Well, something more or less like it. Let's review, shall we?
After a happy Trip to the Dentist, five days later, I'm still in uncomfortable agony as my stubborn mouth continues to plague and torment me. Heal already, dammit! I spent much of yesterday cozied in bed with my favorite serial killer, Dexter, and anxiously watching my supply of meds dwindle. This morning found me sans relief, and cursing all that is holy in the realm of dentistry.
But, Anti-Stepford must trudge on, and so I ventured from my little cocoon of self-pity to take stock of the household and formulate a plan of attack for the day. Dishes overflowed the sink, laundry littered the hall, and Cheerios crunched happily between my toes as I wandered from room to room.
Now, as we all well know, I am by NO means Suzy Homemaker, and prefer my "wing-it" style of housekeeping over the apron-clad, plasticene smile that could be my alternative. (::shudders::) Sure, I let the dishes pile up, am guilty of not folding the laundry, and have a three year old tornado to keep the floor well saturated in Goldfish and Play-dough. But after a weary week battling the evil forces of teeth extraction, I hoped that somehow there would be a shining-ly clean kitchen and freshly vacuumed floor greeting me. Delusional, I know. I'll blame that on the drugs.
Well, C'est La Vie... looks like its back to the same ol' same ol', and short of taking a bomb to the place, it looks like my afternoon will include a hot date with Mr. Clean. Its ok, he's pretty sexy in my book. (No offense, darling)
At the very least, my dulcid darling son would brighten my morning, laughing and playing and being his positively adorable self. Right? RIGHT?
ahhahahahah - joke's on me =) We've officially had our first public temper tantrum. "But MOMMMY! I WANT A BAALLLOOOOON!!! ::hiccup, hiccup:: - since such tactics have rarely worked on me, even when the soggy tears are shed from a carbon copy of my own eyes, we hastily made our exit from the supermarket, wails trailing into the cloudy afternoon. But I wonder, why is it that EVERY goddamned witness to such a meltdown feels the need to intervene? "Hey Tiger!" said one geriatric do-gooder, "Whassamattah??" Smile firmly affixed to my aching face, I replied "He's ok, just a little overtired, and not getting a balloon" Oh how vile and evil I am. What a terrible mother. At least that's the look that was imparted me as we left. It occurred to me that perhaps my vibrantly bleached and dyed hair, and tattoos, invoke a stereotype of careless teenage-mom. Well, maybe not... I haven't looked like a teenager in quite some time. I'm curious to know if any other "alterna-moms" experience the same sort of cursory judgment... hmm...
So now, while the wee one disobeys me with particular enthusiasm, I can almost hear the crusted roast pan wail from the kitchen "Cleeeeeeean Meeeeeeeeeeeeeee"
Today is a day to go postal, it would seem. Or at least, play a game. Say, Global Thermal Nuclear War?
Listening to: Tricky - Hell Is Around The Corner