Mom Sauvignon

I just got out of the shower, and I am trying to get dressed.  My bra is no where to be found.  I know I left it on my dresser, and it is not there.  My first inclination is to scream at the kids.  ”WHERE IS MY BRA?”  Stella reports that she saw Jack throwing it at Max earlier.  Max corroborates the story.  We all start looking for it, only to eventually find it in the kitchen floor.  I was already annoyed getting dressed, because my pants feel tight.  Why is it that I can be good for 2 months straight, and the scale very slowly goes down a little at a time, but when 5 days of PMS and boredom cause me to be bad, the scale shoots up 4 pounds. It really isn’t fair.  Why can’t it go up as slowly as it goes down?  I knew I was sabotaging my myself every time I put shit into my mouth this week, but I ignored that little voice telling me I was an fing idiot and kept eating.  And now my thighs are rubbing together.  I very clearly remember last Saturday being skinny by the pool with thighs that most certainly did NOT touch.  Now, less than a week later those things are creating friction.  Which leads me to believe that all 4 pounds I gained has deposited itself on my inner thighs.  Oh well.  Moving on.  I had my fried chicken and chocolate.  Time to get these thighs back in shape.

I am dressed.  Bra is on.  The reason it was so important to find my bra, is because it is THE bra.  My only one.  I had two, but the wire has recently started poking out of the other one, making it extremely dangerous and uncomfortable to wear.  I am really upset about this latest development, because these two bras were very expensive and they were perfectly fitting.  Every woman needs a perfectly fitting bra, but especially those that are well endowed like myself.  It may sound nice to be well endowed, but not so much.  They are huge. Which means they are heavy. And there is this thing called gravity that makes them constantly strive to touch the ground.  And they are getting pretty damn close to making it.

Those two perfect bras were Christmas presents from my mom last year.   We went into one of those fancy bra stores where they measure you from 15 different angles.   Scott told me before I went that he had googled it, and they make you stand on a stool naked while a camera hanging from the ceiling takes an aerial 360 degree photo of you to calculate your size.  He was trying to be funny and scare me.  Really?  I have pushed three children out of my vagina in front of an audience.  I am not very concerned about a few women taking pictures of my boobs.  Of course, he was lying anyway.  It ended up just being one woman with a measurement tape.  She did get to see my boobs though.  We found my perfect size, and I wore one of my new bras out of the store.  I looked fabulous!  But I was in excruciating pain.  Apparently the secret to having a perfect fitting bra is that it feels like it is 5 sizes too small and squeezes the shit out of you.  The lady at the store assured me that I would get used to not being able to breathe, and that pain would lessen, and that it would all be worth it, because she really thought my breasts looked amazing.  She was right.  I did look amazing, and the pain did eventually die down.

But now my thighs are rubbing together.  And chaffing is a whole other world of pain.

They say the best thing for writer’s block is just to start writing. Stream of consciousness.  Brainstorming. Just see what comes out of your head.  I am kind of scared what might come out of my head.  At least maybe it will be entertaining or therapeutic to just write.  Just listening to the sound of the TV and a DS game and the I pad.  All kinds of electronic devices going at our house at any given time. Also lots of messes.  I often wonder if other people’s houses look like ours, or if we are really disgusting, weird people who should have our own show on TLC or at least a Dateline special.  I try to keep things clean.  I really do. But every 3rd day or so I look around and wonder what the hell happened.  The dishes are piled up.  There are no clean bowls or spoons for us to have cereal for dinner since I don’t feel like cooking.  There are piles of clothes that are spilling over into other piles of clothes, so I am now not sure which is the clean pile and which is the dirty pile.  I lie in bed at night sometimes and worry that if Scott and I both die in our sleep, this is how we will be remembered. They will find the kids who haven’t had a real shower in a week since the chlorine in the pool kills most of their funk and school is out, so there is no reason to worry too much about hygiene.  They will find our dirty kitchen and piles of clothes and a stinky bathroom.  They will think, “Oh those poor kids.  We had no clue they were living in such horrid conditions. They always seemed like such a nice family, who would have thought?”  Sometimes these thoughts have taken over so fiercely that I talk myself into getting out of bed to at least run the dish washer and scrub the toilet.

