We have been here before. Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D.

I will stop exhibiting because a) I’m fairly certain you get the point and b) I am just getting more depressed with each added hyperlink.

It’s like they have this sixth sense. They don’t, unfortunately, see dead people. Because, you guys, I would much rather that my children talked to Bruce Willis’ ghost than what they do to me when their daddy goes away.

Fevers. Aches. Chills. Sweats. Phlegm-barfs. I-have-psychological-issues-when-it-comes-to-taking-medication-of-any-kind barfs. (Those might be my favorite!)

To drown my sorrows  and to drown out the whiny-kvetchies, I have enjoyed three pieces of cake, 17 chocolate rugalach, 2.5 doughnuts, 2 bowls of microwave popcorn, frozen yogurt, an entire challah, four slices of eggplant pizza, french fries (I don’t even like french fries).

Hi. I’m Ali. I like to eat my FEEEEEEELINGS!

I really, really like to eat my feelings.

But also, because I am a crazy person of late, I also like to EXERCISE my feelings.

This is really new for me, as I have never enjoyed exercising ever.

But now, as I sit here on my ass, NOT watching the US commercials while I watch the Superbowl, I cannot wait to get my body on my elliptical trainer.

(I don’t even know who I am anymore either.)

And my husband calls from his Kelowna ski trip all, “Well! At least no one has stomach-flu barfed yet!”

(He is probably getting the US commercials while he watches the Superbowl too. Without the sniffly whining kids climbing all over him sharing their germs and giving him the plague or asking him the differences between half-man/half-goats and half-man/half-horses. And without so many SMASH commercials.)

If I could have hunted him down through the phone right there and then, I would have.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised if he comes home and I have a new 85mm fixed lens and a giant anthropologie bill and possibly a new kitchen table and chairs.

(Oh, Pottery Barn. It’s like you and your Benchwright collection are calling to me…BUY US! BUY US!)

I mean, he can hardly blame me…right?

RIGHT?

Especially because it totally hurts when I swallow now.

I’m probably also going to watch the last four episodes of The Wire without him too.

It’s only fair.

Oh, and I might buy the glasses that I didn’t choose.

Because Isabella is now complaining that her stomach hurts. 

OH MY GOD.

(Pray for me.)

(Or for my husband’s credit card bill.)

(Either way.)

Appreciate it as much as this guy:

I can’t even tell you how happy this video makes me.

Even happier than when I watched that Kristen Bell VS the sloth video, which I absolutely LOVED, not because I love sloths (I mean, really, who doesn’t?) but because I get that whole 3-7 scale thing. I really do. I am a super emotional person. Things that make me sad…forget about it. I’m a weepy ball of snot-filled goo on the floor (well, isn’t that a pretty picture?) Things that make me incredibly happy…forget about it as well. I’m a weepy ball of snot-filled goo.

American Idol auditions. Telephone company commercials. Coffee commercials..omg Peter coming home for Christmas? (STOP IT!). Any video involving a soldier and a child. Getting unexpected cards in the mail. Report-card day. My child on the stage. My child watching my other child on the stage. Really, really good Chinese food.

TEARS.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close?

I apologize to all the of the people who were sitting incredibly close to me.

As I spent the entire movie crying extremely loud tears. 

(YES I KNOW THAT WASN’T FUNNY)

You guys, I don’t even know. That movie. It’s the stick-to-your-bones type.

Honestly, I kind of expected to hate the movie, Oscar-nomination not withstanding. It takes a lot for me to enjoy a book-made-into-a-movie, especially when the book is so gooddamn special. (Movies the worked? The Princess Bride, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Gone With the Wind, The Virgin Suicides, Fight Club, To Kill a Mockingbird.) (Movies that did not work? The Time Traveler’s Wife, The DaVinci Code, Love in the Time of Cholera, Fever Fitch, The Scarlet Letter)

That book. It’s a masterpiece. And this movie? It was too. 

