“Where are you going?”

“To the back…”

“Why?”

“Because you keep looking at me like you want me to die.”

Humph. I guess someone ate his shredded wheat this morning.

When we were little girls, my mother always told us that bringing wildflowers inside the house would make us pee in the bed.

I think I was sixteen before I realized that that wasn’t at all true…

And what a deviously clever mother I had.

My children, unfortunately, are obviously much smarter than me.

Demmit.

The Baby’s name was going to be Emily.

Emily Ellis Bell Shakespeare.

Totally pretentious and totally perfect…

Except for the fact that she’d probably end up in a classroom with 12 other Emilys…

And her Valentine’s Day Cards would be addressed to “Emily¹²“.

Which would totally screw with my unoriginal sense of unoriginality.

And we just couldn’t have that.

(For the record, I was all for calling her Ellis. Otherpeoplewhowillnotbenamed pitched a hissy and wouldn’t give an inch– no matter how many times I explained favorite book and pseudonyms and women authors and countless Gawddammit, I’ll be pushing this monster out of my delicate bits while you’ll no doubt be eating Burger King and chatting on the phone as if there’s not a little thing like a HUMAN BEING coming out of my vagina and when is your vasectomy appointment again…s.)

So I named her after Elvis.

And refuse to pass by any editions of  Wuthering Heights not currently gracing my bookshelves.

I picked this one up today… The cover art is by Ruben Toledo, and it seems as if he has done an entire collection of classics for Penguin.

I’m totally in love…

And am determined to PACE myself in the spending of all of my money in order to get them all.

But then…

Determination isn’t at all original, now is it?

I need a mother, methinks.

Not any run of the mill type mother though… more along the lines of the scheduling, uber-organized, “I’ve had a slew of children and could do this with my eyes closed and my hands tied to the doorknob with old shoestrings”  type of mother who would have no problem taking me in hand and teaching me how to sleep as normal people do.

Normal.

Heh.

It seems as if my body has decided to finally push me off that rocky ledge of sanity that I’ve been precariously balanced at the edge of for years by forgetting how to sleep.

Yes, dear reader, I’ve forgotten how to sleep.

And if the random bouts of woolgathering and inappropriate daydreams about purple rainstorms, Chuck Bass, and Jesus are any indication, I’m fairly certain that it’s making me CRAZY. (Dude- I can totally hear what you’re thinking right now… and, frankly, it hurts my feelings. A lot.)

Random fact: Alot is a town and nagar panchayat in the Ratlam district of Madhya Pradesh, India. A lot is the amount of times that I’ve managed to set my kitchen on fire by boiling water.

Granted, I’ve always been the  night owl… Needing a bit of peace from the roar of the maddening crowd that is my progeny (plus the man) (and the cat) (oh and the little dog that grew three feet and fifty pounds in a week too), the quiet found in that lovely space between midnight and 3 a.m. has always been a haven of sorts.

Now, however, thanks to a bout of asinine flu that put me severely behind on work and various other obligations that have me, well, obligated, that lovely space of three hours has become a hectic gap of four or five.

By the time that I am finished with whatever project it is that I set out to accomplish, I am, of course, too wired for sleep…

So I read.

A book.

A book that I can’t put down until I am finished- regardless if I’ve already read it a dozen times before. (Dude? Can still hear you over here.)

Which puts me just about the time that the kids need to be up and readied for school- the time that is supposed to mark the beginning of my day and the beginning of this obviously vicious circle of purple rains, Chuck Basses, and Jesuses (Jesi?)…

Which isn’t at all as fun as it sounds, believe it or not. (Although I won’t argue its potential.)

And since I can’t tightly swaddle and hold myself down in order to force a bit of much needed rest as easily as one might hope…

I need a mother, methinks.

One who could handle the situation with her eyes closed and her hands tied to the doorknob with old shoestrings.

One who has a slew of children and has seen this all before.

One who would tell me to quit all of this infernal whining, put down the damn book, close my eyes and go to gawddamned sleep already.

One who…

Oh…

Yeah.

Nevermind.

Days go by so very quickly when I have so very much to do.

Straight-up and bedraggled, my hair is starting to look like the hair of a crazy cat woman.

Very telling, that.

Must find time for flat iron before someone sees me. A little mascara wouldn’t hurt either.

I worry about the wrinkles in their clothes and the scuff marks on their shoes, what they ate for dinner…

Fiber counts and sugar highs

Too much television. Too little math.

Homework took three hours last night, and there are dishes in the sink, and I still need to work.

Bills. Bills. Bills.

I worry about the rent, about the electricity, about the various ends and outs of it being just me.

The ends and outs of choosing some sort of man-child who doesn’t worry about those sorts of things, who thinks that responsibility is an island off the coast of Africa.

Who leaves things like worry and bills to me.

Who never takes me anywhere…

Especially not to Africa.

“I’ll take myself,” I say, “just as soon as these bills are paid.”

Just as soon as the clothes are ironed.

Just as soon as dinner is made, and the dishes are done, and I feed the dog…

“The dog loves me more,” I explain, “because I feed him first thing in the morning and don’t force him to entertain an empty belly whilst waiting upon the whims of man-children.”

I sympathize with his plight.

Very telling, that.

Deep breaths are hard to come by…

Especially when you forget to breathe.

Pocket Buddha says, “Peace.”

And I do my damnedest to listen.

In case you’ve been under a rock somewhere in Canada, you know that the Saints are in the Superbowl for the first time EVER. Everything in the state closed down at 3 this afternoon…

And the world smells so good that you wanna stick your head out of the window and hang your tongue out like a dog.

Here in Shakespeare-ville, we’re bbq’ing the regular goodies as well as duck breast wrapped in jalapeno and bacon.

YUM.

Click to enlarge

“It is like the following universal truth that you can not argue with: When in somebody else’s house you only realize that they have ran out of toilet paper after you have used the toilet.”

Check your spam folders, people.

There may be more in there than just porn.