I can only hope that no boys are reading this. And by boys, I mean anyone who has a penis, no matter how old. I like to refer to the male human as a boy. My propensity to do this used to really annoy the colllege boys, but I can’t help it. If I’m a girl–which I am–then they are boys.

All that to say that this upcoming week will be that glorious time when I turn into the Evil Mel. I will be looking into the corners of the cupboards in search of something even remotely cookie-like. I will probably stomp my feet at least once and scream, “THIS IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!” I will think I am ugly and fat and, don’t bother telling me differently, I will know that you are lying to me because I do have a mirror, by the way, and don’t be condescending to me. I will cry for no reason. I might grit my teeth so hard that they ache. And don’t lie and say that avoiding chocolate helps premenstual syndrome. I know better. And no, I won’t share. Give me those M&Ms back.

It doesn’t matter that I am aware of my cycles and these patterns. I will just be irrational. I will probably pick a fight with the women on the message board where I hang out. I will stub my toe on a shoe and scream out, much louder than necessary, just because I have so little self-control. I will seriously consider whacking off all my hair because it is so hideous and unstyleable.

Of course, my husband has gone to visit a woman who is dying and tomorrow he’s taking YoungestBoy to a baseball game at 10 a.m. and then he has some volunteer work to do at the pool and then he’ll have to visit the dying woman again. And that means I will be in this house, with these kids, for an entire Saturday again, so help me God.

So if you hear some shrieking and some foot-stomping, don’t worry. That’s just me enjoying my womanhood. Now look away.

This won’t be pretty.

I finished typing a 72-page statement for Al, my private investigator boss. Although just saying “private investigator” sounds all glamorous and exciting–involving, perhaps, stake-outs and hidden microphones and gunfights–Al investigates worker’s compensation claims. In this case, he took a statement from a 72-year old former truck-driver regarding his hearing loss. (“What?” Oh, excuse me, that’s my dad’s old joke.)

The funniest thing I ever heard while typing for Al was the time he was interviewing a burly, Harley-Davidson-riding, construction worker. All of the sudden, Al says, “What type of work did you do, sweetheart?” to the guy. Silence. Then a little nervous laughter. I guffawed and rewound the tape so I could laugh more. Then I played it for my husband. Then I mocked Al and laughed harder.

Anyway, this most recent guy said he was in the Army Reserves in the 1950s. In the summers, he would report for duty in Eastern Washington and his unit would build a bridge over a gully or canyon. Then, another unit would come and blow it up. He said, “That just about broke my heart.”

Huh. Tax-payers’ dollars at work. Although, I’ve been puzzling over that and I guess that’s probably the most logical way to learn bridge-building and demolition.

BREAKING NEWS I just had a telephone call from Barb, a church woman we know. She works at the college where Anne Lamott is appearing tonight. Last Friday I saw the notice in the newspaper, advertising tickets for $20 and when I called on Monday, I was informed that this even thas been sold out for months.

Well. Then why was it in the newspaper? Huh? Huh? Tell me that! Al (the private investigator) tried to call in a favor and get me a ticket. No dice. So, my husband thinks of this woman at church who works at the college. He called her today and she has a ticket for me! I feel like a stalker or something because I was seriously thinking about going and lurking outside the auditorium with hopes that I might sneak into the building. The only catch is that the appearance is not on the campus near my house (just a few miles away), but in another town probably half an hour away.

Fire-starters
Yesterday, a set of twin boys came over to play with my twin boys. They played basketball for awhile, but then disappeared around the corner of the house. When I finally investigated, I found them trying to use a small magnifying glass to start a fire. They had very carefully constructed a cement block fireplace, used newspapers and had dry leaves ready to add. “But Mom, we weren’t trying to start a fire!” TwinBoyB has successfully created flames in the backyard already–a few weeks back–but with a giant dinner-plate sized magnifying glass that was my dad’s. I immediately confiscated it. I remember trying to start fire myself with that magnifying glass and trying to sear insects. Still. I am a kill-joy. A party-pooper. There will be no campfires in my backyard.

