The Real (Frazzled) Housewife of W County

I have been seeing previews all over Bravo for shows about "Real Housewives" from different areas of the country.  I am fairly certain the only thing real in these housewives whole bodies are their internal organs.  Seriously, since when do fake-baked, liposuctioned, botoxed, hair extensioned, breast augmented females who do nothing but back stab, cheat and drink all day qualify as "Real Housewives"?

I'll give Bravo a real show...it's called the Real (Frazzled) Housewife of W County!

The episodes may or may not contain footage of me in a large white bathrobe with hair that hasn't been shampooed in 48 hours tramping down the stairs in the wee hours of the morning to rouse two sleeping and very crabby/reluctant Squirrels. 

Cut to the Squirrels doing everything BUT eating their breakfast and getting ready for school with me bellowing idle threats like "IF YOU DON'T HURRY, I'LL MAKE YOU WALK TO THE BUS" knowing full well that I won't because then they will MISS the bus and I will have to slink down in the driver's seat as I, still white bathrobed-swathed, drop the girls off at school. 

Then a phone call comes that Kate is not feeling well at school and can I pick her up.  She promptly harfs up her Eggo waffles in the car on the way home. 

Eli, meanwhile, comes home with yet another flunked assignment, thanks to her many distractions and lack of ability to actual read any directions with an assignment, and I begin to wonder if my fight to advocate for her is doing any good whatsoever. 

By 2:30 in the afternoon, all ADHD medication has worn off and the girls have decided that they are STARVING and want me to make s'mores (say what?) and drink pop - to which I say NO to both, which leads to much whining about how they NEVER get pop and can't WAIT until they are grown up because then they will drink pop every day all day long. 

The day is not complete without at least one of the two threatening to run away because life is unfair and I must love one kid more than the other.  Meanwhile, I realize I am now going on 72 hours without showering and Husband calls to say he has a two hour conference call when he gets home so he will need the kids to be quiet while he secludes himself to the bedroom to try to shut out any noise. 

I open the refrigerator and stare inside hoping someone has done the grocery shopping for me only to realize I have five stalks of celery, some shriveled grapes, a 1/2 gallon of week old milk, and something I can't quite identify in a Tupperware.  Probably some experimental recipe that Husband wasn't very fond of so he relegates it to the back of the fridge and opts to buy lunch at his work cafeteria. 

Much squirrel wrangling and wailing over homework later (by both the Squirrels...and later me joining in in sheer frustration), I realize a few things:

1) Nobody seems to hear a word I say.
2) I used to like cooking until I had to do it every day, several times a day, in mass quantities.
3) Having an MBA has absolutely NO advantages when it comes to parenting.
4) Working from home sounds much more fun and easy than it is. 

and finally

5) I am THE REAL HOUSEWIFE material...but my life hits too close to home for most of you so tuning in would only lead to a greater need for Prozac in your life.  So escape to your glamorous plastic Botoxed fake baked housewives on television...but don't you DARE call them "real". 

I Pledge My Head

Lately, Eli has been pestering me to join 4-H.  Not so much for what it teaches but because her BFF Olivia is in 4-H and heaven forbid Eli miss out on ANYTHING her friends are doing.  Add to that, the 4-H leaders are requesting the honor of my presence as a co-leader. 

I have a single-minded response to both of these:  OVER MY DEAD AND BLEEDING BODY!

You see, I am a 4-H survivor, er, alum.  Yes, once upon a time, I "pledged my head to clearer thinking, my heart to greater loyalty, my hands to larger service and my health to better living for my club, my community, my country, and my world".  Twenty years later, I am a half-crazed Momzilla so you can see how far pledging my head got me in life. 

I suspect my mother enrolled me in the torture of 4-H because she wanted to see me, as well as her other six daughters, domesticated into the Stepford version of Proverbs 31. 

Instead, her eight children turned out like this:

In our defense, we came from a church that did a lot of intermarrying so the gene pool may have had some cross-contamination. 

But I digress...

Not that I didn't make a valiant effort in the domestic arts.  By the time I came along (the 7th kid in), Mom had handed over sewing instruction to my oldest sister Beth.  I was sent packing for two weeks up to the mosquito-infested state of Minnesota to gain instruction on how to operate the infernal sewing machine and serger. 

This is me putting in the stitches (only sewing over my thumb a few times) under the glamorous country blue and dusty rose wall decorations that swathed my sister's house in the mid-80s. 

This is me taking OUT the stitches (yet again).  My sister would usually give up and tell me to go watch her kids while she efficiently whisked this number through her machine. 

And to make matters more humiliating, Mom also entered me in the "clothing review" in which you had to model the outfit you made.  And write fetching commentary to be read while you pranced in front of the sparse crowds of other moms who made their kids take 4-H projects to the fair.

I am sure that I wrote something along the lines in "Stepping out this fall in a lovely knee-length polka dot skirt is Jane." when I should have written "Behind those ginormous tortoise-shell-framed glasses is Jane who hasn't realized that Keds should never be the shoe of choice to accessorize any outfit, no matter how homemade." 

Of course, my sister Mary took to sewing like a duck to water and had to show off her mad skills by making a prom dress:

She also had figured out the Big Bang theory and had her ears pierced.  Life was so unfair back then. 

Alas, despite all the baking, sewing, and craft-making elementary years, I am still domestically inept and have emotional scars from my time in 4-H.  I think my Squirrels have enough reason to need therapy so we'll skip 4-H for them.  Plus, ADHD and a sewing machine...now THERE'S a recipe for disaster. 

Aboriginal Glow & Mascara Eye Jabs

Move aside, ole Mary Kay, because the Squirrels have discovered a deep affinity for makeup!

It may have started with our K family summer vacation where Rachel and Kate tortured poor Erin with subtle colors like hot pink and purple:

Or perhaps it was Lena's rampant makeover binge at Christmas this year, after which she would cross her arms, step back thoughtfully, and say "My work here is done!":

But whatever (or whoever) the culprit, the Squirrels are vastly in love with makeup experimentation.  Armed with new Caboodles (ah...fond memories of the '80s), no one is safe:

So what did the Squirrels want to spend their Walmart gift cards from Dale & Candy K on but MAKEUP!  And not just any makeup but a multi-layered, retina-burning display of colored powders, blushes, eye shadows, and lip glosses:

I talked Kate out of the purple glitter mascara but she was definitely determined that WHATEVER makeup kit she bought at her favorite store (Claire's...motto:  lots of overpriced crappola that is guaranteed to break upon usage), it HAD to include mascara.  She is a bit of a disaster trying to apply the stuff.  It winds up under her eyes, on her eyelids, and once on her chin (not sure what happened there) not to mention the more-often-than-not eye jab that leaves her whimpering.  BEAUTY IS PAINFUL! 

Eli, on the other hand, has a unique method of applying powder (pat, pat...rrruuuuubbbb all around with her hand).  And the sad news is that most generic makeup kits are made for the vanilla crowd, not my beautiful chocolate Squirrels, so Eli ends up having a faint Aboriginal glow to her after multiple applications.  Who am I to judge?  I tried to accomplish a "smoky eye" on myself and wound up looking like I just stepped out of the boxing ring after three rounds.

Why do I allow such chaos?  See for yourself:

That's right...at least a 30-second interval of absolute silence in my day and it all comes off with a good washing.  PRICELESS...even if they bawl when I won't let them go out of the house looking like hookers who fell face-first into a Crayola vat.  Mother of the Year, here I come!  Where is my crown and sash?