I have FOCUS!

Here’s the deal…

I, Cat the Desperate Working Momma, have decided to take up the proverbial gauntlet thrown down by Veoh and the CW (read all about it here) and will be creating my own Weekend Update-style recap of each episode of Veronica Mars. I know, right?! Booyah! The only rule? I can’t use images or clips from the show. Well, snap. But whatever. There are prizes involved! PRIZES! Free stuff that I can win! For free! Yeppers. Major Awards. Official Veronica Mars swag, if you will. 

Oh, it is SO on.

So if you watch the show, feel free to email me with any wicked funny observations or ideas, and I– utilizing my mad podcasting skillz– will run frakking crazy with them!

Deal?

Hoo! Good golly, Miss Molly! This is going to be fun…

You know you’re an English Geek if…

Scene: Place of employment, in the hallway. We see an older gentleman pushing a large, heavy-laden cart almost overflowing with boxes down the narrow hallway.

Enter Cat, jauntily strolling down the hall, whistling a lively tune. She spots the Older Gentleman and…

Cat: Wow! That looks burdensome!

Older Gentleman: ??

As Cat passes…

Cat: (mouthed Baby “‘I carried a watermelon’?!” Houseman-style) “That looks burdensome”?

It could have been worse, I suppose.

I almost said “onerous.”

Dancing and Falling

The leaves are changing colors.

Alli is sitting at the kitchen table eating a chocolate creme donut (Hi. My name is Cat and I’m a pastry enabler.). Unlike TD and Mack, who speedily dispatched their own afternoon treats and are now happily picking their way through the boxes in the attic in search of those elusive Halloween costumes, Alli enjoys the thrill of the ownership. La la la, this is my donut and I will lick at it and take teensy weensy bites and love it forever or at least until TD and Mack come downstairs and are so so jealous of me and my donut because theirs are all gone and I still have mine la la la!

I look at her, hand tightly grasping a Halloween-themed pencil (black eraser! woooooo…), her little tongue sticking out from between her teeth as she works out the intricacies of alphabetical order. Every so often she is arrested by the discovery of some heretofore-unnoticed stray dusting of powdered sugar on her fingers, and it’s like Christmas all over again, I see it in her eyes, as she licks it off.

Beyond her, through the kitchen window, I see leaves floating by, falling and dancing in the wind. The thin branches in the trees are softly swaying and waving, shaking off the leaves, setting them free. And I think to myself that it is beautiful and sad, all at the same time. Beautiful because the leaves paint the air with lovely warm autumn hues of russets, burgundy, and brown. Sad because although they break free to dance with the wind, they have no place to travel but down to the earth where they will end up trampled and rain-battered, stuck in dampened heaps on my porch. Trapped, yearning for just a few more minutes– seconds!– of flight on the wind rushing by, but they are weighed down, too heavy. Tired. Weary. Done.

I look back at Alli. She has moved on to reading aloud a book of puppy riddles, and I smile as she giggles to herself. Then another leaf catches my attention. It swirls and twirls– loop-the-loop!– and disappears from my view. Go little leaf! I chant silently. Don’t fall yet! Fly just a bit more…

I hear worrisome noises coming from the attic: voices raised, loud thumping– a crash. There is a good chance the battle over the black dementor shroud will come to blows, but I smile anyway as the sound of my family washes over me, through me, and I realize I am like those leaves outside, gradually growing and changing colors, no longer the fresh, pale green of a newly budded leaf, but not yet the russet shade of the trampled, weary leaf, yearning for one last flight. I’m a shade in between. A lush forest green with hints of olive, goldenrod, and palest yellow, and perhaps even a thin streak of burgundy running throughout. And I’m dancing and swaying and floating, with really only one possible destination, but there are others dancing with me, and we fly together, always together, painting the sky with our myriad colors, for better or worse…

And the view? Is absolutely amazing.

Dangerous Lovers

No, I’m not talking about that Grey’s Anatomy storyline last Thursday with the lovers who were rushed to the emergency room, painfully– ah– stuck together thanks to a misguided piercing, an IUD, and their own cheatin’ hearts, although… hee. That was pretty funny. And gross. But mostly funny.

No, I’m talking about Bella, the new girl at the high school in the small town of Forks, Washington, who falls in love with the beautiful, mysterious Edward, who finds himself helplessly drawn to her, as well. In fact, Edward has a hell of a time controlling the blood lust Bella arouses in him. You know… him being a vampire and all?

