Suburban Goddess

“Do you need any help getting anything else together?”

“Well, I still need to carve six pumpkins.”

(Voice from the next seat) “Don’t do it, man!”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.  Ignore her.”

(Voice again) “It’ll never be good enough!”

“What was that?”

“I think someone is insinuating I’m somewhat of a perfectionist, and that your skills may not be good enough to make me happy.”

“Is this what it’s like to work for you?”

“Yes.  Yes, it is.”

I’ve been in a 90′s one-hit-wonder phase lately, so Alex is being exposed to all kinds of music. But I realized the other day that is it time to look into a new genre; we were standing in line at the supermarket when the old lady standing behind us made a comment.

“What a beautiful little girl! What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Rico.”

“Rico?” she looked at me, puzzled.

“Suave….” Alex crooned.

And I was powerless to stop it.

Alex is pretty good about getting to the bathroom to brush her teeth, however, getting her to actually BRUSH them is a different story. One day, in a moment of frustration, I told her that if she doesn’t brush her teeth, they will rot and fall out.

*Note to self: Never, never, NEVER say something in frustration to a 3 year old, because that is the ONE thing they will NEVER forget.*

I completely did not THINK that ALL of her baby teeth will eventually fall out, and now she will think it’s because she didn’t brush her teeth correctly… but I will completely use that to my advantage when her permanent teeth come in, and tell her she’s been given a second chance! Dental hygiene crisis averted (however, her therapist bill just went up.)

Anyway, we were walking out of a local store the other day when a homeless person walked up and asked for some spare change.  As I sifted through my purse, Alex wrinkled her nose and pointed at the man with an accusing tone.

“You didn’t brush your toofies and dat’s why they all fall out!  You supposed to brush your toofies!  Right, Mommy?”

And that is the point I prayed for the apocylpse… but it didn’t come…

Awkward.

“I saw something that first night we hung out… something in your eyes.”

“Ha. What? Craziness?”

“No… loneliness…”

S: When is our meeting? Tomorrow?

Me: Yes… drag me out of my cubicle if necessary.

S: Oh boo hiss. Be social! Embrace your co-workers

Me: Um, HR frowns on that….

Testing out a new plug-in with a recent pic of the kiddo… she loves to feed the ducks.  Click the pic for an enlarged version, and let me know if it works!

I live for comments.  Really, I do.  I know I have a ton of blog stalkers who NEVER comment, and that’s okay, but the few that do really make my day.  So I was wondering if I’d alienated everyone, because I didn’t have any comments for the past week.

That’s when I realized I had somehow turned on the moderation option.  And now I don’t know how to turn the darn thing off.

So, I apologize to everyone who’s commented the past few days, but thank you!  I’m off to find out what code I’ve inadvertently screwed up now….

“I think I might be a little too dark for mainstream media.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I look at what the other moms post, and it’s all stuff that pertains to cuteness that their kids do.  Me, my blog is all about the personal turmoil and raw, dark emotion that comes with divorce.  Maybe I need to lighten up some.”

“Well, there’s always Skippy the Squirrel.”

When I picked up Alex this morning, she had two stuffed ladybugs with her.

“Look at that!  Aren’t those cute!   Who gave those to you, baby?”

“My Daddy and Mommy.”

“I didn’t get that for you, baby.”

“No, my Mommy at Daddy’s house.”

My first reaction was swift, but somehow, SOMEHOW, I managed not to snap, “She’s NOT your Mommy!” It took my entire being, every fiber of my morals, every particle of my conscience to hold it back.  But I did.

There better be a place for me in heaven, damn it.

“I’m bored.”

“Me, too.”

“You’re totally not entertaining me today.”

“Excuse me?”

“DANCE, MONKEY!”