Oh, dear Lord, I need a vacation day after my holiday weekend.

McPantses got a fever virus in the middle of the night on Thursday and was sick until Sunday. I missed half a day of work on Thursday because of it and a good hour or so on Friday, which isn’t really a problem in the grand scheme of things, but does present certain hindrances if I want to, say, take a sick day for MYSELF, which I could have used TODAY. I seem to have caught the fever virus myself on Sunday afternoon. I took a nap and woke up with a fever. This happens to parents who cannot deny the following requests: “I want to drink out of your cup, Mommy,” or “I want to taste your dinner.”

So, my Memorial Day holiday should have been spent boozing it up, at best, or doing laundry, at worst. Instead, it was spent in agony on the couch while McPantses toodled about the den and alternated between trying to make me feel better and trying to drive me straight up a tree. Poor gal–she wanted to doctor me back to health (and insists on being called “Dr. McPantses”) and she wanted to jump on my tummy at the same time.

Not a good plan.

I need a day off.

But I don’t feel comfortable taking one after taking time off with her last week.

I did finally soak the black beans Saturday night. We had a swell Cuban black bean soup for dinner Sunday night. My husband said, to McP, can you smell the soup mommy made us for dinner? “Yes, Daddy. It’s stinky.” I had to laugh.

My other lists? Hmmm. I got the cat more food, but she refused to eat it for a day. She seems to have gotten over that. We’re not completely out of dog food, but it’s going to happen this week. I got pantyhose and promptly stuck my finger through the leg of a brand new pair as I was putting them on this morning, but the benefit of having pantyhose the same color of your legs is that you can wear them anyway and no one can see the gaping hole at your knee until it starts flapping from sag. Still need laundry detergent.

And a household manager.

And a new pair of black shoes, but that should be a point-n-click happy task.

Oh, and Monster’s, Inc., was vetoed by my husband and my mother. They don’t think it’ll help with McPantses’s current theory (that monsters come out of a hole in the wall behind her bed).

There are no holes in the wall behind her bed.

People’s taste in movies bewilder me. I was in the movie store this afternoon renting movies for McPantses, who spiked a fever in the night and, consequently spent most of the day with my mother (who shall be sainted after coming to my house today, but that’s another story).

I was standing in line with Cinderella, Lady & the Tramp and, sigh, Monsters, Inc. I’m having a good time introducing my 2 1/2 year old to the flicks I adored as a child, but I had to toss in Monsters, Inc., in an effort to dilute a bout of Caillou (whiny little twerp)-induced monster fear.

An amazonian college gal from the small, private liberal arts school down the street from both the movie store and my house asked about the film Unfaithful at the counter. I said I thought the movie was awful and that I fell asleep during it.

Immediately, the college girl and her friend laughed at me–they loved it. They looked at me like I was insane and–gasp–like I was a member of the adult establishment. In their eyes, I was lame for not liking a film considered universally sexy.

Call me lame. It wasn’t that sexy. It was your standard fuckfest, with an orthodontically challenged Frenchman tossed in for eye candy (NOT!). It wasn’t bright or bold or challenging. It was two people getting it on while the Richard Gere character was cuckolded.

I told the counter chicks that Secretary is sexy. Strange, dark, fun, hilarious, pitiful and really, really sexy. What more could a small, independent film movie lover ask for than James Spader in full creep mode in a plush seventies-style office and Maggie Gyllenhaal as his smitten, quirky Gal Friday?

I hate middle of the road moviegoers. You know the kind, the people who salivate for the next installment of American Cobbler 12.

I am a movie snob.

Sue me.

I still haven’t soaked the black beans or bought: dog food, cat food, pantyhose or (another one on the list) laundry detergent.

I really need an assistant.

So, the thing about setting up a blog site is that you need something to say.

This is not an activity for the squeamish.

As you can see from the March initial post date, I’ve had a smidge of a block. I’m afraid I’ll be labeled a terminal dullard.

However, I’m going to try my hand at this and expect to receive a virtual raspberry if I am hopelessly dull.

For some odd reason, my household and my lifestyle is like a college student’s, despite the fact that I am half of a team in charge of two huge dogs (big, goofy grinning cheerleader golden retrievers who spread dust and dog hair all over my house), one meowly cat (slinky mistress who regularly swipes at dogs from on high) and one Chatty toddler (we’ll call her McPantses) who is the picture of perfection. We seem to be incapable of maintaining the household one would expect of a couple of well-employed, fairly bright thirty year olds. We’re a little low on the responsible adult scale. I don’t mean (lest my parents are reading this) that we can’t pay our bills or maintain reasonable little niceties like health and automobile insurance.

I mean that we are incapable of getting ourselves ready for the next day until the very last minute.

Instead of setting out cereal bowls and clothes and clean towels the night before work, we run, willy nilly and pell mell, in three different directions hunting for clothes, socks, food for the hungry pets, diapers, bloomers, Dolly and Baby and a clean “little” blanket (unfolded cloth diapers) for each. Every weekday morning, my house is the chaotic stuff of nightmares for anyone who craves peace, quiet and organization.

There are a few phrases that just start my day off in a bad way, though, despite (and because of, actually) my general lackadasical a.m. attitude. Examples?

“Do I have any clean socks?” I have no idea.

“Did you put out the dry cleaning?” No. Did you?

“Did I tell you I have a meeting tonight?” You mean before now ? NO.

“Are we completely out of (fill in blank w/dog food, cat food, diapers, cereal, milk, any sort of clothing item).” Apparently so.

“Mommy, is that dog hair on your skirt?” Probably.

To make matters worse, my neighbor and good friend is a paragon of well-organized momhood. She’s my age and knows about more parental stuff than my own parents. She’s an encyclopedia of responsibility. I’m encouraging her to become a lifestyle coach and hope to hire her for a minimal fee. I need a household manager.

Really.

I’m out of clean pantyhose, nearly out of both dog and cat food, and forgot to soak the black beans for the Cuban black bean soup that I wanted to have for dinner tonight.