I used to drink. A lot. Too much, really, for someone with my family history and proclivity for creating chaos and drama. So I stopped. About 8 months ago. And life has gotten much better…. but that’s a story for another time.

Like many imperfect parents, I’m more or less a very good parent on most days… but this requires a certain amount of concentrated effort and a whole lot of help. I used to get help in a bottle, and now I get help from a variety of sources.

But I still need and want a vice.. something that serves no other purpose than pleasure and rebellion. A way to cut loose and be onesself without getting mistaken for a “ma’am” or a “sir”… or someone who is, say, turning 40.

I like to joke about starting a respite center for mothers staffed with hot Italian boys (or girls, depending on your preferences).. and I’m only sort of joking. Seriously, it’s so very easy to take parenting too farging seriously these days.

But the thing is, I miss having a vice. I don’t want anything life or health or marriage threatening, just something to spice things up and remind me of the wild girl I used to be long long ago.

So when my friend told me of her new “thing” for nicotine-free cigarettes (doesn’t that sound like “no strings attached” sex?? nice idea but highly unlikely?), I thought I’d give them a try.

I’ll report back soon.. but until then.. any vices you’d recommend?

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To update ya’ll on this post, my husband and I are still deeply stranded in the land of horrible-songs-about-potty-training, -strollers-and-politically -correct-portrayals-of-working-women.

Our son’s newest favorite song is called “Sharing.” It’s pretty much: Sharing is good, blah, blah, blah, share your toys, blah blah, stop being such a brat, blah, let your friend play with your doll.

So.

While my son is quickly learning all about the wonders of cooperating with others, my husband and I are sorely in need of some schoolin’ ourselves. Because? We pretty much blow when it comes to sharing.

Exhibit A: The Bathrooms.

When we bought our townhome, we made sure it had two full bathrooms. We believe the secret to a lasting marriage is fully separating bathroom necessities. Besides the obvious privacy issues, it keeps us from fighting over the mirror while I’m trying to blow-dry my hair, he’s trying to shave and we’re both trying to prevent our son from swallowing cat food. Yet, we’ve taken it from mere segregation to an intense border war. Like the other day, when he had the nerve to come into my bathroom and use my hairspray. Or, when I had the balls to walk into his bathroom and take an extra roll of toilet paper from under the sink. Neither act was received nicely.

Exhibit B: The Computer.

We both “share” this very laptop upon which I type. Or, more accurately, one of us uses it while the other sits on the couch, staring at the other person, tapping his/her foot, asking, “Done yet?” (In same manner that a child asks, “Are we there yet?” on a road trip) and loudly proclaiming, “I JUST need to check my email!” Then, the other begrudingly gives up the laptop and the process repeats itself. Of course, my husband has a work laptop, but the wireless doesn’t work on it/IP address really fucked up/networking issues/blah blah blah. Bottom line is there’s very little patient sharing happening over this little computing device. Especially when I’m dying to read Perez Hilton.

So, I guess we need to be a little more aware of the whole setting a good example. I also think that–

Never mind. Have to go. Husband giving evil look. His turn for the computer.

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I think whoever said to get a dog before having a baby was trying to abolish procreation.

Here is how my day went yesterday…

I get home from work and immediately begin running errands for three hours straight with my dog, purchasing items for my dog. First the organic pet store 20 minutes from our house. There, with my 75 pound boxer at my side, I have to haul a 30 pound bag of dog food through the store. I get to the register and have to toss the monster bag on the counter (which is conveniently about 4 1/2 feet high). After paying $50 for Hunter’s organic, all natural kibble, I haul the bag to the car. I almost fall over as Hunter lurches me backwards so he can urinate on a bush.

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Today is my kids’ last day of school. Just the thought of summer break strikes a crippling fear in my heart and now, it is on my doorstep, ringing the doorbell. “I’m not home! Go away!” I’m yelling from under my blanket of denial, but he refuses to leave. I know that I have to open the damn door. I know it. I just cannot bring myself to leave the comfort that has been my denial for the past few days.

