I really wanted to write something today, but I’m currently obsessed with stalking my bank account. This is, I assure you, every bit as exciting as it sounds.
First, let me state for the record that no dogs were harmed in the making of this column.
Primarily because those little buggers are fast and really hard to catch.
So, the entire world is up in arms because Danica Patrick, a female driver, placed fourth at the Indy 500 recently.
As a mother, I want a lot for my children.
I want them to be happy, to cure cancer, to be compassionate and well-loved individuals, and to marry into Bill Gates’ millions.
I am not, nor will I ever be, the ‘roughing it” type.
My husband, bless his heart, refuses to believe this.
Now that I’m a “real writer” (as opposed to my former slacker’s life as a married mother moonlighting as a writer), I’m amazed at all the similarities – besides sleeping late – between tortured artists and me.
I am an unfit mother. Oh sure, other mothers might see the merit in hiding it better. But me, I work hard at it.
Authorities and searchers might have been at a loss when they launched a nationwide hunt for “runaway bride” Jennifer Wilbanks recently, but the real experts – wedding planners – knew this was no kidnapping.
I firmly believe that when mothers compare notes on childbirth this can only be because they have not yet experienced the pain and sheer endurance that a 6-year-old’s birthday party entails.
He stole my heart with a killer combination of dark good looks, a stunning ability to fix almost anything, and an inexhaustible instinct to take care of me when I’m moody, sick or stressed, which is pretty much always.