Okay, I admit it. I have absolutely fallen in love with the New York Times bestseller Twilight, by Stephanie Meyer. I know, right?! She totally had me at “Bella falls in love with a vampire.” The story is equal parts sensual (but in a dark, deeply romantic way) and heart-poundingly suspenseful, and quite honestly, I haven’t enjoyed a fantastical, star-crossed love story this much since Angel left Buffy…

Right, then. Just thought I’d share.

Carry on.

Missing Pieces

Last evening as I sat at my computer scanning the words of the email my sister had forwarded to me (subject: *sigh*), trying to make sense of it all, I was suddenly struck with a familiar, faraway sensation. One minute Alli and I were singing along to Steady Fools by Korben– “We’re always foooo-oooo-ooooools, yeeeeeeeeaaaaah!!”– the next moment the noise around me was abruptly cut, sucked from the room. It seemed to blare for one split-second before pulling back into itself, somewhat inanely reminding me of the sound a television makes at the exact moment the power is cut. I was breathless.

“I’d rather have told you in person, but take a breath…” it read. Thankful for the reminder, I breathed… in… out… in… out… But the words said the same thing no matter how may times I read them: “Warren has died.”

Warren. My sister’s ex-husband. A man I had known for seventeen years, and who had been a part of our family for eleven of those. Faint voices echoed from far away, children fighting, yelling, laughing, but nothing penetrated the numbness that had suddenly taken up residence in my chest, in my heart. In the stillness, a blanket of quiet sadness pressed down around me.

Memories began to flash in my mind’s eye: College and that guy who sat by me in Honors English constantly badgering me about how many pages I wrote for my literary critique–”My paper is ten pages long, and that’s not including works cited!”– what grade I got on my essay– “Hey, Cat, what did you get? I got a ninety-six!”– or whether or not I would go out with him on Friday night– “C’mon. Why not? It’s that Dason guy, isn’t it?” That guy pulling out his hair when I got a ninety-eight percent on a paper on which he scored a mere ninety-six, because he knew for a fact that I had only just finished my essay fifteen minutes before class while he had slaved for an entire week “crafting” and “honing” his.

The memories kept coming… The guy who threw around fancy-sounding word, like fortuitous and existentialism, then sulked when I called him on wielding said words incorrectly. The guy who made friends easily… with the professors. The guy with a true gift for photography and an all-abiding love of astronomy. The guy who drove me crazy yet I couldn’t help but find his competitive streak and utter geekiness endearing in some small way.

They were coming faster. San Diego and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Tijuna. Running up and down the strip of beach outside our hotel in San Diego, well after midnight, exuberantly singing Jesus Christ Superstar with accompanying hand gestures and dance moves. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats and T.S. Elliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Cycling together. Concussed and flashing his road-rashed buttocks at a horrified TGIM. Beautiful, deep blue eyes and a permanent five-o’clock shadow. A performance of Men At Work’s classic Who Can It Be Now in the most non-intentionally hilarious operatic voice ever heard at the country-western karaoke bar in Prescott, Arizona. Family picnics, children’s births, and hours spent developing pictures and hanging out at the photo shop he and my sister owned. Uncle Warren showing my children the world from a different perspective, taking them up in his Cessna for their first airplane ride.

Then divorce. My sister broken into pieces. Pain. Tears and Anger. Regret.

My eyes pulled back into focus and I saw Alli, far away (or was she?), like a pretty dream or a pleasant movie, still dancing around the room, singing and shaking her groove thing, her golden brown curls flying as she twirled and laughed. Only seconds had passed? It felt like years.

Warren has died.

“Momma! Look! I’m lip-synching! LOOKIT, MOMMA!”

Woosh! With Alli’s voice, the clamor of family blared out, recalling me from my stupor. Tanner absolutely positively needed to get on the computer but just for a second, please, please, please?, and Hannah was off somewhere making that dying cat noise that drives us all insane.

“Mom-MA!”

I smiled at Allison, a watery smile (were those tears?). “You rock, babycakes,” I said as I carefully closed my laptop and set it aside. I closed my eyes for a second, just one second, overcome with seemingly inexplicable sadness and loss. He hurt my sister. He hurt me.

Then the memory of Warren and I dancing and singing on the beach overwhelmed me and a short, bubbly laugh burst out. My throat burned with it, but I knew I was going to remember him like that. Just like that.

