I think most of you expect this to be a post about Molly’s
recent ophthalmologist appointment, but in a strange twist of fate, she was angelic
during her three-hour exam. Honestly, she hasn’t been that good since she was
an 8 lb. burrito that slept 22 hours a day. And as I’m sure you know by now,
when my kids are good, I don’t have anything to write about because no one
wants to hear about what well-behaved, perfectly parented cherubs they are (well,
suckers, the joke’s on you because you just heard all that anyway).
Plus, the whole point of this blog thing is to make it clear
to the kids how much I suffered for them in their formative years as a gateway to a quality nursing home that has daily bingo and
a string of handsome widowers (because, let’s face it, if Sutton makes it out
of his fifties after being married to me for three decades, somebody’s gonna
have to check that he’s not a vampire).
No, this post is going to focus on a more universal
annoyance: the furlough. Like many of you, our lives have been affected by the
recent sequestration, although in a less damaging way than most. Since my
husband works as a contractor on the Arsenal, his pay wasn’t affected by the
furlough, but his hours were since his building is now closed on Fridays. So
instead of his usual schedule of 5, 8-hour days, he’s now working 4, 10-hour
days.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I am colossally thankful for the
fact that our annual income isn’t diminished by the government’s inability to
clip coupons. And Fridays off sounds great…but only if all four of us make it
til then, and adding 2 hours to the length of my “work” day, when we barely
make it to naptime as it is, puts that possibility at serious risk. (Note: I’m
sure that it’s hard on Sutton, too, but this isn’t his blog and since our
marriage in 2005, he’s become really good at internalizing his frustrations).
Maybe a visual will better explain. Have you ever seen that
Bud Light Daredevil commercial where the guy tries to stay at work 2 minutes past
5:00pm? (If you haven’t, then the YouTube gods have looked kindly on you today:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7nBqh7I1kdY)
Yeah, that’s what it’s like here at 5:30 pm after a day alone with the chillrins.
And then you’re gonna tell me that Sutton has to leave before the kids are up
and get home after I’ve fed them a third meal by myself? Ssshhhhiiiiittttt.
P.S. Whoever invented those pouch baby foods is on my short
list for president.
And when Sutton finally gets home, I expect him to run, not
walk, to the door to get into this house and save us all. For serious, he
better pray that I don’t see him stop to pick up some trash out of the yard or let
the dog go potty or else it’s gonna be Nag War III up in this beesh. And God
help him if he has to go to the bathroom…
*****************
Which brings me to an important subtopic of this post. What
is up with guys and pooping? Seriously?! As a female, I have two intestinal modes:
using the bathroom and not using the bathroom. But, no, not men. They have at
least 5 different stages to go through before they finish putting one through
the hoop.
Stage 1: The alert
– I just ate some food; I’m gonna have to poop within the next 24 hours.
Therefore, I must stay within at least 20 feet of my “home toilet”.
Stage 2: The inklings
– I feel the first flutterings of a bowel movement. Let me go sit on the toilet
and lock the bathroom door even though I won’t be productive for another 45
minutes.
Stage 3: The devices
– Well, now that I’m in here for the foreseeable future, I might as well play a
few rounds of Candy Crush, catch up on my Reddit posts, and text my buddies
size and shape details with this iPhone/iPad/laptop that I smuggled in here
without my wife seeing.
Stage 4: The deed
– self explanatory.
Stage 5: The rinse and
repeat – Okay, I’m done. But all that’s waiting for me on the outside is a
bunch of screaming kids and an unmowed lawn. Wait, what’s that I feel? The
possibility that I could have to go again sometime within the next two hours.
Better stay right here.
Meanwhile, when I have to go, I’m forced to leave the door
open to ensure that the kids aren’t killing themselves or, worse, deleting my
DVR contents, and I basically have to wait until it’s a life and death
situation so that I’m not in there for more than two minutes tops. In fact,
I’ve started a pros and cons chart for the use of adult diapers.
*****************
In closing, until September 30th, we must soldier
on…by spending those two extra dad-free hours a day at our local and state
representatives’ offices – you know, just hanging out and letting the kids copy
their butts and stuff. So maybe the next time Congress is feebly trying to
balance a budget, they’ll remember having Jolly Ranchers stuck to their sweet
leather chairs and listening to Suttie sing the entire soundtrack to The
Nightmare Before Christmas (twice) and finally learn to do some basic math.
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