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.

 

Huh.

 

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

car ride.

 

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

mostly ineffective.

 

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

comin' up!

 

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?!?*