I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in the past few days sending out information about the Band Back Together Project to various media outlets. Sounds fancy, right? Not so much. Basically I have to talk about myself in the third person, which never makes anyone happy:
“Today, Aunt Becky, of Mommy Wants Vodka, poured vanilla extract into both her coffee AND her diet Coke, just to be on the safe side of drunk.”
Not so much.
But when I click the “email” button, it goes back to the mail program I once used on my very first computer, back in 2004. It’s a blast from the motherfucking past, Pranksters. I see love letters Daver once sent me. I have emails from people I haven’t spoken to in years. I have emails from my first blog. I can see where I spoke to people who no longer blog.
It’s like stepping back in time.
Especially when I see this:
It’s this one:
Time, it seems, waits for no one.
Not even little boys.
Friday night, well ensconced in our Friday Night Ritual (Dinner at Chili’s with Amelia and The Guy On My Couch, followed by a trip to The Target Store, which, of course, is a sacrosanct tradition), she marched around the store, proudly showing off her pink Starbucks Cake Pop.
No matter how full of my sour cream and cheese she is, she insists upon a Cake Pop that she eventually feeds to The Guy on the Couch. Pure happiness for a buck-fifty.
Can’t beat it.
She’d found herself a bright green sparkly hat which she proudly wore during the times that she hadn’t placed it upon the head of The Guy on the Couch – they’d been playing some game with it while I grabbed food for the week.
Eventually we wound our way, just as we always do, to the Legos. Carefully, she had to inspect each box to find the one that she wanted. She vacillated between a lighthouse and a dinosaur but eventually ended up choosing a teeny red speedboat. A good, solid careful choice.
Soon – too soon for me – it was time to go home. Lovingly, she’d placed the clearance Hello Kitty Backpack onto her back, marching toward the checkout with a bounce and a wiggle.
“Lookit my Pack-Pack, Mama! It’s HELLO KITTY.” She turned and swiveled around so that I could admire it as we stood there unloading the cart.
“It’s beautiful, Mimi-Girl,” I replied, just as I had the last twelve times she’d showed it off to me.
“Can I show Dada?” She asked coyly, fluttering her eyelashes at me. “He home from work yet?”
“Yes, Mimi,” I replied. “I just talked to him – we’re going to grab him some dinner to take home to him.”
“Can he put me to bed?” She asked for the fifty-fifth time that night.
“Yes, Baby, he can put you to bed,” I replied for the fifty-fifth time.
“Mama, we’re at sixteen,” she pointed at the check-out lane. “Dere’s five-teen and seventeen,” she carefully showed me. “Why?”
“You chose it, Mimi,” The Guy on my Couch who is endlessly patient with her questions. She tilted her head up to him coyly, “You like my Pack-Pack, Big Ben?”
“It’s beautiful, Mimi,” he replied for the thirty-eleventy-niner time.
She spun and twirled in front of the mirror next to her, admiring her Pack-Pack. “I love you, Hello Kitty Pack-Pack.” I giggled at her pronunciation of the word, “Backpack.”
Eventually she got tired of preening in front of the makeshift mirror and turned to the lady in line in front of us, who had been casually watching my daughter twirl and whirl.
“You like my Hello Kitty Pack-Pack?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, yes I do,” she smiled down at my beaming daughter.
She turned to me and spoke, “How old is she?”
“Just turned three,” I replied proudly.
“Man, she’s such a chatterbox. I can’t believe she talks so much! My child is about her age and she doesn’t speak quite so well.”
I beamed, ear-to-fucking-ear.
If she only knew.
Because The Guy on my Couch has a job that requires a car, and I am benevolent enough to allow him to use mine, I’m stranded at my house most of the time. It’s okay – really. I get to indulge in my workaholic ways as much as I want without the pesky Real World getting in the way.
It’s okay until I have to go to the doctor. THEN, I have to ask my mother to drive me. Which, I tell everyone, is a condition of my parole, but that’s a lie – I’m on house arrest.
On Tuesday, my mother picked me up and took me to the endocrinologist so I could a) note that I’d gained 10 pounds, and 2) cry because I’d gained 10 pounds. Also: my 6 month check-up.
Of all my doctors, my endo is my favorite and not just because I get to People Watch in the waiting room and loudly proclaim – I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM in a high nasally voice (although that helps)(it’s not like I can be all I HAVE A VAGINA in my OB’s office)(it’s redundant).
Having a glandular problem not NEARLY as glamorous as you might think – I was ultimately convinced that my thyroid – that asshole – had taken off for greener, less diseased pastures. Like Detroit or Wyoming or something.
Turns out that I was wrong.
My thyroid is still firmly ensconced in my neck and, here’s where shit gets awesome, has grown a friend. His asshole friend carries a 5% risk of cancer. With friends like these, you don’t need enemies.
I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a benign cyst or an oyster or diamond or something.
At least, I hope.
I sure do like diamonds. And horses. Not zebras. Never zebras.