The brain is going, my friends. Going, going, almost gone. Last night I was in a rush to get ready for my dress rehearsal–splattering foundation on my underwear and poking my eye with the mascara wand–and then I was in a rush to get out the door and actually attend my dress rehearsal. I was in full costume. Before I walked out the door, I double-checked to make sure I was wearing my garter. My husband found that funny. He should have seen when I was double-checking to make sure I was wearing my briefs (which, to my credit, I did not do in the front doorway).

Anyway, off I went, wearing the costume, carrying the tap shoes, had the keys, had the purse, yes, everything was there, so off I was–driving, driving, driving, and the mascara was already starting to bug. Big time. I swear, it was like there was this huge clump of black gook just hanging from my outer lashes on my right eyelid, and I kept checking in the rearview mirror to make sure that there was no black-gook mascara monster hastening the demise of my vision. There was no noticeable hunk of black gook, just regular old mascara, sitting on my regular old eyelashes, not doing anything particularly noteworthy. “Volumizing,” my butt. Anyway. The knowledge that the mascara was under control did not stop my eyes from feeling like they were under attack by some unfriendly entity, and I just kept looking in the rear view mirror and pulling at my eyelashes, hoping I could dislodge the invisible plague, and that’s when I noticed that my lipstick was looking kind of off–lipstick being something I can ordinarily apply with competence, but apparently not under duress–and that’s when I went to double-check that I had brought the lipstick with me, so, careful to keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, I rummaged around my purse with the other hand–because really, it was so important to know at that moment if I would be able to re-apply my lipstick that evening–and that’s when I realized that I am an effing idiot because I had my lipstick and had ONLY FORGOT TO BRING A MAJOR PROP FOR MY SECOND NUMBER. Bah!

So I called Sugar Daddy, who, being the gallant and longsuffering husband he is–and perhaps feeling a teensy guilty for insinuating earlier that I looked like a vintage American hooker? no, probably not–agreed to pack all the kids in the car and bring me my forgotten item, and he didn’t so much as sigh over it. Probably because he did not yet realize that I had also forgotten to bring our ballots for the better-late-than-never-Oregon-primary, which I promised I would drop off at the official ballot drop inside the rec center, and this after I had harassed him to fill the darn thing out already. You know, I didn’t even vote. I harassed my husband into voting, and then I disenfranchised him with my forgetfulness, but me, I never actually filled my ballot out. I kept meaning to fill my ballot out, but golly, there was just so much to do, and so many stupid things to vote on–U.S. senator, U.S. representative, secretary of state, precinct commissioners (or whatever they’re called, whatever they are), and circuit court judges, plus three esoteric state measures–I never did get around to it. Isn’t that awful? I’m not fit to call myself an American, am I? I apologized later to SD, but he said I should really apologize to the great people who fought and died for my right to take part in the democratic process. And that’s when I told him to shut. up.

The housekeepers are supposed to come this morning. They used to come around 9:30 a.m. Then they started coming around 10:30 a.m. Last time they came at 12:30 p.m. I’m really not keen on this creeping schedule change. It’s just that I work so hard to get everything off the floor and off the counters and out of the sink before they come, and then they don’t come and then the kids start throwing stuff on the floor again. I mean, I should just pack them in the car and take them someplace, but I don’t know how long to be gone for, because when the heck are the housekeepers coming, anyway? I should take them on a day trip, but I’m not in the mood. Stop trying to solve my problems, okay? I just want the housekeepers to go back to coming between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m. That’s all I’m saying.

