Some mom wrote a magazine article a few years ago about how the only time she ever had to herself was when she was in the bathroom. She’d lock the door and sit on the edge of the tub just to get a few peaceful minutes away from her kids.
Almost three years after my wedding, I’ve been worrying lately if I really have what it takes to be a decent wife. I recently stumbled across a list, “How to be June Cleaver,” and if it’s even remotely accurate, I’m afraid my poor husband Rick might be doomed.
The Internet, sports radio and most of ESPN’s 47 cable channels have been crackling with excitement ever since Brett Favre recently suggested he might come out of retirement for the second time in as many years.
Suck it, PETA. Seriously. With the summer grilling season under way, I’ve happily been all about meat. There’s something so innate about chewing on a flawlessly sauced rib or a well-seasoned piece of chicken that’s been charred to perfection on the backyard grill.
While I generally don’t see the glass as half full only because mine is perpetually half empty, I still try to remain cheerful by having a “Why not me?” outlook on life.
I finally get it. Last Friday morning I was lying in bed and couldn’t move. The shades were cracked just enough so that I could see the cold, drizzly rain outside, making the thought of divorcing myself from my perfectly warm sheets incomprehensible.
It became gloriously apparent to me earlier this month that my self-esteem has never been in better shape. While staying with my family in New York, Mother Nature delivered either rain, humidity and/or gray skies the entire time (except the morning I left, of course).
Even though health experts are cautiously optimistic that the international panic over swine flu appears to be on the verge of abating, sending the bug slithering into ailment oblivion, my H1N1 alarm clock has just started ringing.
A car hit a 26-year-old pregnant woman while she was fleeing from a bear in Colorado Springs last week. Thankfully she and the baby are fine. More importantly though, the news might just mean that I’m not the worst mother ever.
I’ve spent a lot of time getting to know myself recently, but not through therapy (been there, done that), a diary (there’s not enough space in the Library of Congress to store my extensive body of work so I’ve temporarily stopped journaling until they build an annex) or meditation.
After a particularly expensive four-day stretch recently (a four-figure bill from the IRS a week ago Saturday and the following Tuesday, a four-figure bill for a car repair that turned out to be misdiagnosed), I grinned when I saw the Tiffany Selections Spring 2009 catalogue in the mailbox.
Unless they’ve paid upwards of 5K a week to be pulled, poked and panicked into a more wholesome lifestyle at an über fancy fat farm like Pritikin, or north of 6K a week for a shi-shi spa like Golden Door where the food is low-cal but no one notices because they’re otherwise occupied with customized
