I’m stressed. Very, very stressed. Between the book proposal, a new project at work, mediocre parenting, my Marlboro habit and finding a kick-ass Halloween costume — well, I have no time for anything. Other than a few hours each day for Facebook. Or texting. Or, ok, pooping.
So anyhoo, I completely spent my entire day reworking the book’s prologue. That was due on Friday. And then, after I send the draft to Anna and she writes back, I respond to inquire about the sample chapter that…well. Just read it:
“Ahhhh, gotcha. Well, let me know what you think, and what I need to do. I’m working my arse off, because I want to get the damned thing done. When (or are you even thinking of it) you gonna do sample chapter? Wait, you wanted me to do that. Shit. Motherfucker. I wrote the new prologue. Ok, no worries. Will do sample next week, by Friday (read: Sunday). And no, not on meth.”
Holy fucking potatoes. Me = Stressed.
(p.s. – this email is my new antimommy blog)”
Yep. I did the totally wrong thing. I mean, what I wrote is amazing and all, but yeah. I. Did. The. Totally. Wrong. Thing. Know why? Because as I sneak into the office to write (the totally wrong thing), after a day of pumpkin patch and exemplary parenting, I hear strange noises coming from the den.
Anti-Daddy: Snicker, snicker
Anti-Mommy: What are you guys doing?
Mommy: What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing?
Anti-Daddy: What? Nothing.
Kaiser: Shhhh. Daddy, shhh.
Mommy: Holy shit.