And I realized at that moment how thankful I was for the scenes that came before the pain, adding to the whole, bringing it all into perspective, and I held on to the picture of Warren as he once was– antagonist, friend, brother, uncle– because even though he left us behind, killed in a plane crash at the age of thirty-eight, I knew he would always be there, woven into the tapestry of my life. In my mind and heart.

Forever.

Traumatized

Things will never be the same again.

So there I was at CVS, just waiting in line to buy some of those pre-shaped foam ear plugs (those bad boys can save your marriage) and a bottle of midnight black fingernail polish (I have no excuse for this). The guy in front of me (buying condoms! hee hee! condoms!) was taking forever with his purchase (”Price check on Living Large brand prophylactics… price check, please…”– okay, not really, but I imagined it played out that way), so in order to stop myself from the inevitable impulse candy bar buy, I turned away from the cash register, you know, to kind of look around, not think about candy bars, see the pla– Good LORD! As I turned, I caught sight of an entire WALL of candy situated directly behind me. A wall! Of candy! Directly behind me! And it was all “Mwah ha ha! You WILL buy candy on impulse! It is futile to resist! We are yummy candy! Mwah ha ha!” Stupid CVS. This is what is called “playing dirty.”

Is this what traumatized me? No. It gets worse.

The guy in front of me finally finished his transaction and hurried off to Live Large somewhere. I stepped up and threw my newly acquired bag of York Peppermint Patties (stupid CVS) and the box of ear plugs onto the counter, and reached into my purse to grab my wallet. I was clutching my keys in one hand (if they go in the purse, they will not come back out without a fight, I’m just saying) so I did the one-handed credit card swipe, then stood waiting, faux pen at the ready. I admit I was not really paying too much attention to what was going on around me as I was still cracking prophylactic jokes in my head– No glove, no love!… Don’t be silly, protect your wi– “Wait, what?”

“Here’s your receipt,” the cashier repeated, shoving my receipt in my face. “Thankyouhaveaniceday… next!”

Is this a new thing? I thought to myself as I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. Why did I not have to sign? What if I were not really me, huh?! What if I were someone named Ted! What then?!

Is this what traumatized me? No. I’m almost there.

I pushed open the glass door with my free hand, the one clutching my keys, and walked out. I could totally be someone named Ted, and they wouldn’t even care. This is completely unaccept– OH SWEET MOTHER OF HEAVEN! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

In my hand, nestled comfortably in my palm with my keys, was a small bottle of midnight black fingernail polish. And I had just exited the building, which meant…

We interrupt this story to take a walk down memory lane, to sneak a peek at Cat’s past, if you will. You see, in high school– this may come as a shock to you, so be warned– Cat was on the cheerleading squad. I know, right? Unbefreakinglievable. Regardless, she was, so deal. Anyway, during the summer between her junior and senior year, the cheerleading squad went out to California for cheer camp, and you know what that means. Disneyland, that’s what! Wait. What did you think I was going to say? Anyway, about an hour after we entered The Happiest Place On Earth, the Varsity cheerleaders split up for fifteen minutes– Cat, finished with her shopping, went with the JV squad to score some churros while the older girls went into yet another gift shop for “one last souvenir”– with the promise to meet Cat at Cinderella’s Castle. Sadly, the girls never showed, and Cat had to spend the day with a group of giddy, hyper, boy-crazy JV cheerleaders. But this story has a silver lining. You see, all the Varsity girls knew that Cat was what they affectionately called ” a goody-goody,” so they purposefully left her out of the loop when they decided that “one last souvenir” actually meant “a shoplifted piece of merchandise,” knowing full well her response would be, “Oh, hell to the NO!” As it turns out, they were not even half as good at shoplifting as they were at cheerleading, because they were stone-cold busted and hauled off to Mickey Jail. And that is the story of how Cat was selected as head cheerleader her senior year.

So… where was I? Ah, yes.

In my hand, nestled comfortably in my palm with my keys, was a small bottle of midnight black fingernail polish. And I had just exited the building, which meant…

Oh dear LORD! I’m a thief! A shoplifter! Did they see? Do they know? Did they push the silent alarm? OMG, I bet they pushed a silent alarm! Like Wallace did in that episode of Veronica Mars! Man, I loved that episode. It was awesome, right? Hey! Focus, stickyfingers! Are the police on their way? Do I hear sirens? There is nothing else for it, I’ll have to take it on the lam.

Of course, all these thoughts swirled through my head in the minute it took for me to push open the door, step outside, and stand frozen in place for several heart-pounding seconds before I turned around and headed right back into the store, where I confessed and threw myself at the mercy of the CVS manager.

