Subject: The World's Loneliest Housewife Triumphs WITH SCIENCE IN YOUR PANTS
Date: 01 May 1997 00:00:00 GMT
From: 1Ol01O@radix.net (MegaLiz)
Organization: MotPU: Where Binary Moodswings are ALWAYS on the Menu
Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free, alt.slack
I dared to dream of a rampage-free existence.
I had to call a friend the other morning and confess that I was
running late because of the mildly embarrassing fact that Spunky had
put HERSELF in a third time-out because she didn't want to wear a
diaper. It's not that she is making such tremendous potty progress,
but rather that she prefers nudity at all times and especially during
Spring hurricane conditions or in circumstances that require a long
I proceded to pack up ANYWAY, optimistic that I would be able to
wrangle this li'l mass of muscle into some sort of weather and/or piss
protection. The phone rang. Jack needed a map, so I put him on hold,
opened the closet door and discovered that someone had pulled all the
coats off the hangers WHILE I nearly impaled myself on the protruding
handle of a vacuum cleaner. I find the map anyway. The unsettling
quiet of a rampage-in-progress registered, so I proceeded to the
kitchen, where I found Spunky standing proudly in a quart-sized puddle
of apple juice. She was holding a sloshing cup full of self-serve
nutrition. I reached for the paper towels to find that they were not
there. I eventually got back to Jack and he'd already found the answer
to whatever it was that I was supposed to be looking up during the
last several fun-filled minutes. He empathized and escaped back to his
sane-by-comparison cube world. For a moment, I missed my job.
I employed reverse-psychology to trap the chilluns in the car, and we
proceeded to have a lovely lunch while trashing someone ELSE's house.
Once home again, the gloves come off. "Quiet time" consisted of
teasing and screeching that revealed an interesting new game. Sparky
persuaded Spunky to strip down - again - and then refused to let her
have a blanket. "I'M FREEZING!"..."TOO BAD!"..."BUT I'M
FREEZING"..."IT'S MY ROOM AND IT'S MY COVER!"..."BUT I'M FREEZING
COLD!"..."I'M NOT SHARING EVEN IF YOU KICK ME!"
After an hour of such cooperative play, they were loose again.
Determined to avoid interfering, I turned on the "News". A hostage
situation had developed across the street from my former home. I
laughed hysterically as the anchors describe the scenario: a gunman
was in the process of holding up the gas station when the city's
unarmed traffic officer (who I am told is essentially Barney Fife)
appeared on the scene, hitched up his pants, and said something like,
"What's all this, now?" The terrified robber fled into the first
unlocked, occupied house. After that professionals were brought in to
weigh his relative fright, stupidity, insanity and ruthlessness.
This was a typical day.
About a week later, I decided to get the girls busy painting junk
furniture. Due to a case of kid-induced goofiness, I bought an entire
GALLON of glossy black paint for them to use. 'nuf said. Well, not
really. By the time they were done, everyone was black and the yard
looked like we had suffered a bad dragon attack. Cleanup was fun and
That evening, we noticed that there was an unusual amount of emergency
vehicle action going on across the street, including a MOBILE TACTICAL
COMMAND CENTER, dogs, and bulletproof cops galore. I called the police
station to see if we should LEAVE, because there have been a rash of
bomb threats in the area. The nice officer said that we should stay
put, that the mobilization was in response to a FUGITIVE situation
nearby, and they were trying to judge his relative fright, stupidity,
insanity and ruthlessness. No problem. Naturally, Jack decided to
CROSS THE STREET for a BETTER LOOK. I love this man. He tortures me.
What possible importance could anyone attach to this peculiar hostage
coincidence? I've been working on it, and I finally figured it out. We
have to MOVE, see? Dobbs knows this is a complex destination decision.
Should we move to Hippieville? Buckertown? Scankbottom? The choices of
bad neighborhoods in our zone of desire are truly daunting. Now the
answer is CLEAR!! All I need to do is watch the news for the NEXT stop
of the MOBILE TACTICAL COMMAND CENTER. That'll be across the street
from our next home. Simple divination. The truly MIRACULOUS part is
that I was able to filter this with my mommybrain in the midst of the
most distracting toddler terrorism ever.
I stop now. Spunky want to poke pencil in my ear. Lobotomy of love
Temporary Identity Crisis Pacifier:
just call me NANA MEGSKOURI DRACHMA-DRACHMA
It won't help you remember my email address and it
will not fatten your feets, so what's the HARM?!?*