See, I am supposed to be talking about my little weekend getaway still, because yeah….there’s some unfinished business there, but I’m not ready just yet. As Jane the Sane so beautifully put it, I’ve gone all Rainbow Brite on crack for a few days. I am in love with Every. Single. Person. In. The. Whole. Wide. World. Specifically, everyone in The Grand Ballroom of the Westin St. Francis Friday last. Really, if you were there, and you are reading this, I would really like to stick my tongue down your throat and wiggle it around ever so slightly.

Unfortunately, Brainy Smurf over here packed 27 shades of eye-shadow, 15 hair products, 3 dresses, 2 hairbrushes, and 0 cameras. Did you know that there are several pictures on FlickR, and that sifting through them for ones to steal borrow is the slightest bit time consuming? Who’da thunk it? (PS: If you happen to have any that I am in, my email is heymrlady at gmail dot com and if you send them to me, I’ll promise to never ever make you cry in public again. EVER.)

Long story short, we’re not discussing that just yet. So, dammit, I have to find something ELSE to talk about. Let’s start with my insane child, shall we?

Do any of you have two year old girls? Two going on three very soon would do. Riddle me this; are they all neurotic freaks? Here’s the thing: I gave the kid her bottle back. Shut up. I gave her the bottle back, because it’s her One True Love, but she doesn’t just take the bottle and drink it. She has to PERFECTLY align the label on the bottle to her mouth. We toy with this, thinking it’s just been a 34 month long fluke. We hand it to her with the ounces side facing one way or the other, and every single bloody time she takes it, she turns it so that Avent is right under her lips. Today I upped the ante by replacing the bottle nipple with the pop-in sippy cup nipples they make (best invention ever, btw) and they OF COURSE will not line up. That obsessive compulsive fuddy duddy spent 5 minutes trying to figure out how to make it work, and then told me her bottle was Bwoken. Seriously, this cannot be either normal nor an excellent sign of things to come.

She also follows me around the house, closing cabinet doors behind me. I am 99% sure her father taught her this trick, to shame me, just as he taught his sons that ‘You can give momma a wedgie in the front!‘ Long story, another day.

And because I am the shittiest mother to grace God’s good earth, this child has no concept of Getting In Trouble and cannot handle it when it happens. On the rare occasion that I decide to play mommy, it goes a little something like this:

Me: 3of3! No! No writing on the couch with Sharpie Smearing black lipstick all over the bathroom Using an entire bottle of Windex on the houseplants Sticking that *whatever* up your hootchie cootchie Eating entire pounds of butter!

Her: Waaaaaaa! Momma, I hunry!

Me: No you’re not. You have half a sandwich IN YOUR MOUTH.

Her: Momma, I too hot!

Me: It’s 50 degrees out.

Her: Momma, I too cold.

Me: You are under a blanket, fool.

Her: Momma, I too small!

Me: You reached the Sharpies just fine.

Her:  Momma, I meed wash my hans!

Me:  You’re in the bubble bath.

Her:  Momma, I meed bubble baf!

Me:  You’re IN THE BUBBLE BATH.

Her: Momma, I sweepy.

Me: You’ve been awake for 35 seconds.

Her: Momma, why you hurt me?

Me: I’m calling you from San Francisco.

Her: Momma, no screaming! You HEAR me?

Me: Donor! (for the few new kids here, we call dad The Donor. It’ll grow on you)

Tell me that whole song and dance isn’t the slightest bit Freudian.

You know when you’re cooped up for a few years months weeks with your kids and then, by the grace of god, someone lets you get away from them for a few hours, and you come home all anxious to see them and pumped and primed to be the Greatest Mother Alive! ? Yeah, that lasted for all of 12 hours. My kids were Double Grounded on my first day back. I imagine they just plum forgot that mom doesn’t always take kindly to one kid smashing the other kids face into the carpet while the smashed kid whacks the smashing kid in the back of the head with a baseball bat.

Whatever. It’s an easy thing to forget, I suppose.

I did come home to the World’s Cleanest House. Those of you who have been reading around here for a while have heard some rather jaded (read; straight up snake venom) come out of my mouth about The Donor. Well, let me tell you something I haven’t before…that man keeps a house the way Alice the Maid (aka Mr Brady’s little afternoon delight, I’m betting. Minx, that one) only wishes she could have. My man? Can clean circles around me. And if you don’t think that’s the single hottest quality a man can possess, well, you’re just deluding yourself. I have never, EVER, been so attracted to him in my whole life as I was the day I got home. In 4 days, he dug me out of a very large hole that I had worked months on getting myself into (even matched the three separate grocery bags I had full of ‘unmatched’ socks hidden in three separate locations) and I am currently accepting wagers on how quickly I will be undoing all the good he did. Starting bid is whatever a maid service charges for one full days work. Or a hooker. ‘Cause I’m going to either have to clean or keep him so busy he won’t notice.

One last thing before I go; If you’re planning on being in Denver around the Democratic National Convention, well, um, we’re kind of throwing you a party after Obama’s speech and since we’ve had some technical difficulties on the Business end of the deal, David and I are starting from scratch. So, yeah, I need a head count. Who wants to come get all silly drunk either toasting Obama or drowning their sorrows? I KNOW BlogHer’s coming in full effect, and I’d better see all your shining faces at our party that night.

I’ll totally be there. In a black little low cut number. And a bar. With BOOZE. Just sayin’.

There. Sufficiently dodged another bullet. Whew.