They were very kind about it, but I was horrified. Traumatized! And the truth is, I was not so much upset that I had accidentally walked out of the store without paying for a three-dollar bottle of nail polish. Oh, no. What horrified me was that for one brief second– so brief! a blip! a nano second!– I remember experiencing the most exhilarating rush of adrenaline and thinking, I TOTALLY snaked that bottle of polish and freaking got AWAY with it! Woo! I’m BAD!

I know, right? I’m shocked at myself. Shocked! Because for one second… just one teensy second… it felt good to be bad.

I’m so ashamed.

But a little proud.

But mostly ashamed.

Things will never, ever be the same again.

It’s time to question not who we love, but whom.

(Disclaimer: Hey, blame Paige. This is all her fault.)

So, the other night when I was trying to explain to a friend when to use “who” and when to use “whom” (shut up), we descended into the somewhat foreign world of subject and object pronouns– nominative and objective pronouns, respectively, if you want to get all technical and whatnot. Oh yes I did just go there. Do I woo you with my pretty, pretty words? Yes? Cool. Grammar rocks! [insert “rock on!’ gesture and accompanying scrunchy face here]

Anyhoos, I was trying to explain that she would use “who” when the answer to the question she was asking could be answered with a subject pronoun, and she would use “whom” when the answer to the question could be answered with– you guessed it– an object pronoun. Which naturally begged the question, “The HELL you say?! Subject and object pronouns?! Good lord, woman! Speak English!” To which I answered, “Excuse me, but at whom are you shouting?” I mean, rude?

Suddenly, a memory stirred. Mrs. Patterman. Sixth grade. The Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off! Ah, yes! I remember it well! See, if you simply tell me that the subject pronouns are I, you, he, she, it, we, they, and the object pronouns are me, you, him, her, it, us, them, I will totally forget it the moment your mouth stops moving. It’s a gift. But if you SING it… well, that’s an entirely different story, now isn’t it?

I may not be able to tell you what we discussed in our staff meeting yesterday (without consulting the exhaustive notes I typed into my Treo between games of Sudoko), but I can unpack my adjectives like the DICKENS! And interjections? Which show excitement? Or emotion? And are generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point, or by a comma when the feeling’s not as strong? No problem! And I know that instead of saying Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla I can simply say HE (Phew! Thank you pronoun!). And don’t even get me started on conjunctions and their functions. Seriously. I can’t tell you how many extra credit points I earned during my elementary school years because I could recite the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution at the drop of a hat. Of course, it would be more accurate to say that I sang rather than recited it, but honestly, why quibble?

(And my grandparents said I was rotting my brain away watching Saturday morning cartoons. HA! Schoolhouse Rock, baby. Face!)

But I digress.

So, sixth grade. Mrs. Patterman. Woman was psycho, I tell you what. She’d make us stand in a line and march in place while we performed the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off. I am not even kidding. There was marching, people! And cadence! The horrors of public schooling in America never cease to amaze me.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” she’d belt out, marching vigorously in place, her arms swinging like nobody’s business.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” we’d sound off, rolling our eyes heavenward.

“Me-you-him-her-it-us-them!” she’d respond, giving The Eye to any sixth grader not toeing the line.

“Me-you-him-her-it-us-them!” we’d sing out, thankful it was over.

UNTIL… we noticed something. Something cool. Something naughty. We noticed that if you blended the subject pronouns together really fast, something wonderful happened. Seriously. Something magical. Try it. Sing it with a solid sing-song cadence five times fast, then you’ll see: Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey. Do you hear it? Do you? Eh? Eh?! No? Well, if you have a sixth grader at home, just give him or her a go at it. They will hear it. I’ll bet you a dollar.

After that, we would BEG for the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off, and Mrs. Patterman, gratified by our obvious desire to pursue better grammar, would always oblige.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” she’d belt out, marching vigorously in place, her arms swinging like nobody’s business.

“I-you-he-sheeit-we-they!” we’d sound off, marching jauntily and giggling amongst ourselves…

Ah, good times.

But to get back to my original story (friend, who/whom debate, all that jazz, shut up), to make a short story super-duper long, and if you are inexplicably uninterested in learning the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off (what’s up with that?), the simple answer to the “who” vs. “whom” question is this little trick: if you can answer the question you are asking with HE, use “who.” If the answer is HIM (remember the M), use “whoM.”

So, who or whom do you love? Well, you love him, naturally, so “Whom do you love?” is correct.

