Here I sit.  Alone in my home.  All alone.  No husband.  No boys.  No girl child.  There’s the Beast, but she is crashed on her lovely Kirkland so-very-best-Doggie bed she got from Santa.

There are ladies- my age, ahem- getting frumpy to fantastic makeovers on Oprah.  These are women who live in sweatpants, drop-waisted dresses and oversized t-shirts.  Jeez.  What are they thinking.  Just cuz yer over forty, doesn’t mean you morph into your father’s mother.  Or does it?

I am not yet forty.  No, I am surely not.  Not until December.  And I am one hot mama.  I still wear jeans.  Sometimes.

I have jeans, but I am especially proud of my mean collection of MEC fleece pants.  They are NOT sweatpants.  They are built for comfort in the outdoors.  And I am nothing if not outdoorsy.  I go outdoors.  I do, in fact, most days.  I walk my Beast.  Not in sweatpants.  In MEC fleece.

Oprah.  Oprah, I will not EVER wear a cape.  No.

They will not go with any one of my collection of MEC fleece pants.  No.

Here I am.  Alone.  And this was all I could come up with to do.  Inspired.  Really.  Shhheeeee-uuuut!

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Like the majestic Columbia…. I go with the flow…

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Yeeee-haawww! There were three of us. Praise be to the Creative Energy Throughout. I don’t know what this job would have been with just one. But there were three of us.

Me. Myself. And I.

Husband? Contributed two measley piddly filler bits in the closet. Then the phone. A neighbor. All of a sudden stack of logs laying out in yard for past three years needed to be bucked. Today. Immediately. A mere three days before the arrival of HIS relations. He just had to “buck wood”. Today. Now. Hmmm-mmmmm….

Bucking wood? The equivalent of a blue haired koffee klatch. All afternoon. Instead of koffee: chainsaws and beer. Better have been beer….

I laid the laminate flooring throughout the basement.  It’s doooonnnnnnnnnne!!
Thanks to the invaluable assistance of Me and Myself, of course. They’re lifesavers, really.

They always come through when I need them.

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Ugh… there’s a reason I don’t drink. Last night… great fun out with the lady friends. Today. Essentially wasted. I tried to get a jump on the March Issue. Mmmmm…. really, no. Laundry. A grand total of two loads. Sleep. Yes. A fair bit.

But I couldn’t shake the nasty headache until I filled myself with gooey, drippy, tangy cheese, bread and a big ‘ol steak… a food coma to overwhelm the margarita migraine…

Just in time for the Oscars. The introduction of George Clooney down the red carpet: impetus for a rather awkward conversation of “who would ya do?” “Why only you, of course…”

So, in the spirit of evaluation as well as the spirit of all lovely actor-men, as I lay bloated on my couch, a little re-evaluation of the list is clearly necessary. And so, without further ado, lets get down to it… joining dear Viggo and Jon Stewart at the top of my to-do list: Javier Bardem. Colin Farrell made a definite move upwards. And what d’ ya know, after about eight years drifting down towards the nether regions (of the list, not me), Daniel Day Lewis makes an aggressive surge, nearing the top spot once more. The young scottish lad from Atonement is lovely, and the brogue catapults him skyward. Let me add, George Clooney has earned himself a permanent spot in third place. While those above and below may come and go, he will remain a very, oh-so-comfortable standard. Ohhhh… so many men. So little time… homeschooling and all…
Ahhhhh, but I digress. Tomorrow. You heard it here first. Tomorrow. I purge. Not in the bulimic sense, of course. But a concentration on healthy, clean food. My hot, spicy crunchy veggie soup. Cleanse. Yoga.

Winter is coming to an end. Oh yes! Time to clean up my act.

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Yes, as this week grinds to a close, I am certainly sucking some serious wind. 

If I’d tried to post this earlier it would have devolved into a pathetic, fucking sorry-ass, dejected, miserable sobfest total rant.

This afternoon between two and three I was some wreck.  Alone in my hovel of an office.  Staring at yet another “love-a-long-cock” email, personally addressed to me.  How did I get on this fucking mailing list?!?!? And, can’t anyone who doesn’t want me to “grow-a-big-dick” write me a friggin’ email?!?!  Simply overwhelmed with the demands and what I’m feeling is my own complete inadequacy in this here whole undertaking of homeschooling.  Not that it’s been so hard, really.  It’s just been incredibly difficult integrating it into daily life while feeling like I’m actually teaching something.  Right now, as we are still trying to establish an efficient, working routine- add Zip’s schedule switch at his school over there, cutting my morning into bits- I’m getting shit all accomplished and these days are audibly WHHHIIIIIZZZZZZZZZZZZZ-ing by. 

Most certainly feeling frustrated earlier. 

I’m better now.  A swim at the hot pools with the kids.  Not a cold day.  Sunny.  Some precious vitamin D.  Pizza night!

Despite the frustrations that I encounter almost daily and with the aid of a little perspective, I must remember I know:

• I’m probably being way too hard on myself.  And without doubt, on dear Sally. Must keep expectations in check.
• I am fucking lucky and priveleged to have the luxury of being able to homeschool my child.
• I have this opportunity to spend good, quality time with my son. Both of us engaged in his education.
• I know people crazy busier and way more overwhelmed, with what they feel are few alternatives.
• The power of surrender*
• I love my life…. as it is.  Just saying this made me all fuzzy warm.  Good to know I can talk myself down pretty quickly these days, with little impact on household.  Perspective… and gratitude… powerful things. 

