"What the hell happened here?"
Does anyone else say that to themselves as they survey the damage done to their homes over the weekend? Toys are everywhere, dirty laundry litters the bedroom floors, the recycling bin is full to overflowing with beer and wine bottles, the sink is full of Sunday night dessert dishes because the dishwasher has't been run.
I guess some of this is not a mystery. I am working hard at taking the weekends off to some degree. For two days, I try to halt the constant cycle of bringing down full hampers, loading and unloading the washer and dryer, laundering only my soaking wet workout clothes, lest they infect the rest of the hamper's contents. The daily running of the vacuum doesn't happen, resulting in dog hair and crumb covered floors. And my manic wiping of the bathroom services decreases, resulting in a urine encrusted toilet, thanks to Little Man's poor aim and solidified toothpaste ooze on the sides of the sink. H does not keep as close an eye on things like mittens and sneakers, so items that are vital for school attendance, have to be frantically searched for.
So on Monday, payback is a bitch. Yes, everyone hates Monday, but for moms its' a different story. Monday morning, everyone trudges off to work and school, brushed, cleaned and fed, and I am the one left holding the bag, tired, with a slight hangover, having to sort all out of this mess by three o'clock. Taking some time to downshift puts me so far behind, making me wonder if it's worth it at all. H listens to my complaints patiently, but I don't think he really gets it. Sure, some people work so many hours, they may feel like it, but I literally live at work. The way I try to explain it to H? "Imagine you sort out all your stuff for the week, knowing what has to be done on Monday, and you shut your office door for the weekend, heading home to relax. Now imagine someone breaks into your office and has party. Now on Monday morning, you not only have to accomplish what you set out to do this week, but also pick corn chips out of your office chair and beer bottles out of your desk drawers, and find the files you desperately need which have been moved to mysterious locations."
I suppose part one solution could be to have everyone keep track of their stuff, requiring my riding them constantly, which is SUPER fun, and really makes H want to make out with me, or, alternately, stay in weekday mode, which is nearly impossible seven days a week and/or with a hangover. Or I could round up the troops Sunday night for a house reorg, instead of having family movie or game night. Isn't a full-house cleaning what memories are made of?
So for right now, Operation Put the House Back Together will remain a Monday morning project. At least until the day I find some kind of part-time gig and all five of us race out of the house Monday mornings. Then we can all return home to the wake of the weekend tornado. But then I'll probably wind up putting my entire salary toward a housekeeper, but to avoid embarrassment, I'll empty the recycling myself.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
But you're older...
I watch you trudge away to school each morning, my oldest, back bowed under the weight of your heavy school bag, stuffed with math and social studies textbooks and vocabulary flashcards, your flute case slapping away at your thigh with each step, and I sigh. I sigh because I watch your younger sister trip-trapping along behind you, lost in some daydream, her backpack feather-light, with nothing but a single composition notebook and folder containing one color-by-number addition sheet, and knowing you will be coaxing her along the entire journey, your eye on the time, ensuring neither one of you will be late. Your back is bowed, not only by the tools and accessories required to be a fourth grader, but with the weight of being my oldest child.
I have already expressed how you are the child who made me a mother, who turned me from a girl-woman, into the head of a family, and written about the inequity in the older sibling-younger sibling relationship, but I have never written these words before. We have something special, kid.
Nobody wants to say it. Not parents, not children, but we all know it's true. Every mother has a special relationship with their oldest child. Before I am labeled completely heartless, let me exclaim my love for my other two kids. I love all of you equally, but in different ways. #2 is my thinker, my challenge, she makes me see the world in a new way. Little Man is my comic relief. A sitcom to the drama that is raising two girls. You, my oldest are my sidekick, my right-hand man, the one whose eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror when the other two are driving me crazy. Even when you were small, you knew how to help me. When your sister fell and cut her lip open on the coffee table (that your overly confident parents refused to bumper), as I held her bleeding and screaming in the bathroom, assessing the damage, on the phone with the doctor, you ran your four year-old self to #2's bed, and found her baby doll to calm her down. Two summers ago, when we took our first Daddy-free trip to the beach, when Little Man took a huge diarrhea dump in his sandy diaper, and your sister refused to use the outdoor shower, and I stood there, trying to hose off a crying, shit-covered baby, with a screeching four year-old on my leg, you asked me, with a hint of pity, "Is it hard to be a Mom some days?", and I knew you saw me.
