I case you were wondering, I got a much needed decent night’s sleep last night, my girls both still have full heads of scraggly chlorine-ish hair, I actually did let one of them swim today, Safeway re-stocked my new favorite ice cream (Ben & Jerry’s blueberry/vanilla swirl with graham crackers Greek frozen yogurt–get you some), my kids are tucked in bed and So You Think You Can Dance is back on so all is right in the world for now. I made it another day without ringing up my boys Barnum and Bailey.

This post is in regards to an entirely different matter. Today in the gym bathroom (no, I don’t actually go very many places…if you know some other places with free child care, hit me up), I
witnessed something that horrified me. I watched a lady come out of the stall and barely sprinkle a couple of drops of water on maybe one or two fingertips before walking away from the sink. I was frozen with disgust. I wanted to ask this woman for whom she was putting on this show of washing her filthy hands because she wasn’t fooling me. Does it make a person FEEL clean to let some water drip on their hands after they have relieved themselves and, presumably, wiped their nether regions? Because guess what…plain old tap water isn’t magic. Forget about the germs in your own Hanes Her Ways* for a moment…did you stop to think that the last person in that stall could have possibly sat there and let their morning coffee take effect and then put their hands you-know-where then touched the lock/handle of the door you just touched?? And you’re comfortable with a couple shots of water on your fingers?? Uh-uh. Not me. No way. When I use a public bathroom, I operate under the assumption that the last person who used the stall just got off a Royal Princess cruise that docked early because of a Noro-virus outbreak, came straight to that particular bathroom and rubbed diarrhea flakes all over the flusher, door lock and sink faucet handles. Nope, my hands ain’t pretty. They are red and scaly and sometimes they even crack and bleed. Small price to pay for good bathroom hygiene, I say. But people, just so you know, sprinkling a little water on your hands is no better than just blowing by the sink altogether. And just so you know, you should be equally as embarrassed as if you had totally passed up the sink. And just so you ALSO know, I will never accept an invitation to your house because I am now aware that you are a fecal matter spreading machine. You are, in a word, repulsive. You not washing your hands makes me feel like my spectacular hand washing is negated because we share a gym. I don’t want a share anything with a person who has no regard for respectable bathroom habits. I would like to propose a world summit on hand washing. People should be required to pass a proper hand washing test before they are allowed to go to the bathroom in public. They should be judged on water temperature, soap application, and scrub time. The world would be a much better place if we kept the fecal matter to a minimum. Just think…I could push a grocery cart without mortal fear of touching my face after my hands have been in contact with the cart handle. I could put my hand in the holy water bowl. I could shake hands with new people I meet without rushing with my arm sticking out from my body straight to the nearest Purell dispenser. I could take my kids to Chuck E. Cheese. Well, maybe. I’m not making any promises.

The moral of the story: wash your hands properly people. Not doing so gives you cooties. I don’t go through the trouble to flush with my foot, unlock the stall with toilet paper, turn off the sink with my elbow and use a paper towel to let myself out of the bathroom just to get your poopy germs on my hands when I turn on the treadmill. I’d greatly appreciate better effort.

*FYI…as a general rule, I personally don’t wear underpants that have their brand name printed around the waist band.


Today is day 17 with no adult backup. Today, on this 17th day, I could very possibly lose it.

Like buzz cut the girls’ hair, buy a crap load of Avon products from QVC and join the circus lose it.

I’m on my last legs, which is unfortunate considering my adult back up won’t be back for another 11 days or so. I’ll just say it: I’m cuckoo for coco puffs.

I went to the gym this morning and walked as slowly as humanly possible while watching what I THOUGHT was the season finale of Revenge, but then I realized I just didn’t have room on my iPad for the rest of the season and I still have 9 episodes left! Highlight of my day. Seriously.

But then I did something that left me completely guilt ridden.

I put on my bathing suit (which I had literally snuck into my bag before the hawks could see it) and left both of my lucky-to-still-have-hair-children inside and sat by the pool.


I put on my big old black sunglasses and pulled down the brim on my hat advertising a swanky Hawaiian resort I haven’t even been to (courtesy of my generous traveling sister) and basically tried to make myself invisible.

Why, you ask? Because I was ashamed of myself.

I felt like I would be judged by these other health club moms for leaving my kids in Kids Club so I could sit by myself for a sanity saving short amount of time.

I thought I might be judged for sitting by a pool without even swimming and not allowing my caged children to come out and enjoy the sunshine and water.

The thing is, I didn’t have the energy to whip out my laundry list of exhausting reasons that I just needed a few minutes to collect myself.

I don’t own a hat that advertises the “resort” at which I live that is much less swanky than it is exasperating and exhausting.

I don’t own a hat that says, “please forgive me…my husband is at work for 30 days straight and I’m a certifiable lunatic so as the wicked witch that I am, I am not allowing my kids any fun today”. (Although, I might get with some of these other football wives and have some of those produced).

Now is when I apologize to single moms everywhere for my bellyaching about being alone with my kids.

I, of course, realize that being a single parent is not a joke and it is exhausting in its own special way. I’m not trying to make it a contest. You ladies win hands down on that. But I am not a single mom. I am a sissy.

Also, I am not normally a one woman show so this crap is practically unbearable to me. Add in a healthy dose of cheerleading, pep talking and trying to keep all this moaning and groaning to a minimum for the dude who is fighting for his job (very admirably, I might add) for the 13th year in a row, then subtract the annual visit from my mom (circumstances beyond her control) and you’ve got a recipe for a Chernobyl type meltdown on approximately day 23.

So I hope if you saw me out there today, you were able to pardon my selfishness while I sat there in the sun baking my already wrinkly skin because I was way too lazy (remember the super slow walk on the treadmill?) to walk back out to the car to get sunscreen.

Excuse my shameful child rearing behavior and chalk it up to what those people in the working world might call a “personal day” (only for me it was more like a “personal 45 minutes”).

You ladies who talk and act like your lives as do-it-all stay at home moms are full of glorious rainbows and mythical unicorns can SUCK IT because those of us who have much smaller Pinnochio noses know you are liars. At least some of the time.

Or maybe it’s possible that I am just shittier than you because today I had to cry Uncle.

And you know what? I kinda liked it.