I know. I am just as shocked as you are. Rotten Tomatoes kind of hated it, and there are reviews I read by people I admire who said that they wanted to punch the movie in the nose and called it “fairly obnoxious.”

I think those reviewers were missing its beauty. And missing the beauty of Jonathan Safran Foer.

It’s not about 9-11. It’s not about THE WORST DAY.

It’s about a boy. It’s about his relationships. It’s about obstacles. It’s about grief. It’s about love. It’s about anger. It’s about fears, and overcoming them.

…And I’m crying again.

Tell me I’m not the only crier out there. I’m like Ed Norton’s character in Fight Club when the testicular cancer group introduces him to Bob and his bitch tits. I really, really am.

What makes you cry? Sonic videos? Commercials? Weddings? Funerals? Graduations? SLOTHS? 

I re-watch the Bill Murray classic at least once each February. It’s tradition at this point. Babe. I got you Babe. And if you have seen the movie, you know. If you haven’t, well, what in the what are you sitting around reading my drivel for (Get on that, Jen)? The day that loops.

The same day, over and over and over and over and over and over.

Babe. I got you Babe.

And, if you thought you knew where this was going, you are wrong.

(Don’t worry, this is exactly how I felt when I read The Thirteenth Tale recently for my brand-new book club. I was all, I have got this in the bag. It’s like knowing that Bruce Willis was dead. And then, BAM, out of nowhere, the book changes on me and surprised the hell out of me.)

I’m not going to write about my new work-at-home setup. Because, while from the surface it may seem like my weekdays are looping, because every morning starts the same. The Avett Brothers wake me up, several times, and then I get the kidlets out of the door in one piece (or mostly) and hope that they are wearing clean underpants, have brushed teeth, and have their lunches in tow. Everything else is a bonus. I drink my coffee and work with Kelly Ripa in the background. I drink more coffee and work more. I drink tea and work with Ellen Degeneres in the background. I drink tea and work more. I ellipticize with Buffy the Vampire Slayer playing on the iphone. I snack on cashews and Chocolate Chex. I drink some coffee and work some more. Then my kids come home and we begin the snacks, dinner, homework, bath, bed brigade. Sometimes we go crazy and change it up—skip a bath! Play a board game! Watch American Idol! When we are feeling really rebellious we go out for Menchie’s. So, yes, my days are not that exciting, really.

But they are amazing.

I am so ridiculously, stupidly happy.

My anxiety is way, way down. My commutes are non-existent. I can have coffee with my BFF in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. (Imagine!)

I go to sleep happy every single night.

I wake up happy every single morning.

Babe. I got you Babe. 

Happy, that is, until this past week.

Truer words were never spoken: SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT HERE.

Strange things were definitely afoot at the Circle K.

On this particular day my anxiety was not way down.

You know, the funny thing is that I wondered about this. I was thinking the other day about bloggers I used to love, used to read every single day, used to feel like I knew. And they, just, well, don’t  anymore. Some stopped in 2005, some in 2007, some in 2009, some in 2011. Some have taken their sites down, some made big-grand sweeping farewells, some just quietly stopped posting. Some blogs are still up there, but sit days, weeks, months without updating. Some have run out of words, some don’t feel like they have the time to devote anymore, some have started writing for other (paying) outlets, and some just don’t want to do it anymore.

I have some friends who are just plain old social-media-d out.

So, when this giant red sign was staring at me in the face, I thought about quitting. I thought about maybe just stopping, quietly walking away. No fanfare, no fuss, just…no more.

But, to me, that very thought was PAINFUL.

I have been sitting here since 2004, tap, tap, tapping away at these keys.

Sometimes it’s on my desktop, sometimes it’s on my laptop, sometimes it’s on my phone. Tap, tap, tap. 

I have been telling you stories. Tap, tap, tap. 

I have been asking you questions. Tap, tap, tap.

I have been sharing the funny, the sad, the happy, the ridiculous. Tap, tap, tap. 

