Happy birthday to my husband, thirty-three years young! And by “young,” I mean “still younger than me.” No, honey, I haven’t forgotten. It seems like only yesterday I was robbing the proverbial cradle. Actually, it seems more like eleven years ago. You’re no spring chicken anymore, Jethro!

And how is my beloved spending his birthday this year? Well, he’s knocking around our nation’s capital, catching the sights and hob-knobbing with the likes of Abe Lincoln’s memorial statue. It’s been about fourteen years since I last saw Washington, D.C. (the city, not the airport). Hopefully it’s still Abe in that memorial and not that freaky monkey statue like we saw in that Planet of the Apes remake. I’m still mad at Tim Burton for making that movie. Because seriously, what in the huh-wha was that ending all about? Eh? Charlton Heston’s cameo was pretty awesome, though. And now that Chuck’s no longer with us, at least I have another movie to remember him by. So okay, I forgive you, Tim Burton. But just barely.

You might be wondering what the hell just happened back there. Well, let me explain: I did not sleep well last night. First of all, my husband had to go out of town unexpectedly earlier-than-originally-planned because his scheduled June 4 morning flight was cancelled, and he had to book a last-minute flight last night. Which was fine, because who needs him anyway, right? Well, I need him. I need him to tell me when to go to bed because when he’s not here, I take it as my excuse for staying up until 2 a.m. watching Law & Order on the Netflix online. Netflix is my new master, by the way, in case you were wondering where my spiritual journey was leading me. Anyway, I was staying up late to get the house ready for the housekeepers, who were coming this morning (did in fact come this morning, but this talking about the past in the time when it was still the future is confusing for me, so just try to keep up–also, I’m tired, as I was about to explain). And since hard work must be rewarded with something more tangible than the satisfaction of a job well done, naturally I had to eat some of my leftover ice cream pie, the one that’s jam-chocky full of espresso beans whilst watching some L&O. Because nothing screams, “You must watch four episodes of Law & Order back to back!” quite like a coffee-chocolate-caramel ice cream pie. Actually, it may have just been three episodes. I don’t remember. It’s all a blur now. Because here’s what came next:

I go to bed, see (note that I’ve switched to the present tense even though I’m still talking about the past; it’s just a stylistic technique to help you feel like you’re there in the moment with me; yes, you’re welcome)–and Mister Bubby is already there because when I put him to bed, he said, “I don’t want to sleep in my own bed,” and I said, “I don’t want you to sleep in my bed because I already know Elvis and Girlfriend are going to come in the middle of the night and want to sleep with me, too, and it just gets too crowded.” And he said, “Come on…pleeeeeaaaase?” And I said, “No, man, don’t start with me.” And he said, “Come onnn–it’ll just be easier to get me up in the morning.” And I said, “You know, whatever. I don’t care. Sleep anywhere. Just go to sleep, I have work to do.” So he went to sleep in my bed, and so–switching back and forth between tenses like they were interchangeable widgets–there I am and there he is, and it was all well and good for about fifteen minutes, and then Girlfriend woke up screaming. Which she does every night at about this time. So I go to her and try to get her to go back to sleep in her own bed, which she isn’t having any of, and so I let her come sleep with me and MB in my room. And that’s all well and good, too, until about half an hour after that, when Elvis comes running in and decides he wants to be part of this happy family, so he crawls in, too.

This is where things start getting uncomfortable because MB isn’t usually in the bed and Elvis is somewhat confused as to where he belongs. He thinks he wants to be between me and Girlfriend, but Girlfriend is not hip to that action and wakes up and starts crying–which makes him cry, which makes MB wake up and tell me that I need to kick Elvis out of the bed already because there just isn’t room for him, and Elvis finally decides that he is just going to burrow head-first under the comforter and go to sleep with his feet between MB’s and Girlfriend’s heads. Well, this is okay for maybe another half-hour, but since I’ve gotten approximately zero sleep so far, I decide to be pro-active and I leave the big bed with the three gangly children and migrate to Elvis’s bed, which–despite what you might think, given his aforementioned nocturnal habits–is actually quite comfortable, thank you very much. I was blissfully asleep for what seemed like at least two-and-a-half minutes, it may have even been seven, when Girlfriend notices that I am missing and starts running down the hall screaming. Yes, she ends up in Elvis’s (twin) bed with me. After a few minutes of tossing and turning and rolling and tossing, she finally gets comfortable and we both go to sleep again. Until–wait for it!–Elvis wakes up and thinks we must take him for some kind of chump if we think we can get rid of him that easily, and he comes back to reclaim his rightful place in his own rightful bed. Girlfriend, predictably, sees it differently.

What transpired over the next hour would be somewhat tedious to relate, and it would also require heavy usage of this word: #&$*(! I don’t know how you all feel about that, but I’m uncomfortable repeating that word repeatedly in a story that involves children. I’m not sure I’ve ever been proud of my actions during the hours of four and five in the morning, but last night was definitely a candidate for the All-Time Worst Sleep-Deprived Mothering Malfeasances hall of fame. I’ll let your imaginations do the work for me.

So yeah, I finally went to sleep sometime between 5:00 and 5:30 a.m.–yes, I know it’s karma because I gorged myself on coffee ice cream pie and police dramas, just get off my back–and at approximately 6:40 a.m., my alarm goes off. I hit the snooze button. But about four minutes after hitting the snooze button, MB starts nudging me and telling me it’s time to get up. “Come on…come on…come on…” And nudging becomes shoving and telling becomes nagging until finally, FINE, IT’S 6:55 AM AND I’M UP, ARE YOU HAPPY???

I functioned surprisingly well for a dead woman. Speaking of which, I’m surprised the housekeepers didn’t fall down dead of shock when they saw that the six boxes which have been stacked against my bedroom wall since January had miraculously been removed. Hopefully, my husband isn’t reading this or he might fall down dead himself. Honey, avert your eyes! I guess it’s too late now. Never mind.

So, yeah. I’m feeling a little punchy. You know what that means, right? I get insanely drowsy in about five minutes, but somehow I manage to stay awake for two-and-a-half more hours and get the kids in bed, at which time I will have my second wind and can finish the rest of my ice cream pie and watch more Law & Order! (Duh.)

You know, this post was going to be about my visit to McDonald’s today, but instead it went in totally unexpected directions. You might say I took stream-of-consciousness blogging to a Whole. Nutha. Level. Actually, I think this post is nothing compared to some of the crap I published when I was still in my prime. But it might be my personal record for crimes against grammar. Well, there it is, then. I have to decide what to make for dinner. Remember that fully-stocked fridge I showed you a few posts back? Well, it turned out to be mostly a variety of barbecue sauces. Not that I can’t use that, but I’m going to have to be creative. I might be taking white-trash cuisine to a Whole Nutha Level. Which is permissible when my gourmet husband is out of town. Did I mention that I’m also sick? I’m also sick. But that’s a Whole Nutha Blog.