In The Moment by Clara York

It was one of those grizzly Sunday nights. You know the kind. I’d been cleaning all day and my husband, er—I mean my eleven year old has homework up the ass. She also has a science project due tomorrow that is so hard it will make her appreciate college.
The day has been a real bitch. First the cat brought in a rat because it was the one thing on my list I didn’t get to:

~Get cat food~

You see, I read that book on how we’re killing our kids with GMO’s, so I go to four different stores to do our grocery shopping. And I’d only made it to three.  It’s almost 8pm and the countdown to Monday is on. Now we’re all working on the report. No break, no showers, didn’t henna my hair, my husband hasn’t read the paper, haven’t even stopped to pee, barely any dinner because mid barbecue the propane ran out.

So after spending about a hundred bucks on ink cartridges printing out mind numbing charts and mandatory graphics, finally the project is done and I for one have learned a lot about chromosomes.

My husband retreats to his “man cave” and rocks out some fierce electric guitar. When he gets in there he sounds so badass and all the neighbors can hear because his man cave is, well it’s really just a closet. My daughter goes to her room and writes in her diary. Her entry probably goes like this:
My mom makes Martha Stewart look like a lazy slob. I think the lettering on the science project looked fine when I actually did it. Those science projects don’t mean jack. The Science Fair is just a tool to attract more clueless parents to my school. Why is she such a perfectionist? Why can’t she just live in the moment?

I clean up the dishes and do two more loads of wash in my “woman cave” which is a filthy laundry room. It has laundry stacked to the fucking ceiling that doesn’t fit any of us any more, because when I can’t find socks for my husband I figure that’s what Ross is for.

And then I come inside and slowly pour myself a glass of red. I’m about to decant it in my mouth and vow to do better tomorrow because these are the best days of my life, when I hear something. It’s the puppy on the front porch. She’s whining about how lonely she is. We haven’t had a nanosecond to play with her all weekend. I go out and throw the ball for her, pretending to aim it at my kid’s teacher’s skull.

~ And I bust a water main. ~

Crack that sucker right in half. Water flowing everywhere and me screaming to my husband who thinks he’s Jack Black and can’t hear me for what seems like an eternity. He shuts off the water and that means no showers or teeth brushed, let alone fooling around.
He trots out his old tools looking years older than he did in his man cave. I forgot to mention it’s his birthday today and I worked 12 hours de- cluttering this house for his party on Saturday and he is so done with me for breaking the pipe.
But by Friday, the house has miraculously remained de-cluttered. And instead of prepping for a completely organic-non GMO-homemade-sit- down-dinner-party like I always do, I just go to fucking Costco. Turns out my girlfriend who’s a gourmet chef is bringing a big platter of organic, vegan faire and I am so off the hook. At the party, she gets all the compliments but I don’t give a rat’s ass.
My daughter has made bread pudding all by herself and I never once butted in. It’s off the chain delicious and people are getting seconds and Franny is proud.
My husband is doing what he loves most—jamming with his friends. And he finally gets to share his rockin’ original songs and he sounds great and he turns me on almost as much as when he’s bowling.
And I laugh and I dance and I have real conversations and I feel hot because the food doesn’t have to be. And these are the best days of my life and I actually remember that, instead of worrying about whether there’s enough cheese.