The Suburban Jungle

I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a productive sleep disorder, as mentioned in my last post.

I don’t know whether to celebrate or throw in the towel. For the last two days I have given myself subliminal messages about accomplishing tasks in my sleep, as planned. I wrote phrases on flash cards and taped them around the house, reading them every time I walked by. Thing like “tighten butt,” “scoop cat litter,” “clean house,” “make dinner,” and “esta es una lampara (this is a lamp).” What I’m also trying to learn Spanish.

Anyway, the first night… nothing. I did the usual: went to asleep, fell off some kind of ledge, confronted an old elementary school friend about calling me a weirdo, and made out with George Clooney, who was about to take me to his villa in Tuscany on a spaceship piloted by Brad Pitt, when I was rudely awoken by my son wanting me to make lunch for school. Why do I have an account with the cafeteria anyway?

Last night was different. I didn’t dream at all. No revenge, no superstar rendezvous, no awards ceremonies, or nightmares about planes, sharks, or sharks on planes. I woke up feeling funny, disoriented. My bed was not made. My buttocks were not firm. Apparently, while sleeping last night, I cooked my work out band, cleaned my neighbors house, tightened her daughter’s braces, and ate my cat.

Now this may seem like a setback. Many people would give up, especially after eating their cat, but not me and the Vietnamese. I am looking at the silver lining and calling it a success. So things didn’t go as planned, and my son needs a little therapy. Life is about learning and opening new doors and in that vein, I am opening a night housekeeping/orthodontics service, at the very low cost of ahem, achem, cha cha, kak. Sorry, hairball.

Call for an appointment. Your money back if I eat your pet. GUARENTEED.

Refund subject but not limited to pets deemed reasonable. Tarantulas, snakes, lizards, and gerbils not included. Only half refund for mid-sized rodents i.e. guinea pigs, ferrets and bunnies. Price where prohibited. You pay me if I eat anything shelled, like hermit crabs, snails, and turtles, or bacon, I mean pot belly pigs, except George Cloony’s, which I will spare in return for sexual favors…. bla,bla,bla,bla……..

My theory on the principal who attempted to “sleep” strangle his wife with her hoodie string, is that he was actually lucid and when she awoke he pretended to be asleep. This is something even a 4yr old can do. I know, my kids and husband are pros at fake sleeping, especially when avoiding a chore or when trying to get away with murder.

I told my theory to my Mother-in-law, who was very offended by my ignorance in sleep strangling. “Don’t you watch Oprah?”

“Umm, is she on Cartoon Network?”

“She has people on that do all kinds of stuff in their sleep. They eat, they clean, they garden, they cook. They are on video doing it.”

I had no idea how productive one could be when sleeping. And here I am wishing for more hours in the day, when they were there all along. I feel so lazy. To think, all these years I ‘ve been using my sleep to explore my unconscious desires and true feelings about people I’ve lost touch with, movie stars I will never meet, and ego shattering incidences that I never address or admit to in my waking world.

“Now, these people on Oprah that you speak of, are they complaining about these afflictions?”

“Well sure, they are in sleep therapy, and studies. They are trying to find cures.”

“Are they nuts? If we have any say in the sleep disorders we are plagued with, I call sleep cooking, then sleep cleaning, sleep aerobics, sleep showering, and sleep sex. Wait, scratch that last one, I’ve already mastered it.”

Can you imagine if sleep accomplishments could be taught? The next Hollywood craze could be Sleep Kabbalah, and Sleep Striptease workouts with Carmen Electra. I am certain a few celebs are onto it already. Ryan Seacrest, Steven Speilberg, and Martha Stewart, who up until now I was sure were androids or at the very least vampires, are clearly doing sleep stuff.

Take Martha, who has enough time to cook a meal in multiple courses, invite friends to eat it on hand written notes, calligraphied on hand dipped paper, make season appropriate place cards that are not only edible, but look like wreaths, and can be reused as lingerie drawer sachets, and still have time to make shady deals and verbally abuse the help? (That’s just breakfast.)