I’m still kind of embarrassed about having housekeepers. Most ladies I associate with don’t have housekeepers; they keep their own houses. They think it must be nice to have someone else come keep your house for you, and why on earth would you complain about that? See, that’s the thing. It is nice, and I don’t like to complain. I just like predictability. Also, not having to pick stuff up off the floor more times than I have to in a twelve-hour period–that’s also something I like. But back to my original point–you didn’t know I’d left my original point, did you? Well, I did, but here it is again. I’m kind of embarrassed about having housekeepers. I’m not only embarrassed in front of my peers, but I’m embarrassed in front of the housekeepers themselves. Not because I’m class-conscious and feel bad about having money to pay people to do something distasteful that I could very well do myself–but because I get the distinct impression that these housekeepers don’t consider my house worth cleaning. I feel like they look around and think, “What the bleeping hell is the point? This is a losing battle, why can’t she just accept that?” I might be projecting a little bit. I don’t know. But there’s something there–something in their tone, in the way they wield those feather dusters, that just makes me feel inferior. Probably the fact that they have feather dusters in the first place–because Lord knows I have never owned one. It never occurred to me to own one. Historically, I have always had bigger fish to fry than dust. When other ladies tell me how much they hate dusting, I think it must be nice to have so few problems that you actually have time to think about dusting and whether or not you enjoy it. I always thought I might enjoy dusting, if I ever had the leisure. But so far that life experience has been elusive. Perhaps this is what I’m sensing from the housekeepers–resentment over having to dust, when I clearly have no appreciation for the task. It must be very frustrating for them to try to dust my desks and bookshelves, which are crowded with items not intended for dusting. It makes me want to tidy some more before they get here–whenever that will be–but you know what? I’m tired. And I’m just tired of tidying. I want it to be too late for tidying.

I tidied a little bit last night after my rehearsal, but I got tired then, too, and I left the rest of it for this morning. So naturally this morning did not go smoothly. Mister Bubby had a field trip today, and he needed a sack lunch and also $5 in cash. We were out of bread, but he agreed to take a sandwich roll instead. I scrounged up four dollar bills and four quarters. Then he told me that he needed to turn in his jog-a-thon pledge sheet and money because it was due today. His pledge sheet consisted of two donations–one from Grandma and one from me. I suppose I could have written a check, but I didn’t know who to make the check out to because I couldn’t even remember what the jog-a-thon was for in the first place, and I was tired, and I didn’t want to think about it, so I decided we’d just stop at the grocery store for bread and some cash on the way to school. So we left early, and I stopped at the Albertson’s, where they don’t sell any good bread, but I got some mini-bagels for the younger kids, who like bagels more than bread anyway, and there was exactly one checkout line open–which is always the case at this Albertson’s–and there was exactly one person in front of me, who was having a frustrating back-and-forth with the checker over how much money his groceries cost. For the love of Mike. At least he wasn’t paying with a check. Anyway, that finally got resolved, and I bought my bagels and bought my cash, and I dropped Mister Bubby off at school, and then I came home and hurried to get Elvis ready for his bus. I got Elvis on his bus, and then I proceeded to light a fire, figuratively speaking, under Princess Zurg, who was still not out of bed, despite my repeated nagging of the previous 45 minutes. I told her she had less than fifteen minutes before her bus arrived, and that got her attention, but then she tried to accuse me of oversleeping. She just really needed it to be my fault that she was still in her pajamas.

So PZ finally got dressed and was eating breakfast, and I was trying to get Girlfriend her breakfast, when the phone rang. I saw on the Caller ID that it was the school. Thank goodness for Caller ID because otherwise I would have had NO IDEA what was going on. I answered the phone, and there was a lot of background noise and this immature voice speaking not-directly-into-the-receiver, saying what I eventually discerned as “Is my lunch at home?” I am somewhat embarrassed at how long it took me to figure out that this was in fact my own child calling me to tell me that he’d forgotten his lunch (which was my fault, naturally). Everything I said, everything I asked, he just answered with “Mom? MOM! Hello? Hello???” What is it with men and the phone? Why are interpersonal telecommunication skills so difficult for the testosterone-laden mind to master? Anyway, we finally came to an understanding, that I would drop back by the school with his lunch, despite the fact that I had so many other freaking things to do this morning. (That last part was unspoken.) After PZ miraculously made it onto the bus and Girlfriend miraculously finished eating her breakfast in a timely fashion, I was able to deliver MB’s lunch and come back home to work on the house-tidying, which was really getting tiresome at this point.

I did it. It’s done. In a manner of speaking. I’m sure the housekeepers won’t be impressed. They’ll flick their little feather dusters at my bookshelves and frown, but I am done. I am all done for today. Except that I will pick up all the toy food Elvis just dumped on the family room floor. I don’t want them frowning while vacuuming.

As I said earlier, I am sure I’m forgetting something important, but I can’t think for the life of me what it is. I paid the mortgage, I know where the kids are, I checked under the beds for stray undergarments–but I haven’t changed the baby’s diaper. I don’t know if that’s what I’m forgetting, but I’m going to do it anyway, just for giggles. Happy Wednesday.

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