I have written posts you have loved and I have written posts that you hated. Tap, tap, tap. 

I wrote my way through my third and final pregnancy. I wrote my way through several jobs, several houses, several moves, several panty-eating-puppy surgeries. Tap, tap, tap. 

My audience may have changed over the last eight years. I may have gained followers. I may have lost commenters. People have have come and gone.

But I have always been here, writing away, telling my stories.

Babe. I got you Babe. 

I don’t want to stop.

I can’t stop.

THIS IS WHO I AM.

Dealing with this for the past week has been devastating for me. Which is funny, that. Trying to explain to someone how a stupid hacker named MikeWink filling my code with over 180 lines of bad code feels like one of my limbs has been amputated sounds ridiculous. I feels ridiculous to even type it here. But it’s the truth. It doesn’t feel right. There’s an emptiness where the working site is, and yet, I can almost feel it, almost touch the words that need to be said, need to be written. But they are just out of my reach.

So, it’s worth it. The eagle eyes working through every piece of code to remove the infections. Taking the three steps forward in the clean-up process only to take two steps back. Losing part of my site design. Having no access to my stats anymore. Not being able to write for days.

I hope you think it’s worth it too.

Babe. I got you Babe. 

After having a Monday from somewhere deep down and hot (Read: Not Florida) that included no fewer than the following fun things—

…two hours on a this-is-going-absolutely-nowhere chat with some Adobe dudes in India,

…the discovery of a hacker (I have outed you MikeWink!) who has been having a gay old time adding all sorts of fun code into my site since 2009,

…SMASH—it’s really a shame that NBC hasn’t done any sort of promotion for this show…I kind of already hate it even though I haven’t even seen it yet,

…another hour on the phone with some Adobe dude who is not currently residing in India and really does understand my problem and yet still cannot help me even though I want to give Adobe my money. All I want to do is upgrade my Photoshop CS3 to Photoshop CS5 which cannot be done, even though I am not a pirate and I am carrying around a fully paid for and legitimate copy of Photoshop. The reason, I was told after THREE hours of my time, is that my Photostop CS3 is part of a SUITE and I can only upgrade one if I upgrade them all. For a mere $699. Fuck that. I’m thinking about becoming a pirate. Maybe the Dread Pirate Roberts. All I will have to do is learn to fight the ROUS…but at least I will have a decent copy of CS5,

…the realization that Bachelor Ben is totally choosing Courtney to be his bride seatmate for the talk show circuit—I know this because Bachelor Ben is really great at decisions (I mean, have you even looked at his hair?),

…NOT ENOUGH COFFEE, because the coffee gnomes that live inside my home regularly swallow up all the semi-decent keurig k-cups and leave behind the crap that is only disguised as coffee but tastes kind of like what I imagine that coffee in Elf tastes like.

…actual googling the origin of the phrase “_____ ALL THE THINGS”, because I was getting a little tired of seeing the phrase peppered into my twitter stream, my facebook wall, my emails. Well played, Hyperbole and a Half. You started a revolution and I had no idea. Did you also invent the putting of periods between words to create emphasis? HAHA! Nice try, I. know. about. that. one. already,

…a bullying situation at school that is actually not really even a bullying situation but more of a sometimes boys kick each other swiftly in the gonads just for shits and giggles situation but my son is still off of all screens right now and I have to figure out what the next steps to this are but since I am equipped with female parts, I don’t understand how boys think, so that’s fun,

…a The Wire situation that is only a situation because I am balls deep into this show (Season 5, episode 3) and I just want to sit all day in front of my television and ignore the outside world and just plow through the rest of the series, but, alas, I made the mistake of saying, “Baby! Want to watch this show The Wire together? I think that would be great fun!” but you know, my baby? He has a life where he actually leaves the house sometimes and goes to work and plays hockey and doesn’t posses the same addiction problems as I do so he doesn’t want to just sit and watch into the wee hours of the morning. He did, however, indulge me by bringing the laptop on our Starbucks date on Sunday night—there’s nothing more romantic than two pairs of headphones, two Starbucks mild coffee mistos, and Jimmy McNulty getting hammered,

…complete and total mortification that I was actually, um, hot, from a Zac Efron movie trailer. This is a serious problem, kids, because, well, Zac Efron is A KID, but after seeing him in those black boxer briefs I’m all, RAWR, NO I’M THE LUCKY ONE (See what I did there?) and then I crawl into a hole and die because it’s ZAC EFRON. FROM HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL. There is nothing not shameful about this.