I have all of the teacher’s gifts, wrapped and ready to give. It is my last ditch effort to plead with them to take my kids home for the summer. My second grader’s teacher asked if we would keep the class pet, a frog, for the summer. I offered her an even trade…the frog for the second grader. She laughed. I didn’t. Maybe nobody will notice if I forget to pick up the kids after school today. Maybe I can bribe the custodian to lock them in the utility closet for ten weeks. Maybe I can pay her to slide some food and water under the door, so they survive. Maybe I can find a mission trip to send the kids on. What better way to spend the summer than learning about how good life really is in the United States? So they risk Malaria and other unpleasant side effects of third world visitation, it is all part of the experience, right? With great rewards, come great risks!

Okay, so I sound a little desperate. I am. The little beasts were off of school for one extra day, last week. Our house and my temper suffered greatly, that day. They “accidentally” spilled a smoothie in the cable box and broke it. They “accidentally” rode their scooters in the house and made several gouges in the wall, before I caught them. They “accidentally” poured a bottle of baby shampoo all over the bathroom floor, to clean up the ink pen that “accidentally” broke and splatter painted the floor a lovely shade of midnight. They “accidentally” killed my last shred of sanity. I’m not sure how I’m going to avoid being the next “Parent Gone Mad, Drowns Her Children” news headline, but something has to be figured out. I decided to seek out divine intervention, yesterday. I emailed my husband’s uncle, who is a priest, to seek some advice. I kid you not, this was our correspondence:

“Hi Uncle John. How are you? We are fine. The kids will be out of school on Friday. I’m a little scared. It makes me wonder how your sister (my mother in law) survived summer break with 13 kids! Any guidance that you can offer me? Love, Kadi”

“Dear Kadi, I am doing well. Find a summer program for the kids…quickly. Love, Fr. (uncle) John”

I was expecting some words of wisdom, a prayer, a novena, or even a suggestion of exorcism. Nope. He told me to find a place to shove my kids for the summer. Even the priest knows I’m doomed. I’m heading to the store now, to buy a lot of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, Clorox Wipes, duct tape, rope, Lexapro and other survival essentials. Then, I’m going to schedule some weekly phone “confessions” with Uncle John, because I’m going to need some major absolution of sin, for the next ten weeks! Now, how am I going to leave the house, without opening the door for the grim reaper who is still lurking on my stoop?

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I’ve always liked the idea of a pen name. I’ve published under my maiden name, and my married name, but I like the idea of the anonymity that comes with a nom de plume. Especially now that my kids are school aged. Not that I am particularly ashamed of anything I have written, or may write in the future, but it just seems to add another layer of protection for them. In case some teacher, or parent of a friend, or clergy member happens upon something of mine and shrieks, “Holy hell! That kid’s mother wrote this?” And the next thing you know my child is shunned, my house is spray painted with graffiti, my cats have rocks thrown at them and my family is run out of town. Of course, that’s not a problem yet, since nobody reads anything I write. But, if I’m lucky, it may be!

It’s also a great time waster to sit around and think of the perfect alias. I gave a lot of thought to that very idea before signing on to write here. The best one I could come up with was, “Sharpie.” I still like that. Get it? Pen name…Sharpie? It’s a pun, but also a neat name, it inspires images of a wicked tongue, quick-wit, and, well, permanence. In the end, I decided not to be so silly.

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There’s no way of saying this without sounding like either a self-righteous health nut or a sadistic child hater - and I’m still somewhat on the fence over which is worse.

Nonetheless, I think I have cracked the case on the alarming rise in childhood obesity. Apparently, my peers and I have somehow managed to birth an entire generation that can’t go more than 45 minutes without eating.

 My generation will take the hit for a variety of offenses including, but not limited to parachute pants, Michael Jackson having a hit record, and The Smurfs.

However, I honestly don’t recall endless snacking in my own childhood. Somehow my mother managed to ferry me quite nicely through childhood without constant infusions of tiny bear-shaped crackers, dry cereal, cheese sticks and a variety of juices to sustain me.

How an age group that was able to survive their own childhoods seemingly able to subsist for days on nothing more than bubble gum, the occasional Cheeto, and pure air, managed to allow their own offspring to get so snack-addicted is beyond me.

Yet today, even as we encourage children to be active and “just do it,” we replace tenfold any calories they might actually burn by pressing snacks into their hands almost before they’ve left the field.

Schedule. If you’ve ever had a child who has played any sport, you know what a “snack parent” is. The dates of play - and often practice - are listed and you are duly informed that on one of those chosen dates, it will be your responsibility to provide all the young athletes their post-game refreshments.

