Whirly Twirly Mental Manic Aggressive

Those Nationwide commercials are right. I pay attention to them mainly because I am still angsty over the big insurance companies not covering in Massachusetts, causing me the horrific experience of having to switch companies when I moved here from Georgia. In fact, I was with Allstate there, and had every intention of keeping them, if for no other reason than I like the deep-voiced guy that does their commercials. Beats the hell out of a talking lizard, in three out of four taste tests anyway. Besides, deep down….really, really deep down – I want to be in good hands.

Back to the point.

“Life comes at you fast.”

I haven’t posted a blog in over a month. Is it because I have been writing so many quality blogs that I can’t decide which one to post first? Is it because I’ve been reduced to writing with paper and pen because all computer manufacturers have also decided Massachusetts is a bitch and stopped selling them here? Is it because I fell down in my driveway whilst shoveling 2000 cubic feet of lead-like snow and broke both my hands, forcing me to “write” in my hand-held minute-taking recorder from work?

Nay.

I have been so swamped with year-end number-crunching, mess-cleaning chaos, sprinkled heavily with basketball games and bedtime wino-moments – I have barely noticed December is over and it’s nearing the end of January. I find solace in the fact that the hoity-toity holiday dinner and the hoopla of a department-wide party for a couple hundred coworkers is over. But I kind of feel like the 31st is the day I’ve been scheduled for execution, and only an unlikely stay will save me from sure numeric destruction.

In fact, I am sitting here now, having had the intention to leave work today, not bring the spreadsheets with me, and buy a couple new games (the board kind, not the PS2 kind) to play with my mom and the kids - a family game night having happened exactly twice in the past year or so. I was thinking Candy Land for the toddler so she'll stop stealing the pieces to whatever the rest of us are playing cause she's left out, or maybe that apple picking one. Or is it cherries?

But - turns out the Mother made plans with the Grandmother for dinner, my son went to a school dance with his friends, and my teen daughter is at the mall (with whom and for what reason, still unknown). So I skipped the toy store, hit the liquor store, and sit here in the near-quiet as my toddler watches Noggin while using approximately 237 wipes to clean the living room.

So let's talk about the toddler.

While she drives me insane with her mini-me tendencies, including gobs of sarcasm and a super-sweet little princess delivery – she is the one who will make me proud. Having been an avid Obama supporter, I am delighted that not only can she name the President when asked (she’ll be three in March - and learned this just this week), but she also refers to him as her “Best Buddy”. She has taken possession of my small Obama tote bag, and takes it to the sitters everyday, choc-full of her hair ties, nail polish, sippy cup and sparkly princess shoes – sometimes varying by leaving the shoes and adding a doll and fuzzy blanket. She proudly grabs the woven red straps and announces "Mommy, I've got my Beeer-ROCK O-Baaaama bag" - and heads for the door.

If you knew how unprissy the rest of us are, you’d question if her bio-father was really an undercover closeted Californian ballerina too.

Anyway - last night she laid in bed with me, where we retired to early, my patience thinning and brain like lifeless granite - shiney-flecs but no function. I poured myself a glass of wine from a bottle given to me by some coworkers for the effort I put in to last weeks party, and snuggled under the covers, hoping she’d fall asleep quickly. Two seconds later, she flings herself over me to get her juice, knocking over my freshly poured glass (pink plastic cup) of cabernet, sending the lovely red contents into torrents of staining rain, covering the wall, side of the bed, and nasty off-white carpet.

My blood boiled, and I glared at her, ready to spout off threats of NO nail polish, Dora or fruit snacks for the NEXT TEN YEARS – when I realized she was shaking….waiting for me to spank her “goose bottom” or “pinochle-butt”. I stood rigid and tried counting to ten. I tried shaking my fists in the air to rid myself of the anger. I cursed my uterus and cell division for ruining my life (and pink cup of wine). And then I looked at her again.

She was smiling.

I swear, somewhere deep down inside she knew I wouldn’t spank her for it. It’s as if she knows its just plain wrong to beat your kid for wasting your booze.

The ill-timed, much needed, and merely temporary End.

(This is my brain on imaginary drugs after crying over spilt wine)