AND YET.

You guys. Really, I haven’t been this surprised since I found out that Viggo Mortensen has a tail. 

I won second prize in a beauty contest THIS:

Someone thinks I’m funny.

Which is funny, because if you have met me in real life you will know exactly two things: I am kind of a midget and I am not funny. But I’ll take it. And I won’t even bore you with an acceptance speech where I thank my family for giving me the gift of regular blog fodder. I can, however, sing a rousing rendition of Edelweiss, if you you’d like. Wow. I REALLY wasn’t expecting this. My Susan Lucci-esque streak has ended. Apparently, I have arrived.

You are resigned to having a boring old meal at home and then your husband calls and says he will be at the front door in no less than three minutes and everyone needs to be ready to go because HUZZAH! WE ARE GOING FOR SUSHI! It’s like a dream come true. No, I didn’t want to eat the chicken and quinoa and broccoli. No! I want to eat seaweed salad and giant rolls filled with veggies and tempura bits and spicy mayo. I want an endless supply of green tea. I want wasabi and soy sauce as far as the eye can see. I want to eat my dinner with chopsticks.

So, of course, I do as I’m told. We are ready in no less than three minutes.

(One of us may have been wearing pajamas and one of us may have had chocolate on our face. But we were ready for our sushi dinner.)

And then, as we are about to pull into the restaurant, I remembered a conversation I had earlier in my bathroom.

“I can see your bra straps.”

“I know. I can’t help it. This shirt is really boatneck-y and there’s really no way to avoid it.”

“It really doesn’t look good, Mama.”

“Maybe if I put on a black bra?”

“No. That might be worse.”

“Oh wait! I have a strapless bra! I have never worn it. Ever. I don’t even know what size it is. But it’s from Victoria’s Secret! I’m sure it’s perfect! I mean! The girls are always smiling in the ads, right?”

CRAP. ON. A. CRACKER.

That girl who was smiling in that photo? She was FULL OF LIES. Because there’s no way she was able to keep that puppy keeping her puppies in place. There’s no way that she can run, jump, or even sit and eat dinner. There’s just no way.

Because here I was, sitting in my favorite sushi restaurant, wearing a strapless brassiere for the very first time.

My bra was sitting—uncomfortably—around my waist.

My boobs were sitting—uncomfortably—where boobs are supposed to be sitting. Humiliated, they were.

And this is why girls who are, maybe, (on a particular bloated day, perhaps) a 32-b should never wear strapless bras in size 34-c.

Or possibly never wear strapless bras EVER.

Or possibly just never leave the house.

All of you die-hard culty fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

(The show, of course. Not the Luke Perry movie.)

I don’t know what it is about that show.

You people are putting it as being BETTER than both Mad Men and The Wire.

How is this even possible?

HOW?

I mean…Mad Men?

You know, that show with Don Draper. The show with the most beautiful costume design and the most clever dialogue ever written on every show ever. A show that takes us back to a time in history where a mother yells at her daughter for playing in the dry-cleaning plastic and it’s not because she might suffocate. No. It’s because she may wrinkle her mother’s clothing. The turmoil of the era, the subtle little lessons in every single episode, the complexity of every single character on that show…Joan, Don, Betty, Peggy, Roger, Sal, SALLY DRAPER. It’s, well, there’s nothing like that show.

And don’t even get me started on The Suitcase episode.

