Saturday, December 19, 2009

if there were a REAL "Real Housewives" show and I were on it, my self-naration would sound much like this:

Husband dearest works out of town 3-5 days a week so that we can have lovely things like a house, heat, cars, internet, cell phones, and cable. I work 2-3 shifts a week so we can have extras, like the occassional shopping trip at Whole Foods instead of the "regular" super market, nice bottles of Ripasso or Bordeaux, and meals not horribly botched by me trying to play "Top Chef" on my electric range.

I am eternally grateful for these amenities and know how incredibly lucky we are - especially this time of year - to have what much of young America, I'm sure, takes for granted. Our generations' hardships may only include having to watch Sesame Street on a dinky little 10" black and white TV and being forced to wear clothes from Caldor when the family budget was tight, but that's still a far cry from the things kids today wouldn't know how to live without: Hulu, PS2's, and 3G networks. God, I even find myself bitching when a certain channel doesn't come in in HD, because it's all blurry on our giant TV. So I'm really not much better than those spoiled brats, am I?

So considering the things we're now accustomed to having as part of our daily lives, it's no wonder that when my laptop is busted, the cable goes out during a storm and the baby's asleep, I'm so painfully bored I start picking away at still relatively in-tact nailpolish just to have an excuse to paint my nails again. Or I start scribbling what I think are witty thoughts and observations on one of the million of cards you mail in for a subscription that fall out of the magazine you've already subscribed to -- but I'm using this scrap of paper as a bookmark in a crappy book that I'm forcing myself to finish because I borrowed it from the library and damn it I'm going to become more literate and intellectual if it kills me, but once I'm done with the book I forget about the ramblings I've written down and throw the card away. Or I start watching so many recorded episodes of "The Office" I start dreaming about being in a screaming match with Dwight and Michael.

This is where someone interjects, saying, "Yes, but, if you're bored, then you're boring." Well, that's okay, because I actually feel pretty damn boring.

I mean, all I have to talk about is being a mom, running, and... uh, that's about it. There's only so much to discuss (or write) about the variety of poo consistencies and colors, how many planned runs you didn't do and why you couldn't do them, how thick to make your rice cereal and what to mix it with, and the ungodly amount of calories you're consuming while breastfeeding and - again - how many times you've failed to get out to burn them off...

... Hm? Sorry. I just put myself to sleep.

I just hope, as I go on and on and on about how sorry I am for myself (someone please play me out on the violin) someone is out there reading this thinking, "Thank God, I'm not alone!"

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