“Do all moms hate themselves a little bit?” she asks me.

I am bowled over. I am humbled by her ability to articulate this. I am hating myself even more, suddenly, for hating myself a little bit.

I don’t know what to do but stumble forward.

“I don’t think all moms hate themselves,” I say. I hesitate. We keep our eyes on the figure skaters, watch as their blades slice the ice, jab it, core it with grace. I try to choose my own words with grace, but my heart is raw, and we both know it. “I think…what can happen…to some moms…is that they lose things they love along the way. I love you and your sister more than anything in the entire world. But sometimes I feel like I’ve forgotten what I love, what makes me happy outside of you and your sister.”

“What do you think would make you happy?” she asks.
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So here’s what’s nice about Valentine’s Day this year:

My Valentine? Is London. As in, the city of. It totally hearts me, and I totally heart it back. We’re skipping the chocolate and the roses, but we are totally, totally going to make out, and I might let it go all the way.

No! Really! It’s TRUE! If you are reading this, I’m in London RIGHT NOW! Pip pip! Cheerio! Pints of ale! Pub lunches! Fish and chips! Double-decker buses! Cobwebby bookshops! Oxfam stores! Ribena! Adorable children saying things like “satsumas” and “knickers” in their darling British accents!
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“Oh my God,” I blurt out. “HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE? PA INGALLS IS SO SEXY!”

Two small round faces swivel from the TV and stare at me with a mix of bemusement and ewwwww.

“Seriously?” says my firstborn, a wise creature of eight, who already knows about the “sex” part of “sexy.” 

I rip my eyes away from Michael Landon’s sweaty, naked chest and his perfectly teary eyes as he prepares to shoot Jack the dog, who might have rabies—which would mean, of course, that Laura might have rabies, all because of that stupid raccoon.

I had not recalled Pa Ingalls having so many topless-with-suspenders scenes. I remember having a crush on Almanzo at some point, but Pa? Oh, my.

My children are still staring at me. This is a FAMILY SHOW, after all.

“Um. Did I say that out loud?”
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Yeah, so, I bought a shirt at Target today for $4.98. That’s my sassy, naughty splurge, peeps. I feel dirty, oh, so dirty. Go on. Lick me. I taste just like the armpit of a 12-year-old in a Chinese sweatshop.

I’m writing this while waiting for an unemployment insurance rep to get to me. Twenty-two minutes, the recorded message said I would need to wait. Gives you an indication of roughly how many folks are calling unemployment these days.

I’m calling to check on my eligibility for another unemployment extension. Some folks argue that I might be eligible; some folks argue that I’m not, that that well has dried up for good.

I have learned a few things about public welfare in my time. I know what government cheese looks like, I know that state health insurance means well but is a tangle of red tape, I know what WIC stands for and that it saved our lives, for a time.

Here’s what else I know: Did you know you can still receive unemployment benefits with an occasional writing gig here and there? I was relieved to find that out. That will be really helpful while I work on putting the finishing touches on my new dominatrix den. I hear it’s rewarding work. Good pay, very undemanding clients.

Thank you for holding. All claims representatives are still busy. We are experiencing an extremely high volume of calls.

Yeah, I figure it’s worth a call, to see if the government is still including me in the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to keep three figures in the checking account. I figure it’s worth 22 minutes.
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