I know, right? Damn those Rolling Stones and their grammatically incorrect lyrics! Who Do You Love? Really, Mick? WHO?! Way to mislead the masses, Mr. Jagger, GOSH! Next thing you know we’ll have musicians throwing around double negatives and spelling words all crazy and shizz– like substituting numbers for letters, or contracting words all willy-nilly-like, or randomly adding one too many consonants into words for literary effect, or… oh… um, never mind.

Now go out there and use who and whom with confidence! Impress your boss! Wow your neighbors! Confound your friends! Knowledge is power!

No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

Wish it was Sunday.

On days like this I just want to crawl under the blankets of my warm, comfy bed, close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, and hum. LOUDLY.

*sigh*

It’s going to be a long week.

Oh, good lord.

This is what happens when I drink too much Diet Coke and stay up past 10 pm (when I’ve been up since 4 am), then try to answer legitimate questions about the whole language vs. phonics debate. I babble incoherently and make confusing analogies! I giggle and tell embarrassing stories! I forget to mention that I’m stating my opinion!

Good times.

If you’re in the mood to mock me, feel free to head on over to Mommycast.com and check out today’s episode. This is just one in a series of World Wide Education Summit podcasts in which Paige and Gretchen focus on education around the world. I especially enjoyed the interview with the mom whose children attended school in Africa. It’s sheer craziness. Just so you know.

Oh, and totally check out the episode with Dr. Tierno, the germ doctor (he’s toward the end of the Education in Germany podcast). Aaaw… cute! I want to wrap him up and put him in my pocket! “Wash your hands while humming the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’… twice.” Seriously! I want to hug him, and squeeze him, and call him “George”! Oh, and he was way informative, too, yo?

Not Lost in Translation, Just Going Around in Circles

This morning as I was checking out at our local supermarket (emergency milk run), the cashier asked me if I had a bonus card. At least, I think he asked me if I had a bonus card. I mean to say, in this area of the country, when a person is at the point in the grocery-buying transaction when all of the food items and paraphernalia (gum, candy, In Touch magazine, the very last Diet Coke w/Lime in the checkout fridge, what have you) have been scooted along the belt and beeped through the scanner, this is when the consumer is asked if she has a bonus card. It’s imperative to the process. Everyone knows this.

So when the nice old man with a thick– oh, I’m going to go out on a limb and call it Asian– accent (I didn’t take the time to ask him the specifics of his ancestry, me just buying milk and all, but I’m fairly confident in my assumption) asked me something that sounded like, “Something something blurbidy card?” I replied, “Yes, but I don’t have it with me. Can I just type in my number?” Because that is what we DO at this particular store when we are too disorganized to know where any of those stupid little plastic scanny cards have gone– even though they are made to hang oh-so-conveniently on our keychain– as they have apparently broken off and been lost in the dark recesses of our purse, somewhere alongside a lone breath mint and the coins we can always hear clinking in there but can never find, never to be seen again, so help us God.

And then I stood there. Staring at the number pad. Waiting. But nothing happened.

I looked up.

“Something something blurbidy card?” he asked me again.

I talked more slowly this time. Enunciating. Far be it for me to criticize the listening skills of a fellow human being, especially this early in the morning. Because I’m a giver like that.

“Yes, but I don’t have it with me. Can I just type in my number?” I gestured toward the number pad.

And then I stood there. Again. Staring at the number pad and waiting. Again. But nothing happened. Again.

I looked up. “Um–”

“Something something blurbidy card!”

Well, this was getting embarrassing.

“Okay… yes, I have a card. I. Want. To. Type. In. My. Number.”

He looked at me and frowned. FROWNED! At ME! A CUSTOMER! Who is always RIGHT! It’s the LAW! Or something!

Of all the nerve.

“You have a bonus card?!” he asked me, all sunlight and puppies. But not.

“Yes!” Relief. We were communicating. There was definite communication going on. Incommunicado no more!

He gestured at the number pad with one hand while tapping at the register with the other, and barked out, “Next time you SAY you want to type in number!”

I blinked once. Twice. Then– “I thought I just did.”

A scowl and a loud “hrumph!” were his only reply.

I’m a Nut

This morning as I was out taking a walk, just minding my own bidness, I passed under a large oak tree. Suddenly, two acorns came flying out from the overhanging branches a little to my left, and nailed me right smack in the head. Thunk! Thunk! I was all, “Ow! What the…? ” and then I heard it. Rustling. I squinted up through the thick clumps of leaves just in time to spot a flash of brown streak by. I swear I heard some soft chattering as it passed, like it was laughing at me as I stood there dumbly rubbing my head, staring in disbelief at the suddenly still branches.