*Travel light.  It’s all OK.  Swimming upstream is a fucking grind.  Be.  Here.  Breathe.  Enjoy!

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The loves of my life.  Neither of whom is sportin’ a look I’m particularly fond of….

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Another month.  Another newsletter pulled out of my worn ass the night before deadline.  OK.  It will, in fact, be merely moments before deadline when all is said and done and I am printing out piteously undersized .pdf’s to painstakingly edit in final form, with ‘dese almost 40 year old, and oh so friggin’ weary, eyeballs.

I have been sequestered.  Since 5am this morning.  I have all but ignored kids and dog.  I write this post just to avoid leaving the squallor that has become my workspace- an office could never really look like this- which says something about what I believe is out there waiting for me.

I can hear them.  Two of the children.  Oh, wait.  I hear only my dear Zip.  He has an uncanny talent for verbally imitating automatic weapons.  Is that an AK-47?  I do believe that beyond the sound of duelling machine guns (pppshhhhhwaaaa! Gisssshhhshhhhhhnnnnnng!) I cannot hear youngest child.  She is alive, of that I am certain.  Asleep.  I know it.  Company for American Idol.  Me and Fidgey McGee.

Now it’s quiet.  Where are the comforting sounds of battle, dammit?  The whistles and whinnnnies of grenades?

 It’s getting dark.  The children are out there and there are no lights on.  I work by the glow of my monitor.  By what possible glow could they be functioning?  Oh, wait.  A moment.  There it is.  A Fidgey.  A screech.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaah.  A boy’s mischevious giggle.  All is as it should be.

Children alive, awake and accounted for and probably due to be fed.  As will be the eldest boy and his most fatherly companion as they return from swimteam.  Must leave the sanctuary of dark, disgusting but most comfortiest hovel.  Cook chops.  And cheesebuns.  And for novelty’s sake.  In this miserable cold when what the body truly cries out for is gooey, melty cheese and a pot of meat, I will prepare a salad.

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Well, another Friday.  A Friday to follow a strange week of funky moods, funky health, funky food.  Just plain funky.  I guess it can just be attributed to a bad case of the winter blahs.

Adding to this general sense of malaise- blah and funk… my husband offering, just to be a pain in the ass:

I don’t think I will let you go away by yourself again.  You aren’t any better when you return.  But I guess it’s just a matter of expectations…” 

“Was I supposed to come back different?  Am I to assume you are hoping I change when I leave for a week?  You’re not happy with who I am?!?!”

“No…. it’s just that…”

“Brilliant!  It’s just what, genius?!?”

“Well, no.  When you go away… it’s just….”

“Don’t even friggin’ bother, man.”

Got out of the room with both jewels. Lucky bugger!

So, there you have it.  The week after a week away.  Was it worth it?  Hard to say.  But it has been a weird, friggin’ mid-January, sub-freezing bloody week. 

One bright spot:  watching dear Sally pull off a near perfect breast stroke this afternoon.  In a race with teammates, he swam like we’ve never seen before.  After a mere three weeks he’s off like a champ.  And grinnin’.  Fabulous!

Oh, right.  Grinnin’ without both of his top front teeth.  That nasty second one fell out last week.  Finally.. jeez.  Tooth Fairy better take a second job, cuz we’ve still got a lot of tooth losin’ to do and at this rate, she’s gonna bound to run dry….

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Ugh… I’m feeling… blah…

I don’t know if it’s these seemingly endless days of sub- fucking- freezing temperatures or if I am actually imagining coming down with/fighting some kind of nasty winter bug.  I’m achey.  Last night during our much anticipated, ”yay, we get to stay up late”, American Idol party, I sequestered myself and miscreants into my bedroom, door closed, gas firelplace cranked, nestled in down.  Children were shedding clothes and complaining of the heat.  I was still freezing. 

Today.  Better.  Not freezing my ass off from the inside.  Do want to go back to bed.  Bath.  Need hot bath.

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Home Sunday night.  Monday spent restoring order to the homefront.  I gotta say, that while I am so incredibly fortunate to be able to take time away from the family and know everyone will be fed, relatively clothed, and most importantly alive and happy, returning is a relief… and a lot of fucking work.

How do you spell disaster?  Mommy away for a week.  That’s how. 

Laundry- clean and dirty- strewn throughout every room of the house;  my bed was a mess of cranberry juice stains and popcorn kernels;  a layer of dog hair covering my new sofa;  dining room table, while apparently still there, invisible beneath the mail, magazines, bathing suits, swim towels, poker table, poker chips (managed to find time to host the boys, I see…..), firewood, grocery bags and a few, scant traces of actual schoolwork; the bathroom… well, I really wouldn’t want to upset any stomachs this close to lunch… suffice it to say the streaks in the sink, while they look of a nasty bodily variety are really only a combination of dirt and the resulting drool of little teeth brushed immediately following an apparent chocolate chip cookie binge.

Here’s another one… Depite scant traces mentioned above, how do you spell homeschool when mommy is away for a week?

XBox.

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