Maybe this relationship is born of necessity. Spending so many hours with humans under the age of reason, we mothers grasp at the highest form of interaction available. We might not be discussing politics, but your oldest can at least carry on a conversation about the attributes of each Backyardigan. And, true, once we mothers are outnumbered by offspring, you eldests are forced into a level of dependability that might not be all that fair. But I consider it a trade off. You got me for two un-interrupted years. I never jostled you around and came dangerously close to bashing your head in, nursing you while making peanut butter sandwiches. So asking you to put on your brother's shoes doesn't make me feel all that guilty - most of the time.
Today, as the little two are home sick, and you got yourself up and dressed, brushed your own teeth and hair, and departed for school alone, I felt it. As an oldest myself, I know how little comfort "but you're older" is when you feel you are the only one being asked to clean the bathroom, while the other two only have to empty the wastebaskets. But while you are toiling away, remember who gets to sleep in the top bunk and who's going to get their drivers' license first. Sure, you pave the way with all the hard stuff, but you also reap the rewards.
I hope among those rewards, is the knowledge of how much I appreciate you and the smart, strong, independent girl you have become. On that cold walk this morning, I hope you can remember that it's you, up later than the others, who, several nights a week, sneaks into bed with me to read. When we snuggle in and you tell me, "I like when it's just you and me", know I feel the same way. Eventually, you fall asleep with your wiry body wrapped around me, and I hope you get to feel little for the last few minutes of your day. Even though you are my biggest, you are still my first baby.
I have already expressed how you are the child who made me a mother, who turned me from a girl-woman, into the head of a family, and written about the inequity in the older sibling-younger sibling relationship, but I have never written these words before. We have something special, kid.
Nobody wants to say it. Not parents, not children, but we all know it's true. Every mother has a special relationship with their oldest child. Before I am labeled completely heartless, let me exclaim my love for my other two kids. I love all of you equally, but in different ways. #2 is my thinker, my challenge, she makes me see the world in a new way. Little Man is my comic relief. A sitcom to the drama that is raising two girls. You, my oldest are my sidekick, my right-hand man, the one whose eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror when the other two are driving me crazy. Even when you were small, you knew how to help me. When your sister fell and cut her lip open on the coffee table (that your overly confident parents refused to bumper), as I held her bleeding and screaming in the bathroom, assessing the damage, on the phone with the doctor, you ran your four year-old self to #2's bed, and found her baby doll to calm her down. Two summers ago, when we took our first Daddy-free trip to the beach, when Little Man took a huge diarrhea dump in his sandy diaper, and your sister refused to use the outdoor shower, and I stood there, trying to hose off a crying, shit-covered baby, with a screeching four year-old on my leg, you asked me, with a hint of pity, "Is it hard to be a Mom some days?", and I knew you saw me.
Maybe this relationship is born of necessity. Spending so many hours with humans under the age of reason, we mothers grasp at the highest form of interaction available. We might not be discussing politics, but your oldest can at least carry on a conversation about the attributes of each Backyardigan. And, true, once we mothers are outnumbered by offspring, you eldests are forced into a level of dependability that might not be all that fair. But I consider it a trade off. You got me for two un-interrupted years. I never jostled you around and came dangerously close to bashing your head in, nursing you while making peanut butter sandwiches. So asking you to put on your brother's shoes doesn't make me feel all that guilty - most of the time.
Today, as the little two are home sick, and you got yourself up and dressed, brushed your own teeth and hair, and departed for school alone, I felt it. As an oldest myself, I know how little comfort "but you're older" is when you feel you are the only one being asked to clean the bathroom, while the other two only have to empty the wastebaskets. But while you are toiling away, remember who gets to sleep in the top bunk and who's going to get their drivers' license first. Sure, you pave the way with all the hard stuff, but you also reap the rewards.
I hope among those rewards, is the knowledge of how much I appreciate you and the smart, strong, independent girl you have become. On that cold walk this morning, I hope you can remember that it's you, up later than the others, who, several nights a week, sneaks into bed with me to read. When we snuggle in and you tell me, "I like when it's just you and me", know I feel the same way. Eventually, you fall asleep with your wiry body wrapped around me, and I hope you get to feel little for the last few minutes of your day. Even though you are my biggest, you are still my first baby.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
This pretty much describes my day....