It kind of reminded me of when the twin boys were over and all five boys created a potion by peeing into a bucket.

Kindergarten Program
YoungestBoy could not be more “look-at-me-look-at-me” outgoing. During the kindergarten program Tuesday night, he was completely animated, bobbing his head to the songs. When the audience applauded, he pursed his lips and did a little “golf-clap.” I was so happy I video-taped him. Also, I saved the day for the mom standing next to me. The program was about to start and she pulled out a tape and said to her husband, “Oh no! I’m out of tape!” I said, “Hey, do you want a new one?” I happened to have a brand new, never-opened spare tape. I love it when I can do that sort of Supermom thing. Turns out that it was Brian’s mom. We met before on the day of YoungestBoy’s birthday party because Brian came to YoungestBoy’s party–and then vice versa because they share the same birthday.

Stupid Starting Over Girl
I mentioned previously my addiction to “Starting Over,” the reality day-time television show. Josie gave birth. Gushed over how she was so happy because she was the only one who could feed her baby. Then, the next thing I know, the baby has a bottle in its mouth. I hate that I’ve become so zealous about breastfeeding, but honestly. You’re poor, you have nothing, but you do have breastmilk. Use it. Dingbat.

Dinner Plans
It’s Thursday. What does that mean? It means I have forgotten to figure out what to cook for dinner. This also means that my husband will be extra-hungry, because on the previous days this week when I actually made a decent dinner, he was full. That’s how it works around here.

See this?

This is a metaphor for the relationship between my twin boys. TwinBoyB is the jumper, the instigator, the rabble-rouser. TwinBoyA is the receiver of the jumping. And this reaction remains the same as it did when he was three years old:

1) Men’s feet in sandals. Hairy toes. Enough said.
2) The boys’ toilet.
3) Some unidentifiable mushy, stinky object in the refrigerator vegetable drawer.
4) Photographs of myself.
5) The electric and water bill.

What do you see that makes you cringe? I’m sure more things will come to mind now that I’ve begun this train of thought.

I’ve been fiddling with a new look since blogger.com has updated its features. I can’t decide and will probably have to customize a bit. But what do you think? Pink? Green? I think perhaps green.

You know what I hate? I have a few blogs I read every day. I’m breathlessly following along the various real-life tales: the bitchy pregnant mom who’s having a c-section tomorrow, the single mom with two kids who was sleeping with her boss, the career-gals who have boyfriends and interesting weekends, the breathless teenage girl who was toying with bulimia and fretting about her boyfriend (now her ex-boyfriend). And then, boom! I click on my link and they have disappeared.

Hey, no fair! You can’t just disappear. How will I ever know if Olivia got Xander back or if she came to her senses? How will I know if the office worker stopped sleeping with her boss and found True Love? You can’t just delete your blog after I’m hooked on your Reality.

Back to my real life. Which includes the Kindergarten Spring Program tonight. I can’t wait.

This afternoon, I began a witty retelling of my weekend adventures. But I didn’t have time to finish, so I saved it as a draft. Which has disappeared. Drat and double-drat.

So, I begin again.

Friday Night
I attended my usual Young Couples Bible Study, which makes me feel like an outsider, since I am neither young, nor a couple (since my husband stays home with the kids). But I am under forty and I have a baby, so I weirdly enough belong to this group and it was my turn to bring snacks, so I went. I took brownies. Homemade brownies better than any brownies I’ve had anywhere else. Not that I’m bragging. But I do make a tasty brownie. We discussed the movie “The Passion” and the gospel accounts of the passion, too. Then we ate the brownies.

Afterwards, I went grocery shopping. When I returned home at 10:30 p.m., my husband and children were all asleep and then I stayed up too late instant-messaging on the computer. Silly girl.

