Saturday, October 23, 2010
...All By My...Oh Fuck It.
There is nothing quite like sleeping for seven solid hours and waking up of your own accord. No alarm clock. No dogs barking. Just your body letting you know that you are rested and the sun is up and you are ready to start your day.
It is a beautiful thing.
Or so I fucking hear.
I remember Saturday mornings, as a kid, as the time when my parents were absolute about a few things:
1. It was their day off-do not wake them up. At all. Ever. Unless someone had lost a fucking limb; and then, only after you'd tied a tourniquet, called 911 and the rescue responders were requesting the signatures of a parent or guardian.
2. You feed your fucking self. Cereal. Toast. Poptarts. It didn't matter, but don't make a mess and don't you dare even breath the words "I'm hungry" at them while they still have their eyes closed and are laying prone in their beds.
3. Do not ever get into a fight with a sibling where the decibel range of said spat causes parents to be risen from much needed "It's fucking Saturday and I'm sleeping in!" slumber. Because you will pay...dearly...with chunks of your ass.
My dear reader, it is not so in my house. My precious little manipulative mouth breathers know that they can snuggle their way right into my bed and say things like "You're the best Mom. Now get your fat ass out of bed and turn on the Xbox."
This morning was much like any other (except that Saint Jason wasn't here...bullshit y'all); Elena was laying at the foot of my bed, trying to wake me up without me knowing it by rubbing my feet with hers and then as soon as I open my eyes, she's all "Good morning Mommy. Did you sleep well?"
Uh, almost. Except that both you and your brother woke me, separately (yet somehow working together in a coup) on multiple occasions that made the xanax I took a waste of a perfectly good pill. But...what I said was,
"Yes, baby. Did you? Are you hungry? Where's your brother?" (Just like that because if I wait for her to give me the answers I'll be there until Tuesday, and also because the only thing I really care about is what mischief Ian is into.)
She's all: "He's in my room, watching cartoons."
That is, until I find him, undies around his ankles, yankin' on his junk, sitting on the dog because he went potty all by himself but he thinks it's funny to wait for me to yell at him to put his freakin' underwear back on! These are the future leaders of the psych wards of America, ladies and gentlemen. You knew them first.
To make the day even more fucking awesome, I get called in to work. HOO-FUCKING-RAY!
55 hours down so far this week and we're just going to keep adding to that tally of exhaustion. I'm pretty sure at this point, I will snap and need to fall into my Mary Poppin's carpet bag of nanny gear for the duct tape and chloroform if I'm to survive the day; but it's my job, so here we go.
By noon, my kids are with their father (for the weekend) and I've already been at work, dodged a punch from the toddler of terror (my 3 year old charge) and cleaned up explosive shit off the ass of her little sister. Duct tape in hand, I scream "NAPTIME!"
And thank God...they listened. We all napped.
The rest of the afternoon, was actually very uneventful. I got my "extra girls" off with the other nanny for a visit with their dad and headed out for a mani/pedi.
These are happy little piggies...am now realizing I should've vacuumed my floor before taking this pic. Shit.)
I was also able to talk to Saint Jason without kids in the background for about 10 minutes, but soon after got really pissy because he's actually having fun out there and decided to be a real bitch and give him a hard time (not fair, I know and very fucking immature, but I miss him and it's what women do.)
In order to cheer myself up, I put on my favorite new t-shirt and took a picture of my boobs:
(Thank you CafePress for making clothes that understand me.)
Now, I'm all by myself (actually a little tired of this theme, so may be posting complete fabrications next week--just a warning) and watching horror flicks (am very disappointed that The Howling was not as cool as I remembered it being) and finishing the last of the 3 bottles of wine I bought Monday.
Thank God for my totally fucking cool boss, who supplied me with bottle number 4, because that one's going down too.
Still wondering if I shouldn't drag myself down to that Halloween party I was invited to by my swinger friends; then again, I'm afraid of heights. Oh well.
Until next time...
Your totally dysfunctional cussing blog friend. XoXo