, I'm..." Spit it out kid. Spit. It. Out. "Yeah, I'm, uh, selling Christmas wreaths and, uh, Hanukkah candles," he slowly explains. My kids have both flung themselves onto the floor directly behind me in full tantrum mode. I look deep into this little boy scout's brown puppy dog eyes, and say, "kid, are you out of your mind? It's not even Thanksgiving yet. I'm busy working on tonight's dinner."

We get through dinner, (think steamed artichokes, avocado, grapes, fish sticks, veggie pot stickers, scrambled eggs, and uh, Jello pudding snacks...or something. I'm pretty creative in the kitchen, you know), and make it upstairs for bath time. My adorable, exploding with language, 20 month old is super amped. "Bas, bas, Mommy! BAS, MOMMY!!!" (bas = bath in babyspeak), when,

5:00pm: the doorbell rings. Again.

Really? Really?!!!

My three year old darts down the stairs and yells, "MOMMY, IT'S STRANGERS!!!" Visualize men in gorilla suits grabbing my three year old and throwing him into an unmarked blue van with tinted windows.

"Baby, DO NOT. OPEN. THE DOOR."

I fly down the stairs to be greeted by two guys wearing Comcast uniforms waving at me (in my pajamas - yes, I know it's only 5pm) through the window. I don't even open the door. "Yeah, no. Buh bye." I can hear them cursing and kicking my trash cans as they walk away. Fuckers.

I sprint back up the stairs, haphazardly to bathe, dress and read to both kids. And, in the blink of the most lethargic tortoise on Earth's eye, it's bedtime.

One day down. Three more to go.