Since the Little Man is just this side of weaned and monthlies have started again I decided to go in for the annual exam all girls look forward to, and get some pills or something so I stop killing myself with cuteness for the lovely bundles the Hub and I have produced.

My Doc is a great lady. She's blunt, has a sense of humor and never seems to be rushing so I usually feel as comfortable as possible when she's the only one that's been nearly as (clinically) friendly with me as my husband.

First the up-the-shirt exam: "Um, while you're there, what's that?" I point to a dime-sized spot of pigmented skin that popped up right in between my boobs since I had my son nearly 1 year ago.
"Oh, that's just a fungus, not too different from ringworm but not contagious or spreading. Just put some . . . (I stopped listening at fungus)"
"What?! Boob fungus?! I have boob fungus?! But it's not skin cancer?"
"No, Ha . . . um, it's really common."

Below the belt exam: Doc: "Oh, but this spot (where the sun don't shine) you might want to keep track of."
"Uh, right."
"I know I haven't seen you for a while - since you were pregnant - but it might have grown a little (ok, I think my ass just shrunk a little since I was pregnant, so the spot is bound to look bigger in relation). You should have The Hub take a digital photo every 6 months and compare."
"What?!, photos of what? Oh, GOD."

Might as well ask the last question because I thought I've had skin cancer on my nose for a couple years now and I should just bite the bullet and know for sure: "Ok, then what about this spot on my nose - it's not real noticeable but it does look like an immature zit, but I've had it for years?"
"Oh, that you might take concern with in about 10 years because you might start resembling . . . (some children's book witch character I forgot) - it's just a blah-blah follicle that will probably start growing."
"Uhhhh, huh?! Freakin' witch nose!?"

OMG So I leave with a diagnosis of: "Boob Fungus" ; "Potential Witch Nose" ; and a prescription for "Digital Ass Photos" and "bc pills".

At least it's not cancer.

I've had some strange alone time lately. I'll take my supper break from work and go home like usual. Most days, it's to put the kids to bed and grab a bite to eat. But every once in a while, like tonight, the kids are at their grandmother's so that the Hub can go to a weekly film society meeting. So, there I am, alone, with my slice of pizza and House MD. No snuggles, no wrestling, no separated anxiousness pulling at my pant leg, no whimpers or whines (not counting the cats'). I let myself sink for a minute or 57. They tick away slowly from the shallowness of the moments. No depth of sound, no rich, belly-laugh sights to distract from tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock. The time crawls by with a lack of exuberance, lack of substance. Any other day it would zoom by in staccato, double-time aerobics-video style - minus the leg warmers and leotards. I would laugh and yell and be stern and soothing and whisper affection just as my last - too few - sand grains dribbled through pulling me out the door again.

"So-and-so was much drunker than I was."

"I was way soberer than he was."

The Lager calling the Ale, "buzzed."

Oh, but want for cigarettes. Yes, I've smoked, yes I've smoked regularly. Do I now? No. Not for nearly 21 months. I picked it up again casually, during drinks after my first was born. It's awful. The hangovers more from cigs than the 3 tequila shots and a couple cosmos. Never being able to brush your teeth enough, the way the smell clings to your hair like scum in a stagnant pond. The coughing, the planning - will I have enough for the day, enough money for more?

The dependence is demeaning. But the mythology so inviting. There was nothing better than a summer day sitting outside on a picnic bench or in the park or on the beach, sunning and smoking the days away. Blowing rings at the puffy clouds passing by. Practicing the french inhale. Or sitting in the coffee shop writing and doodling and laughing over steamy sweetened cups and smoldering savory nicotine. The slight buzz from the first one of the day sent giggles through me and a rush to the head. Somehow channeling concentration through the monotonous task of drag, inhale, express, tap tap, drag, inhale, express, tap tap. Feeling anger subside as I rush outside half enraged over something trivial or not. The warm calm coming over me as the vapors plunged through my lungs and roller-coastered back out like a heaving bull during a wet winter day. All of these moves programmed an addiction. Triggers, one by one, having to break each one through sabotage and careful planning.

