I’ve got about a million things running on this computer at one time and I’m so sleepy I’m afraid I’ll pass out before it’s all done. So, what do I do while my computer whirs away at my command? Write a blog entry documenting my delirium.

Today has been very busy. It was LilZ’s last day of school, which went well and he hung out all afternoon at a pool party in one of those very expensive neighborhoods where I felt very out of place. I said, “Do you want me to park and walk you in?” because it was through a gate and a clubhouse and I wasn’t sure if he’d know where to go. “No thanks,” he said after he spotted someone he knew. “Good, because I’m getting out of here before someone sees me.” Because, of course, the day I have to take him to a fancy party is the day I (a) sat my arm on a red sharpie leaving bright red marks all over my elbow and (b) spilled soda on my capris leaving a nice brown stain on my crotch.

I’m so awesome I amaze myself sometimes.
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Okay - here’s the story. See? I thought I’d do the nice thing and bring my friend and her kids lunch on Sunday while they were moving in. I went to a chicken place that served Chicken Tender/Fries platters in those Styrofoam to-go containers. We were all crowded on her couch eating when someone spilled a soda at my feet. I leaned over to help clean it up. I sat back up to finish eating and looked down and thought, “WHAT THE HELL?”

While leaning over to clean, I had dipped my boob in ketchup.

We immediately all started choking we were laughing so hard as I tried my best to soak up some of the mess with a napkin. I’m sure LilZ thought it was awesome that I kept saying, “Look! It’s like my boob is a french fry!”

Moments later, I felt a moist sensation on my thigh. (STOP.) I lifted up the container and realized SHIT! - the ketchup had started spilling out of the crease of the container and onto my thigh. AWESOME. And what did we do? Laughed our asses off all over again. At least I find my own idiocy humorous.

Stace’s oldest daughter was concerned to find out I would still go to Target looking like that. I did inform her that Target has seen me much worse. I don’t think this made her feel any better. I went on about my business trying to periodically use items like groceries, my purse, or my child to cover the stains. It’s like my tagline once said, “Unfairly blaming my kids for stains on my clothes since 1995.”

Well. I don’t know how I did it, but I splattered several ounces of diet coke all down the front of my white shirt. Humph. Of course, I have learned the magic power of baby wipes, so I immediately grabbed some to remove the incriminating stains that make indicate I’m incapable of performing my job, or of functioning as a grown-up. Something about soda stains all down someone shirts seems to give off the “incompetent” vibe.

Of course now I give off the “Wet T-shirt” vibe as I’ve drenched my shirt in baby wipe juice to remove the brown marks. I got kinda carried away with the wiping clean and now my entire shirt is soaked through, leaving nothing to the imagination to anyone who may glance in my direction. Lucky for me, no one ever comes to my office for anything, so I should be safe in the knowledge that my humiliation may remain a private affair. Because where coke stains my reflect “incompetence”, wet white blouse reflects “strip club” and that’s not the professional message I’m trying to send.

Not today, anyway.

The good news? The men are gone and my bladder is empty. Well, actually, I’ve had two diet cokes since I last peed (pee’d? pee-ed?) so it’s probably not empty, but when it fills back up? I can pee knowing no one else can hear me. I ended up going to Target, but not just to use the facility, because I also remembered I needed some nail polish remover since I’ve got about 12 layers on my toenails now. Actually? Acetone will probably not even be strong enough, I’ll need a blow torch.

HOWEVER, I just dribbled spaghetti sauce all down the front of my shirt, so the joy I feel from the workers being gone? Has been replaced by sadness over the ruin of what elt like a Zoot-looks-kinda-presentable Day. That’s what I get for trying to fix myself up. Just when I thought it was safe to wear nice clothes because NikkiZ doesn’t spit-up that much anymore. I had evidently forgotten about my own propensity for staining clothing, since I’d had someone else to blame it on for so long.

I have not been able to wear my hair down lately, as NikkiZ likes to grab a hold of it and yank it with more force than I think small infants should logically possess. Where did she get that upper-body strength? She still can’t even hold herself up on her knees and arms, yet she has the muscle to scalp me in one move. And then laugh. And let me tell you, it is impossible to yell at a giggling infant with cheeks as yummy as hers.

So, on days like today when I shower (it’s rare, I know) before work, I put my hair up wet in a clip when I go feed NikkiZ. I just got back from nursing her and went to the bathroom to let down my hair. I popped the clip out and did the shake-the-hair-out move to try to loosen up the girls. You know the one - flip my hair over my head several times to erase the hair-clip footprint. Somehow? As I did this? I knocked the clip in the toilet. (Hell, it’s a small bathroom, its a good thing I didnt know my head ON the toilet).

First? I am the only girl in the office, so that is kinda like my own personal bathroom. Second? It had been flushed moments before, so there was no pee in the potty. Third? It’s just a plastic clip - not a cloth scrunchy or anything. So - what should I do? It is drying off on a paper towel right now. Should I put it back in my hair later and risk possible contamination of my hair with bodily waste? (Although it would be MY waste and I’m a sweet girl who only poops flowery rainbow poops.) Or should I leave it out and risk having my scalp removed by NikkiZ when I go feed her next?

Sidenote: I would like to go on record to say that now that I’m thinking about it? I have dropped a lot of shit (no pun intended - ha!) in the toilet lately. Pens, keys, toothbrushes (I threw that away, don’t worry), and the other day I dropped my calendar that had been in my pocket in the toilet. What is up with that? I’m a damn klutz. That’s what’s up with that.