We have a new dog.  He is not helping my house cleaning.  We were told that he was the perfect dog and that he is house trained.  However, we were not told that he has a drinking problem. He doesn’t know when to say when. He keeps drinking and drinking and drinking and then he pukes on my carpet.  And then he tries to lick it up. Then I start feeling like I want to puke.

Scott made me the best present of my life that he presented to me on our wedding night.  It is a CD of songs and poetry and him saying wonderful things about how great I am.  I never listen to it, because it makes me cry.  The other night I wasn’t feeling well, so I was lying down in bed.  Scott was hanging out with the kids and making them dinner, and they some how got on the subject of how we met.  He told them the whole story, and then he played the CD for them. He said they were wide eyed and so excited to hear it.  Max came and got in bed with with and said, “I know how you and daddy met and how much he loves you.  We listened to your CD, and it made me want to cry.” I asked him why it made him want to cry.  He said, “Because I love you so much, and after I heard the CD it made me love you even more.”  Those may be the sweetest words ever said to me.  I know how much I love him.  And Scott and Jack and Stella.  And I know sometimes I look at them and just love them more than I thought I already did.  So I know what he meant.

I got pulled over by a cop as the kids and I were driving to Alabama during Thanksgiving.  We were only 30 minutes from my parent’s house when I saw the lights behind me.  The kids all started freaking out.  I told them that it would be fine, and that I was probably just going a little too fast.

The cop comes to the window and tells me that I was speeding.  That I had just entered into a construction zone, and the speed limit changed from 60 mph to 40 mph.  I told him I wasn’t aware of the change, and that it was Sunday and there was no construction going on, and asked him how fast I was going.  61 mph.

He then pointed out that the car in front of me was going even faster than I was, and I was following too closely to them.  They were going 65 mph.  I asked him why he didn’t pull them over instead of me since they were even bigger law breakers.

Apparently he wanted me.  I think it was because I was from out of state, and it helped him create a more dramatic speech for me.

He told me that  I was going 21 miles over the speed limit, which was wreckless driving.   He said my ticket would be around $800.  And that since I was also following too closely, the fine would be doubled. That is $1600 for those of you who are bad at math.

He then told me that the judge hates wreckless drivers, and that I should prepare to be sentenced to 5 days in jail when I come back for my court date.  He made sure to point out that he knew I was from Texas, and that it was going to be expensive to get back to Alabama for court.  He asked if I had family in town that could help with the kids.  True.  I would definitely need to make child care arrangements while I was incarcerated.  Glad he is thinking ahead for me since I tend to wait til the last minute on things.

He then asked me what I did for a living.  I told him. He said I should prepare to lose my job.  Huh?  He told me that with my wreckless driving conviction and jail time that I would probably have my car insurance cancelled.  He wanted to know if I had someone to drive me back and forth to work if I didn’t have car insurance.  Wow!  I am glad he is on top of things.  I didn’t think about that either.  I added it to my mental check list.

Lesley’s To Do List:

Find child care while I am in jail

Find a ride to work everyday

This fine officer of the law then told me about another woman who was speeding in the same spot as me last Thanksgiving.  She ran into the ditch.  He was the first responder and saw the gruesome scene and  her lifeless body and pronounced her dead.  OMG.  That obviously isn’t funny at all.  Also not appropriate for my children who are listening to this entire exchange from the backseat.

Jack and Max are wide eyed and Stella’s bottom lip is quivering.

He takes my drive’rs license and goes back to his cop car to leave me pondering my fate.

Then the questions start.

“Mommy, do we have enough money to pay that ticket?”

“Mommy, are you REALLY going to jail?”

I am so beyond pissed.  I tell the children that I am not going to jail, and that I have enough to pay the ticket, but there probably won’t be anything leftover for Christmas presents.

Just kidding.  I didn’t say that last part.

The cop comes back and says that he is just going to give me a ticket for following too closely.  It is $158.

I guess he wanted me to thank him.  I just wanted to tell him to F— off.

The next day as we celebrated Thanksgiving, I had a lot to be thankful for.

I am not going to jail.  I still have a job. And my “to do list” got a lot shorter.

**Update:  My cousin who happens to be a police officer in that same city got the ticket taken care of. Merry Christmas to me!  I going to spend my $158 on fun Christmas stuff….like wine.