If I were still in college, I’d take slumber learning 101. Then I’d party all night, and sleep through all my classes. Everyone does the latter anyway. It’s a brilliant idea, learning to learn in your sleep. It would be like asking a genie for more wishes. That would be the one class that I could actually apply in real life; certainly more than English Lit. I can’t tell you the last time someone wanted to analyze the symbolic meaning of the labyrinth in “The Name of The Rose,” but I can tell you the last time I slept… last night.

I am going to try giving myself subliminal messages all day. If all goes well I will awake in a bed that is already made, refreshed, clean, with firm thighs, taught buttocks, and the smell of lobster risotto and bananas foster filling my home. If all does not go well, I may strangle my husband in his sleep. I’m gonna do a pro/con chart on this one, but I’m thinking the reward outweighs the risk.

PS- Mark if you’re reading this, don’t sleep in a hoodie.

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Sometimes Jake, my mush, has these sentimental moments that he doesn’t yet know how to process. He will say things like, “this music makes me want to cry, it’s just so beautiful.” Last night he came in as I was putting Ryan to bed. He said, “I can’t help it I just need to hug you one more time. I don’t know why. I just need to hug and kiss you. I love you.”

Ryan: (Who you can’t buy a hug from.) “What about me? Can you help hugging me?”

Jake: “No, you too Ryan,” He said, ‘cause he’s good like that. (He went over and hugged and and kissed her.)

He left and came back two more times because, in his words, “I can’t help it Mommy, my heart is addicted to you.”

“MY heart is addicted to YOU.” I replied in awe of this immensely touching statement.

My heart is addicted to you, can you even handle it? How beautiful, in a why does my 6 year old understand the concept of addiction, kinda way. Is his father’s heart “addicted” to me? I mean my G-d that’s better than “You complete me,” or “You had me at hello.”

For how many more years will his heart be addicted to me? Will he turn in the middle of his wedding vows, walk away and announce to the crowd, “I just can’t, my heart is addicted to my mommy.” Part of me pathetically hopes so.

My daughter began hosting an intervention. “Can you stop Jake? Can you do it? Can you be brave and strong and stop your addiction?” She was saying,  in a breathless distressed Scarlet O’Hara kind of voice. She is just 4 and oddly, also seems to understand the word addiction. You’d think we were all in some kinda 12 stepper.

So, Jake bravely found his manliness and retreated to his big boy room. Within seconds Ryan lunged at me “I, can’t help it I must have a hug. I neeeeed a hug” her voice trailing off as she fainted into my arms. Somewhere the sentimentality was lost, but she definitely wins for most dramatic.

This time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Chanukah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this new year, I would balk at a request to play Stairway To Heaven, saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For 10 years my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2010.

2. Gain weight

I will add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I will start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I will stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it will make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I vow to eat everything a la mode including ice cream.

3. Work out less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I will take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I will drop my membership to the gym and use the money I save to buy more carbs.

4. Forget an old language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will break all grammatical rules; I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I will wear around my neck.

5. Stay out of touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I will start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads “I never liked you in the first place.” I will cuss out and hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be less patient

I will be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole Elementary Education is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell December by now, you never will…Now go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she sits on the potty way too long.”

7. Hold grudges

This year I will forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.

8. Stress more

I will lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my PDA, and then cry over what I have just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become addicted to something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction, maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the new year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or an addiction. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced due to a torrid affair. I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatYourNeighborsAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through local parking lots amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in my next column.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I have many addictions, most of which are harmless and routine. My penchant for pot…child’s play. An affinity for gambling and my small cocaine habit…blips on the radar. Compulsively stealing Percacet, Oxyconton and other prescription drugs from people’s medicine cabinets…a mere misdemeanor. But G-d do I love me some sleep. You know the stuff. That in the bed, eyes closed, not awake kind of sleep. I am currently not sleeping to write this and I am just jonesing for some shut eye. Ahhh…sweet, sweet slumber.

I’ve been addicted to sleep for as long as I can remember. Even as a small child, my Mom tells fantastic tales of my having to sleep multiple times each day. Sometimes I sleep for long stretches; I go to bed at one time and wake up at a totally different time. I know this as it is dark when I start to sleep, and light when I wake up. I also I have a clock.