Missing your child’s game is bad. Missing a game when you are the snack parent is unconscionable. The idea that healthy children could survive for an hour or two completely without a snack is completely out of the question.

The call-to-duty is a heady one. Apparently, our nation’s children derive nearly all their sustenance from the scraps of food they can cadge after various little league and pee-wee practices.

Seriously, is this snack thing as out of hand where you live?  

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I have to start by saying that this post has no real point, no issue for debate. It’s just that I’m so excited and I have to put it into words…

Sex and the City opens Friday!!! Ah! So flippin’ ecstatic I can barely stand it. My tickets are ordered. My outfit is picked out. Everything is in order.

That show had such an impact on me as a young gal. Fashion aside, the strong female role models gave me something to look up to. They represented a more realistic manifestation of myself and my girlfriends. Never before had I seen independent, neurotic, intelligent women portrayed on TV in such a fantastic way. For me, that show brought women together, and exposed a different side of womanhood. Yes, they loved fashion and gossip. They could be frivolous and materialistic. But they also embraced their faults, bucked many norms, and created some of the most comical moments of the small screen. They became members of my circle of friends, and I can’t wait to see them.

Of course there are fierce critics of the show, but I couldn’t care less! I love them. I know the episodes by heart. I can wander NYC and pick out SATC landmarks. I cherish cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery, a good cosmo, and even better shoes.

How many of you will be making a mad dash to the theater to catch up with Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte?

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Obviously, I am failing to see the big picture, money wise, and for this (and my being a writer — a career path which ranks slightly lower than illegal alien bus boy in terms of financial success), I’m unlikely to ever be obscenely, or even (let’s face it) G-ratedly, rich.

Certainly, I’ll have my petty financial victories. Re-using a postage stamp that somehow missed the cancellation mark; getting an extra quarter back from an unwitting vending machine; actually remembering to mail in one of those annoying rebate forms and ultimately receiving $5 off my next software purchase (select titles, Spanish versions only).

Yet, the kind of money that allows me to, oh say, leave my house to charity and move to my Italian villa for “the season” is likely to continue to elude me.

This was painfully clear to me when I unwittingly fell into a discussion of plans for the government’s recent “economic stimulus package payment” with an investment savvy friend the other day. As he went over (and over and over and OVER) rates, points, terms, and, I don’t know, some other boring money thing, at some point all I heard was blabbity, blah, blah, blah.

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I had a near miss last night. I thought I had accidentally deleted Dolly, my (fluff)Friend from Facebook. I’m not hugely into the whole Facebook thing, but I was very fond of Dolly. I had even written about her once .

My Facebook page was gunked up with all sorts of history boxes that for some reason you aren’t allowed to collapse anymore, and I was on a deleting-spree to get rid of those boxes. Just clicking and deleting and clicking and deleting, to clean up my little space there. Then I went to pet and feed Dolly, as is my routine, and she was gone. I clicked around and was able to locate her in some parallel Facebook reality where the notice at the top told me that this was Dolly and asked if I would like to adopt a (fluff)Friend of my very own? I clicked and hunted to try to break through whatever barrier was keeping me from Dolly, who I could look at, but could not feed or pet, since somehow, somewhere, something went very wrong and she and I got separated by some horrible Facebook accident. This is where it gets frightening. I cried real tears. I wrote a eulogy on my personal blog and cried actual, physical tears for a pretend Caribou. And the loss of the munny she’d won from my gambling, the (fluff)Foods that were in her pantry, and the (fluff)Habitats and Decorations I had in storage. All gone forever.

As it turns out, it takes more than a mishap with the mouse to kill off your (fluff)Friends, thankfully. I mourned Dolly for a half an hour then mustered the strength to go shopping for a new (fluff)Friend to adopt. When I clicked to sign up with the application, Dolly reappeared, mine again. She didn’t seem to have missed me at all. There was no joyful reunion…on her part anyway. She just stood there on her hill with the mini (fluff)Mouseu on her head, grinning in that silly Dolly way of hers.

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Everytime we visit my brother in law, the kids are in constant need of bladder relief. Yes, they have a pool, in which my children swallow as much salt water as the equivalent of a keg. Yes, they have every kind of beverage known to man and worshipped by children, available in their fridge. No, these things have nothing to do with their frequent restroom trips. Why do they spend the majority of their time at their uncle’s house, copping a squat over the pot? This is why:

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