The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Crackalackin

I have popcorn kernels stuck between my teeth. Good times.

M. went out to buy more Children's Tylenol for the wee one who has officially caught up to me in the flu department, and he returned with a bag of Cracker Jacks for me. I'm not really a fan of them, per se, but I ate them anyway, because they were there, because he cared enough to get them for me. The wee one turned her head away from me as I crunched on them, disgusted by the very sight of them, which is very unlike her. She woke today in a semi-decent mood, devoured a croissant with marmalade, and then became quieter and quieter, her eyes becoming progressively pink, before she started wailing. Round four of the world's longest flu has reawakened in her tiny body, and she looked at me with the most pitiful little face before asking 'when will I feel like my normal self again, mom?'. I told her that she will get better soon, that I know how she feels and we're just going to have to be patient until it goes away for good. The thing is, I'm miserable too, but I can't break down and cry, because I'm the mom. It's my job to be one who doesn't cry.

My friend K. returned from Mexico today and has already posted several photos from her trip on Facebook. Her profile photo is actually one of her on a slide in a bikini. I couldn't help but smirk when I saw it, because it's so typical of her to post a photo of herself in which she looks the part of the sex kitten. Maybe I'm a little jealous of her, it's highly possible, but my immediate reaction to seeing the picture was one of pity. What's with the relentless need to see herself this way? Is it sad? Desperate? Pathetic? Progressive? Inspiring? Confidence? If it were me in the bikini, I'm certain I wouldn't choose a photo like that for my profile picture. It comes off needy, I think. Sure, she looks okay, but at the end of the day, she's a mother of two with rose tattoo on her belly. Rather than looking pleasant and fun, she looks like someone who hasn't figured out she's not eighteen anymore, with overly processed hair and too much eye makeup. As I type this, though, I realize how I sound. I seem mean and cat-eyed, don't I? I mean, the woman is one of my best friends and I'm talking about her like she's a desperate housewife. I blame it on the flu. I blame it on the fact that my stomach has never been bikini-ready. I blame it on my real breasts, my real teeth and my real pitted thighs. Oh, her breasts are actually real, but the other woman in the photo, her sister-in-law with the ass face, has surgically enhanced fun bags. I could not understand when she had that done. Her face looks the way it does and she spends the money on her boobs. I say, work your way down. The face throws everything off. Like parking a Porsche in a trailer park, you know?

Oh, I'm mean tonight. I am feeling whipped by meanness. I'm a cantankerous old bat with popcorn kernels between her teeth. I was mean enough today to leave the room when my mother called to speak to the wee one, telling M. to handle it because I had better things to do. We're going on two weeks of the mother boycott, and I'm really okay with it. I am stuffed up and dry lipped and unpretty. I did my hair, but I opted for the black lounge pants M. hates and a turquoise top. There was no way I'd go for jeans today, nor would I bother with lipstick. He did not mention my fashion choices, though, which he sometimes does as his aunt worked for Chanel years ago and he thinks this entitles him to comment on my clothing from time to time. Nevermind that he lives in polo shirts and denim. Anyway, I went into his office and asked him to feel the gland in my neck, and he decided to cop a feel of my breasts. Normally, I'd find that funny, maybe even arousing, but not today. Today, it annoyed the hell out of me.

My friend A. called me tonight to tell me that her husband is not losing his job as he had feared he would. I just wanted to let you know that everything's fine, that he's not losing his job. He always gets so worked up! And then, he got tickets to go see Joe Cocker, and then he got an invitation to go antiquing..., and she went on. I tried to sound happy about it, but the truth is that since I'm mean today, and more self-absorbed than usual, I hadn't thought twice about him losing his job, and was even a little bit confused as to why she was calling to update me. Eventually, the nicer me came back and I realized how much of a relief she and he are experiencing right now, and I was happy for them both. Except for the fact that I need some relief of my own, and that I'm tired of hearing about everyone else's. Woe is me. Phlegmy, unworthy of bikini, unemployed, unpretty, un...with popcorn kernels in my teeth.

Pay no attention to me. I suck.