I am so dependent on sleep that if I skip a single day, one day, I start to go through severe withdrawal. My head aches, my eyes twitch and dark circles form puddles under them. My speech is slurred and nonsensical, and my decision- making becomes impaired. I have this overall look of exhaustion that is a tell-tale sign of my addiction. Like any hard-core addict, I make excuses. “I fell.” “My husband is beating me.” “I’ve been shooting up.”

I get so high on sleep, that I completely lose my appetite. Some nights I can go ten hours without eating. In fact, I rarely eat when I’m sleeping. There are other side effects, like crazy hallucinations. I’ll be having sex with Ben Affleck and a shark will eat him and then I’ll scream and freefall off some huge ledge and end up on Oprah’s talk show couch, except Oprah is a white male midget with 8 tentacles, each of which is attempting to feel me up, which is odd because he’s gay.

You would think that would scare me straight, but it’s doesn’t. I’ve tried over and over to kick the habit. In college, I used tons of caffeine and ephedrine in hopes of weaning myself off sleep. But I ended up partying all night, only to relapse all day and miss extremely practical classes, like bio 403 -The history of infectious diseases.

After having babies, I used breast feeding as a form of “rehab,” but I fell off the wagon and did something too horrible to discuss. That’s right, I got my own kids hooked on the stuff, like little crack babies. I forced them to try it, and they were so smitten with the sandman, they indulged two, maybe three times a day. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I even joined them from time to time.

Look, I am not proud of what I’ve done. For years I’ve tried to hide it. Only a select few guessed… my carpool, they knew. I knew they knew, but I still relied on explanations. “You say I look so fresh faced and well rested? Well…that must be my Nars bronzer, Orgasm.” “Oh, that dewy glow, that’s cause I just had an actual orgasm.”

Now I am telling the world, because the first step is admitting you have a problem. “Hi, my name is Jenny, and I’m addicted to sleep. I apologize if my habit has harmed or affected those around me and I vow to get help… in the morning.

If you are anything like me you feel like a teenager most of the time… maturity wise. I am certainly not a teenager in the sense of stamina, agility, or intelligence. G-d knows I was a hell of a lot speedier, stretchier, and smarter at 18 than I am today.

I have no recall of history, math, scientific facts, people’s names, or “SAT words.” I search those cracks and crevices in the far reaches of my mind and find proverbial cobwebs. I do Sudoku, crosswords, and challenge people who I haven’t seen in 25 yrs. to word games on facebook. I try to get those synapses to shoot or fire or snap crackle and pop. Yet, I can barely extract a word to describe the actual word or concept I was trying to convey in the first place.

I don’t know if you understood any of that last sentence, as I could not figure out how to get across what I was trying to say. Thinking is sometimes like a circular argument. Like trying to figure out what was here before the universe. I wish that I could comment on such cerebral subjects. Unfortunately, it took all of my brain power to come up with the word cerebral. Hey, there’s always tomorrow.

I must have acquired adult ADD or what I like to call “Momnesia.” A lot of people like to call it “Baby Brain,” which is a phenomenon that supposedly occurs during the first 6 months after childbirth, in which the Mother is, well, stupid. I too am stupid, but it’s been 3 and a half years since I had a 6 month old.

I loose my thoughts, my keys, names of famous people for references in witty banter. Friends are stood up, meetings are missed, and appointments are remembered only after a reminder call (if I think to check my messages). I walk into a room or a closet with such purpose and when I arrive, I just stand there and stare, trying to figure out why I went there in the first place. If you relate to these symptoms, than you have “Momnesia.”

You forget to return phone calls, and leave your child’s lunchbox in the fridge. You find a credit card in your pocket one day after you finally cancel it. You lock your infant in your car while it’s still running. You throw your good sunglasses in the bin after a Disney show and wear the 3-D glasses on your head for the next 3 hours.

