Well, if it’s true what they say about girls and diamonds, I suppose I did.
Funny how when I’m scouring the house for a diamond, every sparkly gem and rhinestone lost from my daughters’ princess dr…ess-up kit emerges from hiding, glassy facets dancing in the light, mocking me.
Please, say a little prayer that my engagement ring will be restored. And if all else fails, that I’ll finally start getting hit on in the bars again.
Last week I received an introductory letter from Tyler’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Warren. This year is Simsbury’s first year of full-day kindergarten, and the teacher seemed excited about her new class. In the letter, she provided a bright and cheery introduction, tips for making the transition into the new school year, and a list of supplies to bring with them on the first day of school.
By the end of the letter, I was sobbing. As in, tear drops all over the page. If a letter is all it takes to move me to tears, you can imagine the scene when the bus pulls up in front of our house.
I decided to write a letter back to Mrs. Warren with my own list of supplies for her to have at the ready when I turn my son over to her care for the first time:
(1) a three-pack of Puff’s Plus;
(2) a CD of John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy”;
(3) a tear-stained copy of “Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul”;
(4) a handful of antidepressants;
(5) a bottle of jagermeister (to wash down the antidepressants);
(6) bandages for my blisters (from chasing after the bus);
(7) a straight jacket;
(8) a restraining order;
(9) a glass of ice water (to splash in my face); and
(10) the back of her hand (to slap me when I become hysterical).
The big day is August 29. Wish me luck! (Oh, and Tyler, too.)
This afternoon I was immersed in the task of making the kids turkey and cheese bagels, while Doug stared at his laptop, tongue lagging.
“Look at this bike,” he beckoned while I tried to spread an even coat of mayonnaise over my creation. “Is this a sick-ass ride or what?”
Oh, crap, I thought to myself. He’s on his motorcycle kick again. It’s back to the pre-baby days, when he’d go out riding …with his friends all day and halfway into the night, coming home dehydrated with a sunburned head (the consequence of his aversion to helmets). Two babies into our marriage, he finally decided to give up the bikes—a decision he regrets every time we pass one on the road.
I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d go back to his old ways. I sighed and glanced at his computer screen.
It was a bicycle.
“Look at those red rims with flames on it,” he drooled. “It looks like my Honda chopper without the motor. But this time, I”LL BE THE MOTOR!”
I hoped my snickering wasn’t as loud as it was in my head.
“…Look at those disc brakes with a hidden shifter. That’s a suicide shifter. Who the f*ck has a shifter like that that?!”
“No one,” I agreed, all the while wondering if I should’ve added the mayonnaise after microwaving instead of before.
“You need to get over here for a closer look,” he demanded. “Stop what you’re doing right now and look at this. Look at those whitewall tires and brown leather saddle seat. You’d find a saddle like that on a $20,000 horse! It looks like a Schwinn from the ‘70s, back when guys started to trick them out. Those ape hangers, the banana seat, those sweet chrome fenders! It’s vintage!”
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘banana seat’? Do grown men ride bikes with banana seats?”
“Hell yeah! People design motorcycles with those!” By this point, he was nearly salivating all over his keyboard.
My next thought was on our dwindling—or should I say, long overdwindled—bank account. With some trepidation, I asked, “You’re not planning on, say, purchasing this bike, are you?”
“Some day,” was his wistful response.
“And what about the bike you just bought last month?” I was referring to his Specialized mountain bike, which would supposedly take care of all his transportation issues while our car was being repaired.
“That’s my downhill mountain bike,” he explained. This one would be my around-town bike. It’s a luxury cruiser!”
There’s nothing sadder than a man going through motorcycle withdrawals.
Rumor has it that before each register at the Walmart in Simsbury, there are display cases of “pajama jeans,” made with a DormiSoft fabric that feels like sleepwear but with a designer look too good to be hidden under the covers, for only $39.99. Had I seen them for myself and purchased them, I might have ripped the box open, put them on, lay down on one hip like Brooke Shields and droned, “Nothi…ng comes between me and my Calvins.” A reliable source swears they feel just like a second skin with a stretchy waistband that will forgive you for every fatty morsel you ate the night before. What’s more, I have this friend who confessed that with pajama pants in her wardrobe, she could potentially roll right out of bed and drop her kids off at school wearing the same clothes she slept in, and no one would be the wiser.
I should find friends with more fashion sense than that. These people could ruin my image.