Honestly. I can’t believe a squirrel threw his acorns at me.

This clearly cannot bode well for my day.

A Desperate Working Momma Brainfart

Huh. That title sounded much cooler in my head.

More Work At Home (WAH) tips from a Desperate Working Momma

A special shout-out and challenge to my favorite KLOGger, Kelly.

When WAHing, it is VITAL that one stays away from the internet if at all possible. Nothing good can come of it. Just so you know.

(Edited to add: Both “See the Sun” AND “Ecstacy” by Black Lab are featured in this podcast.)

Unsolved Mysteries

So, why do men in trucks honk and wave and yell at women in convertibles while both are flying down the freeway at 80 MPH? Because clearly truck horns blaring right next to a person’s ear are in NO way alarming or distracting to said person who is just minding her own business, belting out the lyrics to Lee Coulter’s Booty Voodoo and brushing stray strands of Whooped Up Crazy Ass Car Hair out of her face while maneuvering the congested Capital Beltway in a fuel-efficient, totally not family-friendly, way too powerful to be legal, toy-sized vehicle! Oh NO! Not at ALL! And please note the heavy use of sarcasm here if it did not translate as well in print as it did in my head! I mean, besides the obvious Hello! That’s Hella Dangerous! Are you Trying to KILL ME?! factor, just where exactly do they think this whirlwind honk-wave-and-shout relationship is going to go? Huh? As far as the next exit, that’s how far! So I ask you… why put so much effort and energy into a relationship that is clearly doomed from the outset?

Especially when the woman in the convertible looks a little something like this:

With the hair? and the enthusiastic belting of the tunes? and the HAIR?! Honestly, it’s a mystery for the ages.

(And I have NO IDEA how this picture was taken, TGIM. Certainly not while I was driving down the Beltway at 80 MPH. Because that would be wrong.)

Seriously. Why do I feel dirty?

Inspired by the CW and their… interesting strategy for reaching out to viewers, I’ve decided what the hell… I’m seizing the day!

(And just so you know, I have NO idea what’s up with my age. Very strange. It’s a total mystery, I am not even kidding.)

Cat’s MySpace page

Guys? I’m making friends.

Veronica Mars is MY friend! Nanny nanny boo boo! YEAH! Hoo!

Okay, so… now what do I do?

Damn. I don’t think the CW thought this through.

Eh.

“I’m not dead yet!… I feel happy!”

So… I’m a bit behind in my ambition to present a weekly Catcast, on account of something very closely resembling the plague. Okay, fine. Not the plague. Strep throat. Okay, fine. I don’t actually have strep throat. But I might as well, that’s all I’m saying. Because I’m exhausted, I tell you. Exhausted! And not just because of the ocean of adversity insanity, either. Nope. I mean, honestly. If you’ve ever had to chase around a feverish, unnaturally vigorous sick child of the But Momma I Feel Better! variety, you would know exactly what I’m talking about.

See, I’m like, “You have strep throat and need to get some rest, sweetie…” and she’s all, “Oh, I’m not tired, Momma. So do you want me to read Junie B. Jones to you? Yes? Yes? Scoot over. She’s so funny, Mom, isn’t she?! Huh, huh?! Even if she talks wrong. Talking wrong is okay if you are just a little girl, right? Right, Mom? Right?… Are you listening to me?!… Okay, Cheater Pants or Toothless Wonder? Cheater Pants? Um, how about Toothless Wonder instead? What? Because I’m bored of Cheater Pants, but I just forgot. You don’t want me to read to you? But I can read while you’re folding laundry– hey, can I try on your bra? When I’m ten? Eleven? Twelve?… But I don’t need a nap! No, I don’t need to rest my throat! I feel better! I do! Except when I swallow my own spit. That hurts. Ow! See?… But just a little bit, Momma… No books? Fine… Can I watch cartoons or play on the computer?”

Times such as these are when frazzled mommas must thank the gods of Vicks for sharing NyQuil with the world: Oh, Vicks, thou hast earned my unwavering fidelity! I bow to your… thy… thoust?… heavenly green pills of drowsy goodness! Accept my humble thanks, I beg of thee! My daughter, she didst sleep… eth! Hallefreakinglujah! I willst be forever grateful.

Amen.

(…and YES, Mom, I DO know where she gets it. Are you happy now?! Huh?! Stupid curse.)