You seriously have some issues. I would recommend a good therapist, but I only see mine once a month, and therefore can not remember his name. However, I do get a lovely call from his office every couple weeks letting me know that I have missed an appointment and owe a nice chunk of dough. Which seems a bit ironic considering most of what we talk about is my inability to keep thoughts and appointments in my head.

I can picture him at our consultation, “Ah, you have memory problems? Snicker snicker. Did you sign the contract about the office practices and policies?” Unfortunately, his office doesn’t believe in reminder calls, and lucky for me they also don’t believe in taking insurance. I must be his favorite patient, for every time I see him I pay him thrice. $275 a pop… that’s the equivalent of a dress from Nordstroms, or a blouse from Saks, or a bra from Neimans, or socks from Bergdorfs.

Hey Doc, how did your daughter’s braces work out? No thanks necessary, however, a reminder call would be nice.

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Such weird things happen as we get older. For instance, what your parents called beauty marks your dermatologist calls moles. Those veins that once transported blood to your feet look like they are trying to escape from your legs.

Everyone is freaking out about something. I get calls about gray hair, stray hair, receding hair, and hair that won’t grow.

I hear about bad backs, brains that lag,

cottage cheese thighs, and boobs that sag.

Age brings crow’s feet, faces that wrinkle,

memory loss, and fallen bladders that tinkle.

That’s right, I rhymed.

The weirdest things are those you didn’t see coming. For instance, I now have an ugly tongue. You didn’t see that coming did you? I’d always notice when older people had those tongues that showed indentations from every tooth and think, “thank G-d he’s too old to French kiss anyone.” Mind you old is 40 when you’re like 13.

Now, I have acquired an ugly tongue. It’s not always ugly, so if you were thinking, “Me and you, open mouthed greeting.” You can still catch me on a good day. I went to the Doctor, because as stated in the “Hypochondriatic Oath,” “I will fulfill my duty to check everything out. From lumps to paper cuts.” The doctor said this ugly mark actually has a name, “Geographic Tongue.”

He explained that it’s a reaction to spicy or salty foods, in which blotches show up that look like the outlines of countries, hence the term. It comes and goes, in different places and locations.

Two weeks ago I was featuring Africa, however it appears today I am feeling patriotic. Not that I think anyone is really looking, but I have to remind myself, “No raspberries till it disappears, and no showing off my tongue rolling or cherry tying abilities for that matter.” This will be hard, but I will persevere… in the name of vanity.

Sadly my husband, who is the person I kiss the most, gets the job of helping me decipher which country it looks like. It’s a fun little game we play to get in the mood. I think it’s really hot. I might even call it foreplay, but it’s been so long since I had the time or energy for foreplay I wouldn’t know it if it bit me on the tongue.

I think if Mark had to call it something, the word would be… gross. Luckily, the fear of having to do things like figure out visitation schedules and who gets the itunes library, the cat… our many vacation villas, is a large factor in him sticking around.

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I was asking people their thoughts on positive thinking when my friend Sandy told me a story about finding her “By the time I’m 40” wish list. One of the items on the list was not to do the nails of an elderly lady at her home in the evening anymore. She didn’t have the heart to cancel her weekly appointments, which had been long standing. “And would you believe it, the woman died right before my 40^th birthday? For a while I thought I killed her,” she explained with an odd sense of accomplishment. “Talk about powerful thinking. What a stroke of luck, well a stroke of some kind. Though, I bet she would have preferred that you simply canceled on her.”

That tale made me realize that more interesting than the power of positive thinking, is the power we give our thoughts. I should probably warn you, I can control things with my mind. Bad things. Like many people raised with Judeo Christian values, I was taught through guilt and fear of jinxes. In Judism it’s called a kinahura, in Christianity it’s knock on wood. The idea is not to tempt fate.

Though I am a pretty positive thinker, I mostly control negative occurrences. For example, if it’s raining it is most likely because I contemplated bringing an umbrella with me that day and ended up leaving it home, or at the very least I had my car washed. I take full credit and I apologize.

My husband is a genetically positive thinker or just a cocky bastard. He says things that I literally choke on like, “Don’t worry, what do you think could happen?” I recently convinced myself that a three hour power outage was part of a terrorist operation to attack Weston, and you want ME to conjure a list of possible mishaps?