Saturday
YoungestBoy had his third baseball game, although he missed the second game last week because his parents misread the schedule. While my husband took him to the 10:00 a.m. game, I took the remaining three kids to the bank to make a deposit. On the way home, I thought about stopping at garage sales, but decided that possible whining and fit-throwing was a price I was not willing to pay, even to get a bargain.

My husband returned with YoungestBoy at a little past 11 a.m., changed clothes and left again. He went to a Russian wedding and was gone the whole afternoon. While he was gone, TwinBoyB left to play at a friend’s house, Babygirl napped and I pretended I wasn’t stuck at home on a Saturday afternoon yet again. When Babygirl woke from her nap, I took YoungestBoy and TwinBoyA to the video store to buy a game before TwinBoyA’s money burned a hole through his pocket and singed a hole into his actual flesh.

I think the first time I wrote all this, it was a lot more fun. Witty, entertaining, et cetera. Really.

So, Saturday night, my husband arranges to take me out to dinner. After Babygirl went to bed at 8 p.m., we left. This was the beginning conversation in the car as we left our house.

Me: You realize, of course, that when our youngest son realizes Shadow is gone, we’ll have to get another cat?

Him: No. No more pets. I don’t want any more pets to take care of.

Me: Okay. (Looks out window, avoids arguing, but thinks he will eat his words.)

We went to a Chinese place he’d discovered recently. As we entered, I noticed a prominent sign about Karaoke in the bar. Sure enough, after we ordered, an earnest voice began singing “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore.” It was a good thing I wasn’t in the bar or I would have thrown maraschino cherries at the crooner. If I’d actually been drinking in the bar, I might have clapped my hand over my mouth in glee or possibly fallen out of my chair with laughter. Oh, it went from bad to worse and I found myself even more amused when the waiter confirmed that, indeed, the singing quality disintegrated as the evening went on and the alcohol flowed. Oh, the mirth! And this entertainment was free.

My husband’s fortune from the cookie read, “Someone will give you something.” Now. Hold on a second. Someone. Will. Give. You. Something. How can that not come true? My fortune promised good health and a long life, but someone will give my husband . . . something. Woo. Can’t wait.

Then, when we finished, I said, “Now, as a test of your spontaneity, how about a movie?” My husband passed this test easily and we were off to see “Laws of Attraction” with Pierce Brosnan and Julianne Moore.

The movie was inoffensive, predicable, sweet and completely improbable. In what universe would Pierce Brosnan be single and available? Oh, that’s right. In the same universe where Julianne Moore is also single, available and not the least bit desperate to be married. This was a movie in which I heard actual swooning in the theater. Did you know swooning is audible? Well, it is. The experience reminded me, though, that I prefer viewing movies alone. Otherwise, I tend to worry what my movie companion thinks about the movie. He liked it, he said. I liked that we went to the movie, more than the movie itself.

Sunday
Sunday morning, the kids brought toast and a glass of ice water to my bedroom while I was in the shower. I didn’t notice it until the toast was cold, but I did eat a bite anyway. They eagerly brought me flowers (purchased according to my instructions by my husband) that I can plant in my garden. Petunias and marigolds and impatiens. Each had made a card at school and my husband bought a funny card, too. TwinBoyA has a female teacher and so he also had a handmade recipe book with recipes from all his classmates’ families and a hand-dipped candle. TwinBoyB has a male teacher, so all he had was a hand-written thank you essay.

YoungestBoy was baptized by my husband during church. He has been begging to be baptized for a long time (he views the baptismal tank as a really cool small swimming pool, I think), so my husband agreed finally. YoungestBoy grinned huge when my husband lifted him up so everyone could see him. I took photographs and managed to not shed a tear. Then I went back down to the nursery where it was my turn to be the volunteer in charge.

Sunday afternoon, my husband had to perform a wedding ceremony. So, we had leftovers for lunch, then he went to the church to prepare for the wedding while I put Babygirl down for her nap. The kids were busy playing their new video game, so I had time to read the newspaper and putter around a little. I planted my flowers in the back yard when Babygirl woke up. She helped, except she refused to give up the pot of flowers I asked her to hold. Funny girl.