Here I am today, setting my righteous example. Hoping my children never listen to their pressuring cousin like I did. Hoping they won't be as weak as I initially so as to need much more strength later on.

Summer is here, with a vengeance. As if to say, "Oh, yeah winter, you're a fuckin' wuss! Me and my peep, Spring, thought we'd show you how it's done." Bring on the rain, floods, ticks, mosquitoes and balmy 95 degree weather with soothing humidity.

This past Sunday summer hit early and there was a pool emergency. Relieved, my sis-in-law offered up her place for a kiddie-pool party. I went about the SD summer routine, readying the kids for any outdoor adventure they'd find that day:
- Slathered in sunblock, 1/2 hr early for soak-in time
- Misted with bug spray
- Swim diapers
- Swim suits
- Dry clothes for later
- Towels
- Cold drinks
- Sunglasses
- Hair tied back
- Snacks
All CHECK!

So I head to the car, place Little Man in carseat, decide car is very hot so I'll roll down the auto. windows before closing the door. Find other car's key. Where are other keys?! Call hubby who brought in, that morning, the keys for the car he took to work but not the keys for this car - the car that is readied with sunscreened children, children ready for pool fun, children on the verge of melting from broken promises of a day spent with auntie and cousins and pool fun!

So I wrack brain - too far and too hot to hoof it anywhere. I try the sprinkler which is looked on as though it's spitting acid and shrapnel and fire - baby cries, toddler shrieks and hides in horror.
I call niece - lovely, 13-year old niece who is always bored with life. She rides her bike over and watches the kiddos toddle about the yard in their swimsuits and takes them for walks around the block while I dig out the bike and bike trailer. I head of to the closest department store to find a pool. There are frogs and 10-footers and ones with multiple partitions and shades and sprinklers (ooo dreaded sprinklers) all in need of the lungs of a practiced bong-pro. And then, ta da: Just unravel and fill - no lung capacity necessary. Yeah!

Peddaling back with pool in the trailer I noticed a few odd looks as if I'd forgotten something or left something behind, what with the kid-free, kid trailer. I get home and commence to making a cool oasis of pool, cool drinks and patio table with umbrella. Niece and kids just get back from walking around the block and Little Miss - 1/2 melted, hops right in and starts splashing about.

Feeling that Little Miss doesn't quite understand all that I've done in the last hour to make a wonderful pool-filled day for her I say, "See, what mama did? See the pool mama got? What do you say when someone does something for you?"
She looks up, a little shruggishly and replies weakly, "thank-you, thank-you mama." Sarcasm at almost-3, she's catching on.

Shopping with children.

Occasion 1: We need to get penises for Q's bottles!

Occasion 2: (1-year-old running through mall) Beeeee-itch, beeee-itch, beeee-itch.

Occasion 3: (litter) And that's for the kitties? For the kitties' poooooop? We got that for the kitties AND their poooop.

Occasion 4: What the?! Um, sz 4 shorty running shorts? Wonder how these got in there?

So, it's bad enough having to buy condoms when you are married, have two children, a mortgage, etc. Condoms seem like something for the singles, something kinkier than a pill, a procedure or a damn insertable device. They are the party hats of the slightly irresponsible.

So, I suck it up - knowing I won't have anything to keep me responsibly non-procreational for another 3 weeks and I saunter in, on a Saturday night, to a local gas station. Might as well grab a 6-pack and a bottle of wine. I've purchased condoms at this particular establishment before: Chip aisle, candy aisle, grocery aisle, toilettries / cond . . .um . . .Where the flip, are the condoms?! So I scan and saunter nonchalantly and can NOT find them anywhere. So, lucky me, a wisp of a girl with jet-dyed black hair is cleaning wiener grease (this makes her sooo totally approachable for my particular situation) from the hot dog spinning machine.

"Um, do you still carry condoms?"
"Yep." She removes the greasy gloves and heads towards the counter. The whole time my eyes are darting everywhere to see where I've overlooked and then I glance up. Up above and BEHIND the counter!
"So, not only do I have to ask you (wiener grease cleaner), now I need to announce it to you (guy behind counter) exactly which kind I would find of particular interest."
"Yep."

Same-same could never same-same on that one.