it's apparently fun to stay at the hol-i-day inn

So my Tool Man has been gone working in parts unknown (Or maybe it's just Omaha. It's been so long I've forgotten both his destination and what he looks like. Sort of. I mean, I think he has a goatee...) this week, which means that while he's working super hard at his one job, I've been getting up at the ass crack of dawn (7 a.m. counts as ass cracking, yeah? Well, it does when Twitter is all "Hey, baby, just one more drink and then I'll take you home. Maybe you'll give me your number of somethin', yeah? Oh, Mommy, you are fiiiinnnneee...." until like 2 a.m., on a weekday, but whatever OK? Whatever) and busting my various lady lumps with the equivalent of at least five.

Sometimes 14 1/2!

But who's counting.

Except me.

Kinda.

Yeah. I totally am.

P.S. I love that Tool Man. At least the one with the goatee.

So anyway, a typical day around here involves the care and feeding of two kids with hollow legs and one dog that isn't even mine; lamenting yet another trip to the grocery store - sometimes at 9:30 p.m.; fielding an array of telephone calls - mostly from those wishing to offer me goods and services, but with an occasional friendly voice (hello, my sweet kimmyk!); hurdling the basket of folded clothes that has been in the living room for (cough) a week and is currently flanked by it's evil twin, Basket of Unfolded Undies and Socks, Bwahahahaha!; making childcare arrangements for those evenings when, after a full day of working and entertaining at home, I must then go work at the bookstore; serving as cruise director, doctor, stand up comedian, etc., etc.

Yes, I like it, people, but for the love of goatees, I am frickin' tired! I have nothing but gigantic kudos blazing in lights and multi-colored glitter for people who pull off the single parenting thing full time.

So Thursday night, after a full day of tasks and treasures around the house, a shift in the children's department at the store (sidebar - I will willingly take a punch in the face from anyone if it meant I'd not have to work in the kid's department anymore, btw. I love kids. I love my kids, and I'd probably love your kids. But strangers' kids? They're not as cute), and fetching my kids from my Mom's (which is an experience that requires steeling myself for some interesting self esteem jabs lately, which wtf, Mom?), we return home around 10 p.m., uncage the loaner dog and access the damage of that which I still must get done before thinking about going to bed. All while the kids are exploding through the house and that annoying Zac and Cody show blares in the background and the dog attempts to hump my leg.

Which, yeah, thanks for that, Dog, because it's been awhile AND my self esteem wasn't already a bit dinged after that second trip to my Mom's.

At 10:30 p.m., the phone rings. I rinse the Comet from my hands, knock the Windex and paper towels off the counter, send a million papers (Yes. A million!) scattering across the room, and reach the phone before it can kick to voice mail. Breathless because I know my Tool Man is on the other end AND because I am frickin' tired and cleaning (cleaning!) at 10:30 p.m., on a Thursday night while chaos is erupting around me, I say hello.

"Hey," Tool Man responds, all cool like he's some thug from a 1950s movie. "What are you doing?"

What am I doing? Well, my friends, I ran through the list of all the things I was still doing last night, after the full day of tasks I'd already completed, which was just a small chunk considering all that had been going on here during the previous four days. And you should know that I worked very hard at not making it sound all bitchy and whiny because I know quite well that he, too, works super hard and brings in the bulk of our lavish 4-figure income each month, which is something I thank him for at almost every turn.

So I save my whining for you, my Friends o' The Internets!. You're welcome!

Back to the call. I've finally taken a breath, let the kids talk to their dad (at which time I scrubbed one toilet and a sink!), then got back on the phone, hoping to hear some loving talk from the one with the goatee.

"Well, it's been a tough day, baby," he says.

Thinking he was referring to MY day, I respond with, "I know! It really has been. I'm pretty tired, but there's a few more things I need to do to get done so I can then run a bunch of errands tomorrow, blah, blah, blah..."

::silence::

Coming out of the haze imposed by the various cleaning agents I've had at my employ, I realize Tool Man wasn't, in fact, referring to MY day. This becomes really clear when he tells me that he's been working hard all week (at his ONE job!) too, yet getting his tasks done early enough to then go out and enjoy a nice dinner and return to the hotel to watch some high brow cable programming.

"Oh, and then I usually soak for an hour or more in the giant whirlpool that's in my suite," he added.

Whirlpool!

Suite!

Soak for an hour or more!

It was then my turn for silence. "Are you done talking?" Tool Man asks.

"Yeah, listen, I think so. I'm pretty tired. Been doing lots of stuff. Lots more to do. Kids. Dog. Paperwork. Still need to eat dinner. It's' after 10:30 p.m., blah, blah, blah again..." I say. My teeth, you ask? Perhaps gritted. But in a grin, so I sound all nice and professional.

"OK, well, I guess I'll say goodnight. I'm gonna go soak again, then sleep like a log..."

I trust he did. Me? I went and soaked my hands in the upstairs bathroom. In the toilet. While I was cleaning them.




(I include this musical tribute from the great Bryan Adams because everything I do, I absolutely do for my Tool Man. Or other awesome goateed people. There's no love like our love...)