Dude where's my...what was I looking for again?

I'm not going to lie to you. I'm a bit of a scatterbrain about certian things. I can feel your shock. Duly noted. I am also lazy about certain things. (oh, shut it you!) This laziness is clearly evidenced that despite Hunky Paul's protestations that my hair is my crowning glory, I continue to wear it in some sort of sloppy bun 90% of the time. I am the hotness. (not so much)

The American Dream features five cars in the driveway. Sometimes it's a highly choreographed event when someone who is in position one wants to leave the abode. Sometimes if TOTT is parked behind me I will not waste a second and take his car instead of mine. Nothing gets between me and five minutes of alone grocery shopping! His car is always cleaner - one of the perks of not carrying someone under age three on the regular - and it features great music which only adds to the allure of a short vacation trip to pick up goodies.

Heaven.

After I've taken a quick side trip to Starbucks finished the shopping, I come out of the store heavily laden with treasures such as laundry detergent and toilet paper and I take one last breath, relishing the few remaining moments of solitude and I think one thing:

Where the eff did I park my car?

I wander about the parking lot nonchalantly pushing the cart up and down the rows of parked cars looking for my little Honda.  Looking left and right before I remember I took TOTT's car! In the immortal words of Homer:  D'oh! (of The Simpsons, natch. Not The Odyssey) The next step is to wrack my mommy addled brain to remember what TOTT's (clean) Camry looks like, invariably approaching one that is decidedly NOT his.

*sidenote: my apologies to the nice woman who was chatting on her phone, minding her own business while sitting in her Camry in the Giant parking lot. Sorry I scared the bejeezuz out of you when I tried to put my groceries in the trunk of your car. Also, awesome collection of beanie babies you've got in the back window. Those things are so au currant.

Finally, and embarrassingly, I find TOTT's car and collapse into it. Sitting for just a few extra moments enjoying the solitude (read: triumph of having found the car). I might even sneak a few minutes of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me.

And maybe, just maybe I might make a blog note or two on ye olde iPhone Notepad. Multitasking brilliance right there.

See? Scatterbrained about some things. Brill about others. It's all about balance people.

As it turns out...

As it turns out, I did learn something at Crazy Hippie Montessori School in Boulder! I dig Montessori, but this particular school was a no. I mean at the time, as a youngster it was an emphatic YES! Dub and I spent our days drawing, playing let's pretend, and 'learning' long division by moving pretty turquoise balls back and forth in test tubes.

I put 'learning' in quotes because let's just say that long division is neither mine, nor Dub's strong suit.

Percentages though, percentages I got. I can figure a percentage like nobodies business. I need that skill for strategic shopping purposes.

Our mothers pulled us out of Crazy Hippie Montessori School at the end of 4th grade plunking us smack in the middle of the establishment's public schools for 5th. Say what? Desks? Homework? We were woefully unprepared. While Dub knuckled down and towed the line- smart girl - I preferred to act out and live in an imaginary world where I was a princess and had a horse. (So...nothing's changed except now the horse is a super safe awesome SUV to put the kiddo in.) The school district decided to hold me back in 6th grade because my 'imagination was too strong'. Can you imagine? The thought of a child's imagination being quashed makes my blood boil.

Perhaps they should have tried to hold me back because I didn't KNOW MATH. The very math they couldn't be bothered to teach me. But that's another matter.  So Mrs. Pinchuck, wherever you are, a little more attention on the teaching and a little less attention on the being mean. Also? If you have a strong Southern Dialect, don't get mad if you say mirrah in a spelling test and I write MIRRAH. You gotta say the terminal R sound for a little kid to get it!

Today Mr. Max happily trotted over to me with his lovely kelly green recorder, handed it to me and said "Mommy! Do this!" I promptly performed both Hot Cross Buns and Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Score one for Crazy Hippie Montessori School. Recorders are big in Montessori. And now I am big to Mr. Max.

The problem with getting ready for bed...

The problem with getting ready for bed is that it kind of wakes you up. And then you lay in bed thinking:

I was so sleepy watching Family Guy not twenty minutes ago and yet, now here I lay staring at the ceiling and humming the words to Happy Tapping With Elmo.

Sigh.

Sleep has been a crazy struggle for me since Mr. Max arrived. It's all worth it since I love him more than my sonic toothbrush. And I really love clean teeth.
I am always tired. Always. I am pretty sure that I'm so tired is the National Anthem of Momhood.

Last night I was applying my many time fighting-superhero-anti wrinkle creams and lotions, (curse you non safe for nursing Botox and your smoothness!) finishing up getting ready to pass out (or sing Sesame Streets Greatest Hits, either one) and just longing for my squishy pillow.

The last step of my evening ablutions applying psycho amounts of hand cream and chapstick and of course taking my belved Zoloft. So I popped my pill and...

Wait. Oh, crap. That wasn't my medicine. It was the PUPPY BEAR's medicine!

I took. The dog's. Medicine.

Ah, well. It's only Prozac. Yes, the dog is also on anti anxiety meds. You can take the Puppy Bear out of L.A. but you can't take the L.A. out of the Puppy Bear.

This weekend I'm gonna stick some shades on him and take him shopping in a high end doggie stroller.
What are your weekend plans?

Have a good one...and stay out of the dog's meds for the love of Ray J.