Last night, my husband says, “Oh, I agreed to accept two kittens from the people down the street.”

I said, “Are you kidding?”

He said, “No. They have six kittens that are six weeks old, so I told them we’d take two.”

Today
I get an email from mother about my sister, Harmony, the one who I am never speaking to again because she stole some of my birth pictures, specifically the one where you see the baby emerging from my . . . well, where babies emerge from. My sister lives in Japan and my mom said: Harmony and I did instant messaging last night – she has really been having some bad medical problems and is quite worried. She is leaking blood into her joints, and it is very painful, plus she is purple!
She also has bumps on the back of her head, and had 2 seizures at the
hospital Friday. I suggested she fly to the States and get checked
out – I’m not sure Japan’s medical tests are up to par with ours. A tiny little part of me thought, “Oh, that serves her right! Blood into her joints! See! That’s what you get for stealing naked pictures of your sister giving birth!” Then I immediately repented of my bad thoughts. Kind of. Purple. Ha!

My husband takes Mondays off now, so that’s how it happened that he was at home while YoungestBoy was about to eat lunch. He blurts out, “Hey, have you seen Shadow lately? Because I think Shadow ran away to live with his original mom and dad.”

YoungestBoy turned red and his face contorted.

My husband rushed on. “But that’s okay, because I was thinking, maybe we could get two kittens. Would you like that? Oh, I see you feel sad about Shadow, but that’s okay. The neighbor has two kittens and they said we could have them.”

I wanted to immediately take YoungestBoy into my arms and make him feel better with a candy bar (what? me? food issues?) but I just busied myself giving lunch to the babies and cleaning out my refrigerator. YoungestBoy was still teary and red after lunch later when I checked on him, but he had stopped crying. Tonight he told me he’s going to name the new kittens Fred and George. Unless they are girls.

In last Friday’s paper, I came across a notice about an appearance Anne Lamott is making at the local community college. I adore Anne Lamott (especially Operating Instructions and Bird By Bird and Traveling Mercies). I ripped out the notice and called this morning. The tickets for the appearance on Thursday night have been sold out for months. I pictured myself lurking by the door, trying to sneak in. But I may not have to resort to that. A friend of ours was at the house today helping my husband with yard work and he made a phone call to some mucky-muck he knows at the college to see if he could get me a ticket. Now I wait to see if this behind the scenes string-pulling works.

Today, Babygirl tried out a new skill. When displeased, she stomped her left foot. Which sort of worked, except that sometimes the effort would throw her off balance. It’s pretty hard to throw a fit when you are listing to the side. My husband says she is just like me and that I will get to see myself grow up.

Hey! What’s that supposed to mean? Stomp, stomp, stomp! Whew, I’m dizzy.

Remember how just a couple of days ago I was wishing it would rain? Well, I have super powers! I woke to the sound of the early-morning rain. Raining, pouring–and still early enough for me to plump my pillow, roll over and doze longer. I love that. Sleeping to the sound of rain is sweet.

The rain let up by the time I got up, though. And it was just cloudy all day. Then this afternoon, dark clouds suddenly moved in and rain, rain, rain!

We live in the damp Pacific Northwest, but you’d think we live in the desert if you judged my children’s reaction to this downpour. All three boys came running outside. Adam literally danced in the rain, swinging his arms and stomping his feet like a drunken street person dancing to an internal polka. Zach pranced around with a broken umbrella and then stood in the waterfall that shoots from the corner of the roof where the drainage pipe broke. Shane, ever industrious, gathered wagons and buckets to catch the precious rainfall. He stashed all this rainwater behind the little playhouse for use on a not-so-rainy day.

Grace watched all this activity with fascination and then demanded an umbrella of her own. Then she stomped in the newly created mud puddles on the lawn.

