I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up. No. Really.

It’s crush time in our family. Recitals, concerts, ballet performances and award ceremonies.

And I still need to fit in “martini” time.

So off we go on Sunday to the Piano Recital.

You know Sunday. THE DAY OF REST FOR EVERYONE WHO DOESN’T HAVE CHILDREN!

My daughters are amazing. But our video camera didn’t work. So I made my husband tape them with the iPad. Cuz that was far too humiliating for me. (It’s all nifty and sleek. But not when you are using it in front of 100 people at a piano recital.)

Clap, clap, clap. Yes, everyone was fabulous. Yes, you can have one cookie. ONE COOKIE.

Why?

Clenched teeth response: Because Mommy wants to GET HOME and put my feet up and watch TV! So how about no cookies? Cuz that’s an option also if you want to argue with me in public.

As we are walking out the driveway of the Rancho Mirage Country Club, I’m singing my daughter’s song and doing a little dance when POW!

I fall off my platform shoe.

The pain shoots up my leg like a gun shot. (No, I don’t know what an actual gun shot feels like, but I do watch a lot of crime dramas on TV.)

My first thought is: Oh fuck. I’ve broken my stupid foot again.

My second thought is: Oh fuck. I have to lie down immediately.

My third thought is: Hmmm, these rocks pressed into my cheek feel nice and warm. Uh, really warm actually. (It is Palm Springs after all.)

My fourth thought is: I feel my ass out on the street and my skirt is hiked up.

Fifth thought? Don’t really care about my exposed ass. Cuz I am never lifting my face off these rocks ever again.

And I can hear voices going in and out. “Ambulance,” “clammy,” "not conscious." (Hello. I’m conscious. I just can’t move or speak. Cuz maybe I’m being raptured a little bit after the others.)

Someone comments about how the pavement is melting under their shoes.

Me? The rocks are starting to feel really hot.
My husband? My hero? My knight on a white horse?

He just wants to load me in the car before we have to deal with the hassle of an ambulance.

Sweetly, “Come on Honey.” Clenched teeth, “Get in the car!"

I do notice from my special vista point down on the ground, that there is a small crowd gathering. And not everyone had a fresh pedicure. Just sayin’.

Wet compresses are brought. Fanning commences.

And there is a lot of talking about me in the third person. Like I can’t hear them with my face planted in the rocks. Did I mention the rocks are getting really warm by now?

So it turns out I could get up. Eventually.

Turns out it wasn’t broken.

However, emblazed in the memory of 45 piano moms is the indelible picture of my yummy ass. And by “yummy," I mean big, white, flat.

And you know what they were all thinking? Geez, it’s a good thing that lady down on the ground over there is not wearing a g-string.

And great. Another piece of the Mommy Mosaic.

Shit.

Ground Hog Day

Everyone else’s life is going on right now, slogging through spring fever.
But my burdens? Clearly they are greater than anyone else’s. Cuz it’s Tax Season in our house.

We have an Accounting Firm. My sweet @Taxes007 is a CPA.

So while I pride myself on being konked out in an melatonin-induced haze by 10:30 every night, our schedule has shifted.

I’m up at 10 or 11 when he gets home. Then we spend an hour catching up on the day. (Translation: I bitch non-stop about the kids. He tells stories about clients who discovered they owe tens of thousands of dollars. And the subsequent calls for the paramedics.)

So we go to bed around 12:30. But it turns out? 6:00 am comes at 6:00 no matter what special dispensation you may require.

(If you have not been through tax season with an accountant it is a little like being an elf on Christmas Eve. If they were bitter and liked martinis. )

It is just the time of year when I open my eyes in the morning and close them quickly thinking “I can’t go through THIS again”. Getting the kids up and dressed and out the door to school.

Then off to my Zumba or Pilates class, where I work so hard, suffer so much and accomplish so little.(All the while maintaining a constant low hum of moaning. Not the sexy kind either.)

I am still the Fat Girl in the class and that isn’t going to change. So why do I ever bother to go? Honey, I go through this just to maintain the Big Girl weight I’m at.

Then home to “work”. For the past few days that has meant calling up summer programs and trying to find activities for my kids, cuz God knows, I ain’t gonna spend ELEVEN FUCKING WEEKS entertaining them.

Then I do a little business (some days a little less than others ) then I grab a sandwich, read the paper and it is 1:30 – time to pick up Kid #1.

Then it is the uphill battle around homework and practicing both instruments. And every day this seems like a surprise to my daughter . . . uh what? Practice? Oh yeah. I’ll do it after I . . . (fill in the blank here).

Please don’t leave your shoes in the middle of the floor. (Now leaving them on the edge of the room isn’t really okay either.)

By eating your sandwich in the Family Room you are getting crumbs all over the freshly vacuumed black rug. Will you be pulling out a vacuum and cleaning that up? (Yes, the day I am thin I’m sure all these other long-awaited for miracles will commence.)

Is it really a shock on Tuesdays at 2:45 that the piano teacher is actually here? Knocking on the door? And is there a reason you are lying on the floor, reading a book, acting like the dogs aren’t in a barking frenzy cuz the poor man would just like to be LET IN???

But I know. I take a deep breath. Cuz I know after Tax Season it will be all better.

Fairy dust will fall gently from the Palm Springs sky . . . the children will light up like characters in The Sound of Music . . . my haggard, puffy-eyed husband will turn into Richard Gere. (What can I tell you? I think he is so hot. In that weird, Dali Lama-worshipping- vegan- zen kinda way.)

And I? I will be able to manage my eating. Pounds will drop magically off of my full figure. My patience will return (assuming there ever was any patience to begin with). I will no longer crave an alcoholic beverage on a daily basis. My double chin and poochy tummy will recede taking years off my looks.

Now when I awaken in the morning? I’ll stretch luxuriously, listen to the birds chirping and softy hum . . . The Hills Are Alive . . .

#CrockofShit

Martinis, Tinkle and Excitement! My Book is Here!!!

Ahhh!!! I did it. I wrote my book, in-between napping and yelling at my kids. Okay, okay - there were cocktails too. But never enough . . .

The Dee View is published and OUT THERE!

Me however? I’m so excited (and nervous) that there is a little tinkling going on. #oops

I’m so proud I should be strutting like an Amazon Goddess. (Chapter Four.) But really? I’m hiding in a corner in my closet!

So if you want a little bit more of The Dee View: A Bitter Mommy in Search of the Perfect Martini – check it out! http://tinyurl.com/TheDeeView

99 Cents. My Honeys! I’m giving it away! (OK – not the first time I’ve said that.)

Cheers! Dee Dee