On our way to Atlantis he said something like, “We never lose at that casino. In fact I’m on a winning streak. I can’t even remember the last time I lost gambling.” I say, “Gag, gag. I’m sure you’ve lost and you just don’t recall,” in a vein attempt to appease the gods of humility. So we rush down to the craps table and he excitedly throws down a pile of chips and do you know what happens. That’s right he wins and I lose.

I read ‘The Secret,’ like everyone else. I get a spot in front of Publix every time because, gosh darn it, I just know I will. Also, I am prepared to circle for an abnormally long amount of time. I wish for good things, and I believe they will happen. Everyday, I am sure it will be the day I win the lottery. I wish it to be true. I visualize it happening. I plan how I am going to blow my money and yet I have never won. I’m sure there are other factors that go into determining such an outcome. For instance not buying lottery tickets probably affects my chances in some remote way.

I envision myself having a column in the NY Post. I know you enjoy my writing so much that you will write a long glowing comment and then send the blog to all of your friends with an attachment that calls me the most brilliant writer you’ve ever encountered. Either that or you will quickly erase your email subscription while mumbling, cocky bitch. Just for the record, I visualize you choosing the first option.

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Before the late night toddlerisms.

Last night at about 2am, Ryan wanted to play. She is so insightful in the wee hours. I guess during her day with Daddy she watched some of Jake’s movies, which sparked some important questions about survival.

“If a laser hit a kid what would happen?”

Now let’s not forget it’s 2am and I am trying sleep and answer serious questions…at all the same time.

“Well, there are lots of different types of lasers. Some can help your skin or your body, and they don’t really hurt at all.”

“Nooo I meeaan the laser in Mario bros, that Luigi shot at the mouse and made his ship explode?”

“Ah, that kind of laser. Well, I guess it would hurt but they don’t really exist.”

“But, Luigi has one.”

“Yes, but that’s just made up.”

“What about sharks? They exist right?”

“Yes.”

“Could a kid get eaten by a shark?”

“I guess, but they don’t usually eat people, ‘cause we taste yucky.”

“I don’t taste yucky, I’m sweet. That’s why the mosquitoes bite me, and Daddy is sweet, but you and Jake are sour.”

Oh, we’re sour alright, especially at 2am.

“What about electricity? Could that fire?”

“Huh.” (I realized this was about to go into what happens to people when they are electrocuted or on fire.)

“If a dragon falls in a fire what would happen?”

A surprising digression. Whew. (Pause to take in the question.)

“Well, dragons breathe fire so they probably have very thick skin and I bet they would be just fine.”

“Like a seal. A seal has skin like a dragon so a seal would be okay too, right?”

“Right.”

“How about a kitty, cause they are soft and furry. What if a kitty was in fire?”

“Okay, it’s really time to go to sleep now. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Doesn’t my kid have the sweetest pillow talk?

What I did not mention yesterday is the interesting conversation that followed my trip to Whole Foods. I was in my car thinking about my highly inflated purchases, and wondering how much of my food’s airfare I had paid. My grapes were from Chile, my oranges from South Africa, and my avocado from Argentina.

It dawned on me that my fruit is worldlier than I am. So, I thought we could kill some time by discussing travel, good hotels, and sightseeing. The grapes were extremely friendly. Well, they were seedless, so what would you expect? They went on to warn me about their country. “Ay dios mio, jou don want to go to Chile. It may mean cold en Ingles, but esta muy caliente . Also, jou should remember to wash us bueno. We may be organic, but jou have no idea how much bug poop jour eating.”

What? That’s how they talk, they’re from Chile.

“Wow that was overly informational, I’m glad we spoke.”

The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke for the sack and said, “You call yourself a conservationist!?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in Florida and you just bought oranges from South Africa! How do you sleep at night?”

“So, you’re a ‘Greenie’” I should have guessed, you being organic and all. Well, I will have you know whenever I see an empty plastic bottle I throw it in my SUV and drive 3 miles out of the way to take it to a collection site. You can’t say I don’t do my share.”