Now that I know what wishing powers I have, I shall guard my gift with great care. (I wish I had a million dollars.)

At 3 p.m. every day, I think to myself, “Boy, that was stupid. I just wasted two hours.” The boys return from school and the baby wakes up and I have accomplished nothing.

I put the babies down to sleep at 1 p.m., then watch a television show called “Starting Over.” It’s reality television and the first time I watched it I thought the women on the show were possibly the most annoying women in America. And now I’m addicted. It’s so embarrassing. I’ve avoided watching soap operas and daytime talk shows and now, I have to watch television every day from 1 to 2 p.m. You can check out the website at http://www.startingovertv.com.

Today, I even got riled up. Josie, a pregnant, single woman with a worthless boyfriend who may or may not be the father . . . well, her water broke.

Now, of course, an educated woman knows that just because your water breaks does not mean that you should rush to the hospital. Especially if your contractions haven’t started. But, this chick seems to know nothing about pregnancy–how else to explain her continual reclining and lying on her back at this stage of pregnancy? (That almost guarantees that the baby will be posterior, which can mean a longer labor and back labor to boot.)

So, off they rush to the hospital. No contractions. What does Josie do? She stretches out on her back in the bed and waits for labor to start. What should she do? She should be walking the hallways. She should be at home, still, hanging out. She should be active. She should be ignoring labor until she can no longer do so.

Oh, and she was hungry and thirsty and housemates tell her not to drink too much water and not to eat a banana. In fact, one of the other women actually reaches into her mouth and takes the banana out. Stupid, I’m telling you.

Would you run a marathon without drinking water during the race? Would you hike a mountain without carrying along snacks? No. Of course not.

That brings us to the next joyous intervention. That’s right boys and girls. Pitocin. Now, Josie had expressed interest in having a medication-free birth, but did she plan for alternative pain relief? Uh . . . no. Didn’t take them too long to get her all drugged up after the contractions started to actually hurt. And yes, pitocin contractions do hurt more. That’s just one reason why you should avoid pitocin or its very nasty cousin, cytotec.

Her stupid boyfriend was sitting in the room, but she had no real labor support. No one helping her breathe, no one rubbing her back, no music, no deep jacuzzi to soothe the pains, no sitting upright, just stretched out, waiting for pain, thinking about pain, expecting pain. Idiot.

The doctor comes in at 2 a.m. and rouses Josie. “Hey, in a few minutes, you’re going to push. Okay, Josie?” Yeah, right. An unconscious woman with a numb pelvis will be ready to push in just a sec. Hold on. Okay, ready.

Be sure to get your sharp instrument ready so you can cut her perineum and then yank that baby out. Why cooperate with nature when you can just overpower it and whack it in the head?

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion tomorrow!

And then it’s 2 p.m. I think about doing laundry. No. Picking up the family room. No. Doing dishes? No. Oh yeah, I should water the flower bed. No. (Gosh, I wish it would rain.) Make a few phone calls? Balance the checkbook? Iron my husband’s pants? Scrub the stinky toilet? Clean off the table in the other room? Organize the mess of shoes in the entry-way? Finish the thank-you notes? No, no, no, no. I don’t want to do any boring stuff. I don’t want to be a grown-up and do what’s got to be done.

And you can’t make me.

Sigh. I wish I hadn’t just wasted nap-time. Tomorrow! Tomorrow I will get something done! For sure!

1) You wish it would rain because your garden really needs a good soak.
2) The weekend is not fun, but actually more work because everyone’s at home.
3) You find gray hairs. On your own head.
4) You can use the following phrase in a sentence, “I remember about twenty years ago . . .”.
5) You are old enough to be a college student’s mother.
6) The “new” fashions of the day look like something you wore in fourth grade.
7) Your doctor is younger than you are.
8) It seems like the past five years have disappeared in a five minutes.
9) You see the merits of plastic surgery.
10) You don’t care what people think.