Blurbs from the Burbs by Chickysara

I went away on an overnight trip a few weeks ago and I while I was doing some serious window shopping in an overpriced boutique my cell phone rang. It was J. He was all excited and blabbing at about a million words per second and I could only make out a few words. J: ...blah blah blah garage!...blah blah cage!...blah blah blah blah dead mice in our ‘frigerator!!!!... Me: Dead WHAT? Let me speak to your father! But instead T got on the phone: Yeah! And the dead mice don’t even have hair!... Then The Husband got on the phone: Hi Honey, are you having fun? Me: What’s this about dead mice in our fridge!? I absolutely can not ever come home if there are rodents in our fridge. I do not want to open a packet of foil expecting to see leftover spaghetti and find hairless rodents instead! Then The Husband said: Hahahahaha (that’s him laughing). No no no no no! The dead mice are gone. The snake already ate them. Me: WHAT SNAKE? (that’s me yelling). The Husband: Well, we found this snake in the ga...

I am still amped up on the Starbucks Grande Caffé Mocha I drank this morning. I will definitely have to swallow a Restoril before I go to bed tonight. I told my shrink last week that I’ve been waking up every night at three in the morning because I need a haircut, but I’ve been so busy with work and the kids and the house that I haven’t had time to get one. That seems so stupid, but my hair is super ugly right now. Of course, I should just get a haircut instead of taking a sedative, but then I would wake up because I’m not sure where J’s shin guards are. So the best thing to do is take a pill and get some sleep. So now it’s out. Now people will know that I am a mother who goes to a shrink--never mind the meds. That’s my dirty little secret. No one in the suburbs can know or I’ll be blacklisted from the Home and School Club. And my poor kids, being the children of a medicated wacko who has to see a therapist, won’t be invited to any more play-dates and birthday parties. But at least it...

I was at Target this morning standing behind this little old lady and I overheard a conversation between her and the cashier, another elderly woman. The lady said to the cashier that she was in town to baby-sit her grandsons and she was buying a pile of goodies for them—Spiderman t-shirts, pretzels, puzzles. Then they got to talking about being grandmothers and how much they enjoyed their grandkids and how very different they are from how their own grandparents once were. They both said their own grandmothers were mean and spiteful. The first Grandma said: “Oh, my grandmother was not nice at all. She never thought of us grandchildren at all—didn’t even say “Boo” to us when we came around.” Then second one said: “I had the meanest step-grandmother when I was a girl. And she knew it. When she was dying she went saying, “Oh, I’m so scared. Help me, help me! She knew where she was headed all right. Oooh and I’ll bet the Devil was sorry when he got her .” Then the first Grandma said: “Well...

One thing about living in the suburbs is that sooner or later you will be invited to participate in something called Bunco. Bunco is like poker for chicks. I have never figured out the rules. I just know that there are a bunch of tables set out all over the house and there are dice and, I think, an egg timer involved. Depending on how many points you get or don’t get, you move to a different table. You win a prize if you get stuck holding a stuffed animal and also if you win or lose. Yes, I believe that losers win something—maybe a can of liverwurst or some other loser prize. If you win, you get a “good” prize. The first time I played I thought I might get some cash out of it. But then I learned that instead of winning money, the prizes were gift baskets filled with soap and a loofah—very nice, but nothing says “I WON!” like cold hard cash. Anyway, the prizes aren’t really what Bunco is really about. In fact, Bunco isn’t what Bunco is really about. Bunco is really about “socializing”...

Ugh. I am just coming off the most horrid week. Last week was hideous. It's like I was coasting along and all was fairly smooth and clear when I suddenly veered off onto the pot-hole-riddled Hard Times Expressway, bumping along while intermittently smashing into brick walls. That’s what last week was like. I'll be the first to admit that I am horrible in the face of adversity. I don't know how to handle difficult situations in a calm and logical manner. I tend to cry and go off into full panic mode, sobbing and running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Worst and foremost, it all started with a teeny tiny notice that J brought home from Kindergarten announcing orientation for kinders entering school in the upcoming year. I attended the orientation with T and discovered that enrollment for next year’s class had come and gone without my ever noticing. Most people would think “Oh well, it’s only April. Enroll now and it will be just fine.” But no. Not in our ridiculou...