“Yeah? And I bet you leave your car running while you drop it off.”

“Well, of course I do, it’s super hot in Florida. Or, as your bag mates would say, muy caliente.”

“Waster!”

“It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. I was just trying to make polite conversation. This is the last time I talk to produce!”

I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I juiced him to a pulp. Next, I peeled off his skin and ate his carcass. I made his friends watch, and then set them free, so they could tell others what happens when fruit talks back.

Between this post and yesterdays, it appears I could use some anger management.

Usually in a checkout line, I know the girl at the register. I know where she is from, what she is doing for the holidays and possibly even her stance on gay marriage. By the time I hit the register at Starbucks, the barista has my coffee sitting on the counter with Jenny from the block, scribbled on it. I mention this, because I am usually friendly and up for chit chat, witty banter, or mundane repartee.

However, as I discovered at Whole Foods yesterday, I have some deep-seated aggression. Apparently, if you are too chipper on a Monday morning, and I am in a rush, we might throw down.

All of this started when the jolly man in front of me finished chatting up the patron before him. He then turned to me in a “jovial friend to all” mode and quipped, “Hello, may I put this divider down so that you can place your food on the belt? Chuckle…chuckle. That way our food won’t fight.”

My not unusually sarcastic response: “My food could kick your food’s

ass.”

His good spirited response: “Well you did buy a lot of organic. You might be right.”

My surprisingly aggressive response: “If my food doesn’t do the job, I will take you down myself.”

Translation: Less talky more swipey, okay there buddy?

It’s Monday, I’m in a rush, and worst of all I am about to spend $159.55 on oranges, an avocado, a piece of Chilean sea bass, a bag of nuts, and 3 grapes. I have every right to be bitter and impatient.

Why do I always sense that when I’m doing something loud, like vacuuming or drying my hair, I’m missing something in the background? In high school and college, I was sure that the phone was ringing. Drying my hair would take an extra 20 minutes due to my constant “turn-off checks.” I just knew I was missing the call of some hot diver or frat party invite. Well, as it later turned out, the divers were all gay and the frat parties… well, they were fun. That’s where I hooked up with the divers before they “came out”.

Anyway, in my adult life I am not so concerned with phone calls, as most of them are soliciting me to get direct TV or refinance my mortgage. Now when I am doing something loud, it is my screaming children I hear. Sadly, I am often right, but thankfully they are rarely in a state of emergency. They are usually fighting, teasing, whining, or just yelling loud enough to ensure that I don’t finish any task uninterrupted. You know, to keep me on my toes.

Sometimes I am tempted to turn things on for a moment of peace. I’ve found that running the blender, in tandem with the espresso machine, makes a soothing clamor, not unlike the sound of Enya.

This morning I was brushing my teeth, which takes two minutes. I know this because I use a Sonicare which requires I spend 30 seconds on each quadrant… and I diligently do. In that two minute span my son called me 11 times… I counted. “Mom…MOM….MOOOOOMMMM….MOMMY!”

“WHAT!” Actually, it was “HAWHHHAAT,” I had toothpaste in my mouth.

“Ryan…blah …blah… blah…room,” was all I could make out over the toothbrush vibrating in my skull. Since I could tell by the tone of his complaint that there was no bloodshed, I continued brushing. Clearly, I couldn’t restart the Sonicare because it would throw off my whole quadrant thing. Thus, I could be brushing for more than the allotted two minutes potentially giving extra attention my lower left side.

“HWAAAHAT!”

“Blah…Blah…My Room!”

Got it, Ryan won’t get out of your room. You keep asking her and she is standing firm, probably teasing or spitting at you. Saying something like, “Jake, I spit at your room ‘cause you’re being mean to me!”

AHHH fresh breath, this may be the only two minutes I get for personal hygiene all day.

“What’s the problem?”

“Ryan won’t leave and it’s my room and I want some privacy!”

I look at Ryan, standing at the door to their connecting bathroom, spitting on Jake’s carpet.

“Jake, do you know any divers?”