"OPERATION POO! STEP AWAY!"
Sample courtesy of Little Man, ("I was too tired to get up"). Signage courtesy of #2 (no pun intended).
Friday, January 13, 2012
Dear Runny Nose,
Oh, it’s you again? I thought we had gotten rid of you. But I suppose, with three school-aged children, that would be close to impossible. It is winter after all, and with the drop in mercury comes the rise in disgusting effluvia leaking from my children’s faces.
I never realized what a pestilence you were until I had children. I dealt with you only rarely and you didn’t affect my life too much. A pack of Kleenex and I was good. Now, my entire day revolves around whether you darken my door. Why’s that, you ask? Because mucus-containment is not something children under five really excel at, and pre-school teachers don't exactly welcome with open arms a kid with snot, literally, dripping off his face. The irritating part is not keeping a sick child at home, which I do gladly, enjoying the snuggling and movie-watching that permits me to do guilt-free, but rather the keeping home of a child who is, except for your continued presence, completely recovered and running circles around the dining room table and climbing on the entertainment center. And taking said child out is also not an option, lest I be stoned to death by fellow mothers at the bouncy playland as my son coats every ball in the pit with his primordial ooze.
You take many forms, all of which I am too familiar with. You start out, the clear, continuously runny faucet-type mentioned above, that runs into the mouth, making me want to gag as my son licks his upper lip. Then you progress to the slow, yellow ooze, that when wiped with a shirt sleeve mid-Hot Wheels race, drags across my child’s face like a stretched rubber band. This particular type includes the added bonus of drying into a solid ring of booger overnight, basically sealing my kids’ nostrils shut, treating us both to a bout of bathroom wrestling as I attempt to dissolve your leavings with a warm, wet washcloth. Then there is the last stage, my least favorite - the thick green sludge. You hide up there in my kids nose all morning, not rearing your ugly head until we pull into the preschool driveway. My kid sneezes and blows a sticky green bubble out of his left nostril forcing me to decide right there if I should gamble and send him to school, since he has been home for four days and we are both sick of each other, fearing he will blow another snot geyser during circle time, or keep him home again.
I am almost done with you, you plague. My older two have mastered how to keep you under control, allowing their rapid return to activity. I would assume, once Little Man masters ass-wiping, without caking his nails in crap in the process, he will learn how to use a tissue effectively, not just swipe it across my maw and throw it in the floor for the dog to eat. Until then, I will keep wiping, or being wiped on, as the case may be. Apparently, a leg is the preferred receptacle for preschool snot, since my thighs currently look like they are covered in donut glaze.
-MM
I never realized what a pestilence you were until I had children. I dealt with you only rarely and you didn’t affect my life too much. A pack of Kleenex and I was good. Now, my entire day revolves around whether you darken my door. Why’s that, you ask? Because mucus-containment is not something children under five really excel at, and pre-school teachers don't exactly welcome with open arms a kid with snot, literally, dripping off his face. The irritating part is not keeping a sick child at home, which I do gladly, enjoying the snuggling and movie-watching that permits me to do guilt-free, but rather the keeping home of a child who is, except for your continued presence, completely recovered and running circles around the dining room table and climbing on the entertainment center. And taking said child out is also not an option, lest I be stoned to death by fellow mothers at the bouncy playland as my son coats every ball in the pit with his primordial ooze.
You take many forms, all of which I am too familiar with. You start out, the clear, continuously runny faucet-type mentioned above, that runs into the mouth, making me want to gag as my son licks his upper lip. Then you progress to the slow, yellow ooze, that when wiped with a shirt sleeve mid-Hot Wheels race, drags across my child’s face like a stretched rubber band. This particular type includes the added bonus of drying into a solid ring of booger overnight, basically sealing my kids’ nostrils shut, treating us both to a bout of bathroom wrestling as I attempt to dissolve your leavings with a warm, wet washcloth. Then there is the last stage, my least favorite - the thick green sludge. You hide up there in my kids nose all morning, not rearing your ugly head until we pull into the preschool driveway. My kid sneezes and blows a sticky green bubble out of his left nostril forcing me to decide right there if I should gamble and send him to school, since he has been home for four days and we are both sick of each other, fearing he will blow another snot geyser during circle time, or keep him home again.