(Sheer brilliance)

It’s so smart. It’s too smart.

I mean…The Wire?

You know, that show that takes you into the deep inner-workings of the Baltimore street corners, the police department, the tortured school system. It’s brutal, it’s fascinating, it’s beautiful, it’s horrifying, it’s real, it’s riveting. It is not what it looks like from the outside—another police drama. No, the main character of this show is the city itself. The broken, broken city of Baltimore.

Also. Stringer Bell. Omar. Avon Barksdale. Jimmy McNulty. D’Angelo Barksdale. Bubbles. Bodie. WeeBay and Namond. Marlo Stanfield.

I have strong desires to watch each show twice and then race to my computer to read Alan Sepinwall’s recaps and message Kristin because I NEED to talk about every single episode and every single moment and every single little thing that ever happens on the show means something and is tied to something else and OMG season 2 finally makes sense.

Also, WHERE’S WALLACE?

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is that show about a vampire slayer.

A vampire slayer.

Played by Sarah Michelle Gellar.

A vampire slayer.

Best show ever?

I mean, I’ll be honest and say that after only watching one episode of Buffy ever—the first episode—it’s clear that I’m obviously missing something. The first episode was, well, it just was. Personally, I prefer my vampires a little more sparkly and pretty, and not a young Rita from Dexter because she will always be Rita from Dexter.

But okay. You are telling me to stick with it.

And so I’m prepared to be blown away.

So bring it on, Buffy.

Prove me wrong.

I will eat my words if you do. I promise.

See?

Ali Martell: Rocking hoodies and tutus since 1978.

At least I know where my kid gets it.

So yesterday happened. And now I wonder how you all feel about bathrooms, because that’s what I’m talking about today. (I may even mention something about kitchen furniture, if we are lucky!)

I still sometimes feel like I’m a kid who doesn’t deserve to live in a big-girl house. I walk into some houses and I’m just blown away, not by the bones of the house, but by the details. Not necessarily by paint colors and molding and furniture, but by the giraffe statue or the vintage coffee table or the homemade throw pillows. Our house has none of these touches. No, our house, instead, is a home. It’s more than lived-in. We have old falling-apart furniture in our kitchen, we have no artwork up—save for a hand-me-down painting that I try to avoid staring straight into, we even have a room that has no furniture in it (is it an office? is it a living room? Is it a photo studio? MYSTERY!).

And we have many, many bins filled with many, many things.

And don’t get me started on THE PILES. Why does everything end up in piles?

Bins and piles are my sworn enemies. 

As a kid, I remember having a junk drawer in our kitchen. It was the place where the things that had no home ended up. Rubber bands and hair clips and pens and bouncy balls and a piece of hubba bubba gum (origins unknown, but I sure took pleasure in popping that sucker into my gob) always ended up in that drawer. I kind of feel like my entire house is a giant junk drawer. We are overflowing with stuff. And it’s everywhere. Papers and photos and strange trinkets that came in various swag bags, artwork, toys, dolls, hair accessories, usb keys, actual keys, gloves, pencils that have no lead in them, school supplies. Where does all of this stuff even come from? For years, we blamed the kids. They are small, they are still going to vomit and poop in the incorrect receptacles, obviously, SO THAT IS WHY WE CANNOT HAVE NICE THINGS. But, my youngest is now 6, and I’m fairly certain my children’s bodily fluids make it to their proper homes, at least 90% of the time.

(We aren’t going to talk about the chocolate milk puke on my white rug.)

(No. We are not going to talk about that.)

(The only place in the entire house that isn’t covered in hardwood flooring.)

(No. Ignore!)

So, it’s time to grow up, get the SHIT out of the house. And bring on something nice, something with touches.

And that it why at 7:30pm on Monday, I dragged my kids out in the rain to buy two blue ceramic horses.

I don’t even know either. 

But now I am the proud owner of two horses.

