The furious mind of a serial mom

I by chance found a blog that I started in February. It goes like this:

This years resolution!

I will not have more babies. (I have four)
I will sell my movie script.
I will buy a house.
I will learn to make perfect profiteroles.
I will loose 10 pounds. (on a strict diet of profiteroles)
I will turn 40.

So far nothing has come to fruition apart from the fact that I have not become pregnant this year and the fact that I lost 10 pounds, but that was purely coincidental. Or possibly due to the strict diet of wine and cigarettes and juicing and and my new found love of Auyrvedics.

So, no, this is not going to be a diet blog and my obese readers will have to turn to other media outlets for literary liposuction. Not that I have any readers as of yet. And maybe never! This summer has been spent in utter solitude. Not on a remote island meditating, reading Eat, Prey, Love, but within the walls of my home along with my three out of four children. And by solitude I would like to state that conversing with a one year old boy and a two year old girl all day is far from inspiring even though most parents would not confess to that even under water board pressure.

And being an adult one feels quite alone even if “There’s nothing like the smell of diapers in the morning!” I also have a eight year old girl in the house who luckily has found refuge from her mad mother in the dreadful Twilight series and spends most of her time filing her fangs in her upstairs bedroom.

My mornings usually start by me staring at the ceiling thinking to my self: ” I’t can’t be morning yet” Who says?”

I have the privilege of waking up with little people in my bed.(Not dwarfs even if they like to be referred to as little people) but my children and a cat named Thriller.

The name explains it self. The “guy” just died and we just got the kitten. I got the little bastard through an ad on craigslist after I, a mother of four, had been considered unfit to keep a cat by the Pet Humane Society personnel. A stark raving mad employee informed me that they would have to see each of my four children personally, which I refused to do, as I think my one year old boy will have nothing to do with the cats upbringing and I think it would be harming for him to enter the grounds of PHS. After the PHS rejection I hastily went for craigslist , a place where you can even at times buy children and opted for a cheap Persian kitty. A Persian for 250 bucks seemed like a deal!

It was weeks late when I had to take the kitty to the vet and pay 375 bucks for ex-rays and medicine that I discovered the awful truth. It had crossed my mind that he did not have the characteristic features of Mickey Rourke, but as I visited the sellers home, a tacky humongous villa with over-sized palm trees I had no time to miss. The eight year old, eighth birthday was coming up so I candidly came into the house, saw the cat, tried to act pet humanly, bought it and left.

It turned out that the cat was in fact a domestic long hair, a fancy name for a regular hairy house cat. Thus a fraud!  I called the seller, who truthfully is Persian and told him kindly but firmly that  Iwould forgive him his lying tics if he agreed to pay me back, lets say 170 bucks. And he did with out a stutter. The bloody criminal.

I did sell a play though, I must say…wrote the first two acts in a weekend, well received, but the third act is stuck in my throat…why three acts? Who cares about the Greeks?

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