I am almost done with you, you plague. My older two have mastered how to keep you under control, allowing their rapid return to activity. I would assume, once Little Man masters ass-wiping, without caking his nails in crap in the process, he will learn how to use a tissue effectively, not just swipe it across my maw and throw it in the floor for the dog to eat. Until then, I will keep wiping, or being wiped on, as the case may be. Apparently, a leg is the preferred receptacle for preschool snot, since my thighs currently look like they are covered in donut glaze.
-MM
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Ten and two
So the first day of the new year has come and gone without our discussing our resolutions, or lack thereof. This is typically the week when all of our good intentions go right out the window. Smokers start puffing away again, and those over-zealous new gym members finally go back to where they came from and stop hogging up all the machines they don't know how to use, mostly due to injury. The dessert you swore you wouldn't eat because you had wine with dinner, in an effort to make it "either or" has been consumed, and your plan to only drink one Coke Zero a day is a miserable failure, if the full recycling can is any evidence. Not that I know about either of those last two scenarios.
But for some of you, you are forging ahead, fueled by good intentions and a successful first week. H, for example, has moved into week two of 2012, still getting his ass on the treadmill at least four times a week, which now that the weather is getting much colder, making outdoor running less than enjoyable, I really appreciate, as he competes with me for the indoor equipment (see comment about overzealous new gym goers above). I can't complain though since he is trying not to be the "skinny fat guy" - skinny guy with fat guy cholesterol levels, resulting in a heart attack no one saw coming except his wife who's been screaming at him for the last ten years to stop eating Taylor ham and do something that requires breaking a sweat. The girls even made resolutions this year. #1, the consumer of primarily white foods, has pledged to eat at least five fruits or vegetables a day. She has gone so far as to ask me to pack not only an apple, but CARROTS as well, in her bag so she can knock two out at lunch. Or perhaps, toss them in the trash with her mother none the wiser. #2 is trying to not forget homework assignments any more. She has a bit of an Absentminded Professor thing going on, so I hate to say it, but I am not hopeful.
So what about Mommy? You know my very low bar-high success rate philosophy when it comes to resolutions, although that calcium supplement one is still eluding me. It doesn't help I cant take it first thing in the morning with my thyroid medication, as they react, so I have to plan it out during the day like some ninety year-old with a pill organizer. I will keep trying though. The resolution I am dead-ass serious about this year, which I am ashamed to admit I had to make, is to stop using my cell phone when I'm driving. Stop banging the gavel there, Clarence Thomas. Trust me, I have berated myself mentally for it for ages, but in my (admittedly lame) defense, the car is really the only place I can have a coherent, linear thought throughout the day.
Let's take an average ride to school, for example. On the way I see Mom 1. Mom 1 is friends with Mom 2, which reminds me I have to email Mom 2 about the girl scout cookie permission slip she didn't turn in. This reminds me I have to get H to bring home the girls' cookie order forms that he has posted in his office, passive-aggressively pressuring his underlings into buy cookies from the higher-up's kids. I also need to check if my brother in-law is ordering before the sale ends. This three block drive has resulted in one email and two texts already. Little Man is distracted by the music or the interesting vehicles on the road and I have time to think. Did I read with #2 yesterday? Yes, that Emily Windsnap book. We finished it so I should try to borrow that other one from S - another email. #1 has flute today. Did I tell her to walk home alone because #2 has CCD? Email the teacher. I've been in the car ten minutes and sent five electronic communications. Could I wait until I got home to send these missives? Sure, but upon my return, Little Man would be asking for a banana, the dog would have turned over his water dish, or some another annoying calamity, and these to-do's would fall right out of my head.
These are no "LOL" emails and texts I was sending. I wasn't posting Facebook updates. But regardless of what I was sending, I could kill somebody while doing it, no matter how pressing it might be. And using my phone in the car had become a habit. I was no longer just thinking of correspondence I had to send, but I began checking my phone to see what urgent items may have been sent to me. I would hear that little pinging sound and immediately react. I won't keep my phone on silent when the kids are at school, but even when they were with me, and the phone was silenced, I was checking for that little blinking light. Not good. Moms are already some of the most dangerous drivers out there.
The plan, so far, has been to keep my phone in my bag rather than on the console next to me when I drive. This creates an obstacle, as digging through the strata of dirty tissues, Legos, Band-Aids and empty Purrell bottles in there and successfully extracting my phone, is impossible while driving. It also helps reduce the knee-jerk reaction I have when the alert sounds. It has been comically ridiculous when it does go off. I jerk like I've been given a shock, my free hand automatically shooting right. It's a physical struggle as well as a mental one.