The only other place in MY ENTIRE HOME that feels grown up is my master bathroom. We have been collecting white things, almost without realizing it, actually. And somehow they ended up on these empty shelves in our bathroom. Buddha statue FTW!

So it’s a start.

I mean, you guys, I LIKE nice things.

I just don’t how to get them, how to afford them, and how to convince myself that I deserve to have them.

But maybe I don’t really deserve them.

After all, there are five of us living in this house and somehow we all use the same bathroom. 

(Why is this? Why are my children unable to bathe, poop, pee, shower, or brush their teeth in their own bathroom?)

(Please tell me I’m not alone.)

(Also please tell me that one day I will be able to use my bathroom, alone, in peace.)

(PLEASE.)

“What about the PTA?”

“You quit!”

“Well, that was just because it conflicted with Save the Whales.”

“Uh huh. Then what happened?”

“Well, I, uh, thought Hands Across America was more important.”

“Well I rest my case!”

I’m really awesome at the whole starting part. Because, well, that is the easy part; the fun part. I get pumped about joining the gym, looking at all the shiny equipment that it going to give me Jessica Biel’s arms. I get pumped about all of the great upbeat music I am going to download. I get pumped about water bottles and spandex and sports bras and tank tops that say witty things like “I am a slave to pilates!”

Pumped, of course, until.

The first cold.

The first heel ache.

The first blister.

The first time my favorite yoga pants are in the wash.

The first flu.

The first snowstorm.

The first time I find myself in the kitchen standing at the counter eating 5 pancakes, 2 pieces of 12-grain bread, 4 scrambled eggs and 9 slices of fake bacon.

I am not even kidding. 

I started exercising again. For my heart. For my body. For my kids. 

I know you’re thinking, “Well, here we go again. This is going to end like, well, like that time or 14 you joined the gym and quit or that time you did the 18-day shred or that time you even almost ran a half-marathon and trained until the bitter end and then, well, just didn’t run because of something like bleeding feet or that time you went and got yourself a full-time job and couldn’t figure out how to fit regular exercise into your routine. WE HAVE SEEN THIS BEFORE, ALI. JUST CUT THE SHENANIGANS RIGHT NOW.”

But, well, remember what happened with Phyllis?

That’s right. She found her groove in the form of a khaki-colored silk shirt and a hunter green kerchief. She was a goddammed awesome troop leader to those girls from Beverly Hills.

(Beverly Hills, what a thrill!)

So, that’s that.

It’s the elliptical. 40 minutes. 4 times a week.

It’s working. I feel great. I am less anxious. I am less tired. I am less lethargic. I burn more calories each time.

I just really wish I wasn’t eating every single piece of food in my kitchen that wasn’t nailed down. You guys, it’s beyond ridiculous. I can’t even make it to dinner. Last night I was eating the whole grain lasagna noodles faster than I was able to put them in the 9×13 pyrex. String cheese, a handful of peanuts, yogurt, celery and hummus, carrots. I cannot stop. My appetite is insatiable.

Someone please tell me that this stops.

Because I’m fairly certain that the scale is moving in the wrong direction. 

Also, can someone recommend some good music for me. My iphone yells at me every time I try to ellipticize to MY MUSIC. Apparently, singer-songwriter indie rock isn’t the stuff of great workouts (Who knew?) and there’s only so much Glee music a girl can listen to before her dog starts running for the hills.

You see, I’m the only one of my friends who has one. Not, you know, the friends I have stashed all over the world; the friends I have met since I started blogging in 2004. No, I’m talking about the friends I have who don’t write for a living, who don’t sit at computers all day, who don’t know what Pinterest is, who don’t know what I mean when I respond to a text message with “Blergh.” They are orthodontists and dentists and oral pathologists (Yes. My friends tend to skew towards the teeth, which is funny, because I rarely go to the dentist. SHH! Don’t tell!) teachers and speech therapists and engineers and scientists and lawyers and doctors and all sorts of things I know nothing about (Ask me what my husband does for a living. Go on…ask!).

