Yes we stay at home moms have the glam lifestyle every now and then….
Here’s a peek into my day…contain the seething jealously.
I was in the midst of changing out of my PJs (now no passing judging about the fact that the clock was well into PM hours, the mere fact that I was getting around to getting out of my PJs a whole 15 minutes before the rush of getting my dear son to school was an accomplishment in of itself and in my world, where I am Queen of the Universe, it’s morning way past 11:59AM in this house) and suddenly I hear the pre alarm beeping go off that let’s you know that someone has opened the door.
And by someone I mean my dear daughter. I thought I had at least 13 years to go before the attempts at sneaking out of the house began with her but no she was born with the will and temperament of a stubborn and moody teenager. I love her I do. Really I do.
I assumed it was my daughter who had sounded the alarm by going into the garage for the 100th time to put her frickin flip flops on. Apparently one can not function properly without the required footwear of flip flops in her world. Did I mention she was a bit of a fashionista?
I disarm the alarm and start yelling from the top of my lungs for my daughter to close the door and go sit on the couch and not do it again. And could it please be possible Mommy to have 5 minutes to herself to maybe pee, put on a damn bra, brush my teeth, wash my face…and if the Gods were working in my favour maybe brush my hair and apply some mascara.
My son walks into my bathroom, where for the record I am half naked (so I grab a handful of Kleenex and attempt to make a tissue cover up over my boobs) and he proceeds to announce that ‘No Mommy, the doorbell rang and my sister, not me, tried to open the fromt door to see who it was.’
Now the ‘all crazy Italian woman’ in me kicks…I’m screaming away to ‘close the damn front door this instant and just once, once I’d like to put a bra on and brush my teeth before 1PM in this house and why is it there’s always something going on and did I not tell you to tell me when the doorbell rings and why do people always ring the doorbell at the wrong times and did no one listen to my lectures about not opening the door to strangers and why the hell can’t I find my bra and where are my clean tshirts…blah, blah, blah.’
Cue the Mommy in me, in the depths of full out mad crazy.
I throw on a ratty ‘pretty sure you can see through it in any kind of sun light’ t-shirt, no bra, no make-up , my super funky worn-out ugly PJ bottoms, throw my hair into a messy ass ponytail, yell at the kids some more and go stomping my way down the stairs. Having no idea that the person who rang the doorbell was you know like still standing there at the door.
Swing the door open only to find it was super ridiculous hawt lawn guy who was here to shut down our sprinkler system for the Fall.
Of course it was.
I wanted the fucking floor beneath me to open up and swallow me whole.
Cause the man heard everything last damn thing (including my announcement that I was in fact braless and I was peeing at the time he rang the doorbell) I
said yelled and saw me looking like a side step away from sad crazy homeless woman on the street.
I need a vodka.
Double. No ice.