What I have noticed in the last ten days though, is I am calmer, and more focused when I drive. I realized my Blackberry was giving me a kind of ADD, my thoughts ping-ponging around, on anything but my driving. My mind isn't racing a thousand miles an hour lately. I talk more with the kids now, occasionally asking them to remind me of one of those random thoughts upon our return home. Reliability not being the strong suit of the under-ten set, I now have a paper and pen to jot down reminders when I get to the next stop light. My kids know about my struggle and they keep me in line. Setting a good example is making this a little bit easier.
Let's just hope I don't transfer my need to get my thoughts down and wind up running someone over because I had a memo pad and Bic pen on the sterring wheel trying to scribble down "buy birthday present for slumber party".
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Makes-Me-Mad Men
Hello! Yes, it's me, and, no, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. I've been terribly busy eating, drinking, turning 38 and tottering around in my Christmas Shoes. See below:
Amidst all the revelry, H and I managed to have a few quiet nights at home and during one of those he convinced me to start watching Mad Men. I know, I know. What's wrong with me? It's the best show ever! John Hamm is gorgeous! I just...meh. When there's too much cult-like hype about something, enough to inspire an entire line of clothing at Banana Republic for instance, it kind of turns me off. I felt that way about New Kids on the Block too.
Even H has been hounding me to start watching since he's four seasons in. How's that you say? Haven't I written countless times about how H and I love to watch TV together? Well one of the first things my darling did when he got his beloved iPad, was to glut himself on television series during his commute. Which, while making it impossible for me to catch up, also finally puts to rest the myth that he is working during his commute. So when he gives me a beleaguered look when I throw kid at him seconds after his arrival home, I can now, with confidence tell him, "I wish I had just had an hour to watch TV, no go wipe your son's ass."
A friend lent me her DVD set of the first season about a year ago, so H dusted them off and we began to watch. A few episodes in I can agree with many points made by avid watchers - yes, John Hamm is good-looking, and the show is visually impressive, with all the period costume and set design. I realize now I totally missed my era. Dresses with fitted tops and full skirts as wardrobe staple? It's a pear-shaped woman's dream! But then there's all the sexism, so maybe not. I do enjoy watching, very much so, and will probably catch up with H in the next few weeks. The show is not only pretty good, but it's brought up some interesting points that H and I had fun debating.
For example, why is every stay-at-home mother in the media depicted as miserable? Sure, Betty Draper didn't really have any choice but to stay home with the kids, making it more slavery than occupation, and I know the 60s were an era when women had not a tenth of the choices modern women do now, but even in modern day depictions, the women at home are shown half worked to death and complaining all the time. Yes, I have had many, many, many moments where I have complained bitterly about my current gig, but, I love it a vast majority of the time. It kind of makes one feel like a chump to love a job that is universally depicted as demeaning and unfulfilling. It's hard to love something that, apparently, you are supposed to hate. Kind of like enjoying prunes. Which I do as well.
Also, why is a dramatic series only a hit if the main character is a flawed hero? Mad Men, Rescue Me The Sopranos. What happened to good guys and bad guys? Why is everything so complicated? Maybe I'm a simpleton, or too rigid, but the moment a male character cheats on his wife, I'm out. He has lost my empathy, since many of the situations he winds up in are due to his own shitty choices. I believe the world is full of essentially good people and I'd like to see some of their stories. Why can't the boss be the philanderer? I undertand that moral ambiguity makes for good TV, so surround Don Draper with douche bags for all I care, but I'd like to see a story of a guy who's surrounded by all this tomfoolery and stays on the straight and narrow. That brings me back for more, not some asshole who can't keep his dick in his pants.
Aside from these two larger issues, the sexist remarks make us laugh and talk. Like when Betty tells the neighbor Don needs "an hour of complete quiet when he gets home. He works so hard." H jokingly remarked he'd like that. I remarked how he watched this show on the train and should shut up if he wants quiet. One of the frat boys who works in the office asks, "What do women want?" to which his crony replies, " Everything." This line reminded me of a point I've been trying to work into a post for a while without sounding too bitchy. Why is it men think women are the only ones with wants? Or is that men's wants are always met, therefore they needn't ask? Nothing makes a woman feel like more of a nag or makes me want ot put my fist through H's face than when he asks during an argument, "What do you want from me?" I would get so angry, any discussion became useless after that, so I had to outlaw this statement along with its ugly step-sister, "What do you want me to say?".