(Answer: *Shrugs* Something with computers?)

They are a great many wonderful things, but they are not like me. They are not involved in heavy relationships with social media. They don’t even use the phrase SOCIAL MEDIA. They don’t consider facebook, twitter, pinterest, klout, wordpress, instagram as anything much more than, well, things that people like Ali use on the internet. They don’t question whether or not people are still using Google+. They don’t stress about things like hosts and CSS and web design and OMG MY SITE IS DOWN CALL THE WEBSITE POLICE WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!! They don’t find out all of their news from Twitter. They don’t know, or care, about RSS feeds or page views or analytics or SEO. They don’t care what an em-dash is. They don’t photograph food, clothing, or possible photography props to ask the internet which wooden bench they should buy. They don’t know who Dooce is. They don’t think in hashtags. They don’t think about how many times a day it’s appropriate to link to a single post (I say two, unless you are SharonDV. She can tweet hers as many times as she wants to.) They have never gotten into a Twitter fight with the author of Sarah’s Key. They don’t write about being emotionally connected to fictional characters. 

They don’t—when their 9-year-old son comes into their bedroom at night wearing every single pair of pajamas he owns (Look Mama! I’m Chism from The Biggest Loser!)—immediately write about it on Twitter and Facebook and immediately take a picture.

They don’t think, “I wonder how many people on Twitter will make a Friends reference?”

They don’t think, “I better not Instagram the picture right away. This material is GOLD, and everyone knows that using all the good stuff on the weekend is a waste!”

They don’t think, “I wonder which medium will have the better response, Twitter or Facebook?” (Answer: For me, it’s always Facebook. Always.)

No. They don’t. They probably snicker about it, and send their son off to bed.

Not I, of course.

THIS is what I do.

So, I’m kind of the black sheep of my friends and family.

But I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make my children recreate something cute that they did so I can tweet it, instagram it, and probably put it up on Facebook. 

Who am I kidding, really? Definitely put it on Facebook.

Sweet, I thought at first. But then I saw right through her. She’s smart, this one. What’s the easiest way to beat someone at Perpetual Commotion? Distraction.

“Um, so I could have someone to always beat at board games, obviously.”

“Come on, really. What’s the very best part?”

“So I can have someone to play with my hair and watch schmoopy shows with?”

…

“So I won’t be alone when Daddy goes on business trips?”

…

“So I can have someone who looks at me, and says “I LOVE YOU,” and I know, from the bottom of my heart, that they really and truly mean it. Wow. That sounds kind of selfish, doesn’t it?”

“I think it sounds perfect. Mama?”

“Yes.”

“I LOVE YOU. AND I JUST WON THE GAME.”

“You little monster!”

“Mama, what’s your least favorite part about being a mom?”

“That’s easy.”

THIS is my life.

“Mama, are you going to finish that glass of water?”

“Mama! I’m so thirsty! I need a drink right this very minute!”

“Mama, can I just have a sip of your tea?”

“Mama, I need a drink. Can I have your water bottle?”

“Can I have your cup?”

“Can I have your glass?”

“Can I have your mug?”

“Can I have your [insert any other drink receptacle here]?”

And the problem is that I don’t share drinks with my children. (Once they’ve drunk, it’s sunk.)

Not since January 16th, 2007.

That was the unfortunate time I took a swig of my water bottle and realized that the little tiny thing that had just “had a teensy, weensy sip” of my water had left behind some half-eaten cashews.

I’m gagging just thinking about it. And it was FIVE years ago.

*Shudders*

This is the reason why my nightstand often looks like this.

No open water bottle is safe.

Ever.

Sometimes I dream of a world where I can drink my drinks safely without the possibility of theft, or half-eaten food particles.

But then I’d have no one to play with my hair or watch crappy tv with.

And I’d be alone when Daddy goes on business trips.

And there’d be no one to unconditionally love me.

And there’d be no one to beat me at Perpetual Commotion.