I had a hard time getting dressed this morning; I’m totally blaming Pantene, by the way. And Old Navy. And the people at Playmobil.
Charlie has some new Playmobil pirates–122 pieces! that I assembled! while the boys ate bagels and said, “ARE YOU DONE? ARE YOU DONE? ARE YOU DONE?” four million times–which SHOULD have kept everyone happy for the twelve minutes it takes me to shower and put my makeup on. And yes, they were indeed busy, because it takes a LOT of energy to fight about who will have which pirate and which dagger is the NEW dagger.
I finally negotiated a truce and got in the shower and realized that I had bought the WRONG shampoo which was why my hair has looked so crappy all week. No moisturizers! Moisturizers are bad! Moisturizing shampoo makes my hair all weird! So I had to lather rinse repeat and then repeat THAT with ANOTHER shampoo that just happened to be in the basket. So now my seven minute shower is running a little longer than I planned and I can hear the boys fighting. I figure I should put some clothes on before I go break it up, so I grab a tank top and pull it on and . . . get stuck. I can’t get the damn thing over my HEAD and I’m thinking oh my god I ate so many Hershey Kisses that now my stretchy TANK TOP doesn’t fit! Then I realize that the hem is sewn wrong and doesn’t stretch. At all. Whaddya expect for like five dollars?
But! I have ANOTHER white tank, somewhere! I pull out the entire pile of tanks from my closet (because I have like 20, I wear them ALL THE TIME) and I have every other color you can imagine (two hot pink! two VERY SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT hot pink tank tops!) but no white. But! There is white laundry in the dryer! Dry, unfolded white laundry! My OTHER tank MUST be there!
So I run through the house in my undies. I’m trying NOT to be seen by either my kids (who are fighting over Playmobil pirates) or my neighbors (who are elderly and sit outside watching each other’s houses ALL DAY LONG) because I’m topless and all my blinds are open. Although I did stop to put some flip flops on because you never know what you might step on in my kitchen. I dig through the laundry and NO TANK TOP.
Just fifteen pairs of little boys’ underpants. Dammit.
Run back to the bedroom, yelling, “STOP FIGHTING OR I WILL TAKE ALL THE PIRATES AWAY!” Find a camisole that hugs every single fat molecule in my stomach. One of my contact lenses is folded in HALF. IN MY EYE. Go into the bathroom to take the lens out; realize that I’ve never put any makeup on and I have a zit the size of a dime between my eyes and that my hair is sticking STRAIGHT UP, probably from all the washing.
Think to myself, SHIT, GOOD THING I’M NOT GOING TO BLOGHER. Because apparently I would have shown up mostly naked.
Oh, wait, that’s like the whole point, isn’t it?
Eventually, I got dressed and got some mascara on and tamed my hair (sort of) and implemeted a cease fire between the warring pirate factions and fed the wild children and . . .
And then my sitter came. For THREE HOURS.
I’ll say it again: THREE HOURS without my children.
When I came home, Charlotte said, “Did you get a lot done?”
And I said, “Yes!” And I did! I exchanged the faulty tank at Old Navy (and possibly picked up two more tanks), went shoe browsing (no buying), flipped throught the new InStyle and drank a grande mocha frappuchino at the bookstore (dear InStyle editors, high waisted jeans are NEVER coming back, love, Susan), ran into Leslie and her boys (who asked “Where are your KIDS?” because apparently they were afraid I had sold them on eBay), stopped at Target and picked up bread and frozen fajita strips and shampoo (this time, I bought the right one).
We’re going to Albuquerque on Saturday, for a week, and I still haven’t done laundry or paid bills or picked up all the toys because my housekeeper is coming while we’re gone. Plus my guest bed is COVERED with baby clothes that I’m sure my dad doesn’t want to sleep with while he’s here. Oh, and we’re going to a party tomorrow night.
Huh. Maybe I should have done some really USEFUL things with my three hours. Nah.