Leave Me Alone

*I rarely drink.  *= I rarely drink except when I am trying to get pregnant (I legit prayed to God that my kids would not have big foreheads and even doubled up on my prenatal vitamins just in case) annnnd when my family has literally driven me to the brink of insanity.  Which is why I was sitting in my bathtub a few days ago, drinking wine out of a coffee cup with an alligator on it, while tears streamed down my face.

My time in captivity has taught me that my holders typically rely on mental and physical exhaustion to torture their hostage (me).  Their submission tactics include incessant fighting, playing One Direction on repeat, saying my name over and over and over again, turning their faces in profound repugnance when presented with food I have made (I sort of get this one), not learning their math in school so I have to figure that shit out when they come home, working late, sleeping with me each night, leaving on golf trips and taking my phone charger.  

Typically, I retreat to my cell (closet) to scream the f-word rather than give them the satisfaction of knowing I have yielded to their authority.  Unfortunately, this particular day had been shitty from the get-go.  It began with taking my dogs to the groomer...

I have read that dogs frequently assume the personality/personalities (not to be prejudice to schizophrenics) of their owner. My dogs are spoiled and dramatic so we are obviously an exception to this unfounded hypothesis.  Not to mention, I absolutely love getting my hair done and anal glands emptied every three weeks.  My dogs, on the other hand, act like total dicks on the days I take them to get groomed.  I almost threw out my back and punctured my implants carrying my five ton Yorkie with prosthetic hips into the doggy salon.

Not so coincidentally, I decided that I was going to start showing them my lesbian friends’ Facebook walls with videos of sad Pitbulls and severely matted homeless dogs, with gigantic nipples, living under houses in Arkansas.  Maybe with a little dose of reality they will learn some gratitude.  (By the way, I am totally going to stop the video right before the avid hiker who doesn’t mind having ringworm and intestinal parasites, adopts them and everything works out fabulous.)

Anyways, right as I walked back inside, the school called to inform me my kid had smacked into a pole while doing the monkey bars.  On a positive note, at least one of my daughters was not going to be a stripper based on her apparent lack of dexterity with a pole.  I rushed up to get her and judging by her bruised face, she had indeed hit a pole..........or professional athletes whose names I will not mention (Ray Rice, Adrian Peterson, Floyd Mayweather) had visited the school as part of their community service.    

Things just snowballed from there.  I took my child to the doctor, burned dinner, made a new dinner, which nobody ate, cleaned up dinner, cleaned up dog puke, realized I shrunk my adorable new J-Crew cardigan from their fall line, deciphered math homework written in Mandarin Chinese, searched the laundry for a pair of sparkly leggings, mediated a few fights, made lunches, paid a $2,000 bill that wasn’t to a plastic surgeon, brought plants inside because Colorado’s weather is bipolar, listened while Mike excitedly informed me of his upcoming golf trip, tucked in the kids temporarily since they would be in my bed shortly and just for giggles....started my period. 

Annnnd this is how I ended up drinking in a cold bathtub.  Sisters- We shall remain united.  We can do this.  Together.  With Lexapro and wine.  Sometimes both.  No judgement here.  XO