Despite my original reticence, I am hooked and will keep watching. It's entertaining and makes me feel like my drinking is merely what Don would do after his morning coffee. And when I feel like my life is out of control, I'll just think of Betty. She's miserable, but, damn, she looks good.
Amidst all the revelry, H and I managed to have a few quiet nights at home and during one of those he convinced me to start watching Mad Men. I know, I know. What's wrong with me? It's the best show ever! John Hamm is gorgeous! I just...meh. When there's too much cult-like hype about something, enough to inspire an entire line of clothing at Banana Republic for instance, it kind of turns me off. I felt that way about New Kids on the Block too.
Even H has been hounding me to start watching since he's four seasons in. How's that you say? Haven't I written countless times about how H and I love to watch TV together? Well one of the first things my darling did when he got his beloved iPad, was to glut himself on television series during his commute. Which, while making it impossible for me to catch up, also finally puts to rest the myth that he is working during his commute. So when he gives me a beleaguered look when I throw kid at him seconds after his arrival home, I can now, with confidence tell him, "I wish I had just had an hour to watch TV, no go wipe your son's ass."
A friend lent me her DVD set of the first season about a year ago, so H dusted them off and we began to watch. A few episodes in I can agree with many points made by avid watchers - yes, John Hamm is good-looking, and the show is visually impressive, with all the period costume and set design. I realize now I totally missed my era. Dresses with fitted tops and full skirts as wardrobe staple? It's a pear-shaped woman's dream! But then there's all the sexism, so maybe not. I do enjoy watching, very much so, and will probably catch up with H in the next few weeks. The show is not only pretty good, but it's brought up some interesting points that H and I had fun debating.
For example, why is every stay-at-home mother in the media depicted as miserable? Sure, Betty Draper didn't really have any choice but to stay home with the kids, making it more slavery than occupation, and I know the 60s were an era when women had not a tenth of the choices modern women do now, but even in modern day depictions, the women at home are shown half worked to death and complaining all the time. Yes, I have had many, many, many moments where I have complained bitterly about my current gig, but, I love it a vast majority of the time. It kind of makes one feel like a chump to love a job that is universally depicted as demeaning and unfulfilling. It's hard to love something that, apparently, you are supposed to hate. Kind of like enjoying prunes. Which I do as well.
Also, why is a dramatic series only a hit if the main character is a flawed hero? Mad Men, Rescue Me The Sopranos. What happened to good guys and bad guys? Why is everything so complicated? Maybe I'm a simpleton, or too rigid, but the moment a male character cheats on his wife, I'm out. He has lost my empathy, since many of the situations he winds up in are due to his own shitty choices. I believe the world is full of essentially good people and I'd like to see some of their stories. Why can't the boss be the philanderer? I undertand that moral ambiguity makes for good TV, so surround Don Draper with douche bags for all I care, but I'd like to see a story of a guy who's surrounded by all this tomfoolery and stays on the straight and narrow. That brings me back for more, not some asshole who can't keep his dick in his pants.
Aside from these two larger issues, the sexist remarks make us laugh and talk. Like when Betty tells the neighbor Don needs "an hour of complete quiet when he gets home. He works so hard." H jokingly remarked he'd like that. I remarked how he watched this show on the train and should shut up if he wants quiet. One of the frat boys who works in the office asks, "What do women want?" to which his crony replies, " Everything." This line reminded me of a point I've been trying to work into a post for a while without sounding too bitchy. Why is it men think women are the only ones with wants? Or is that men's wants are always met, therefore they needn't ask? Nothing makes a woman feel like more of a nag or makes me want ot put my fist through H's face than when he asks during an argument, "What do you want from me?" I would get so angry, any discussion became useless after that, so I had to outlaw this statement along with its ugly step-sister, "What do you want me to say?".
Despite my original reticence, I am hooked and will keep watching. It's entertaining and makes me feel like my drinking is merely what Don would do after his morning coffee. And when I feel like my life is out of control, I'll just think of Betty. She's miserable, but, damn, she looks good.
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