okay, Wacky Mommy is in full, complete TOTAL FREAK-OUT MODE NOW! WTF? Oh. My. God…. Can’t write, can’t concentrate, can’t even manage to vacuum my g.d. office, much less work on the much-needed second draft of The Novel, because…

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1) the corn is as tall as me!

2) we can’t go to Oregon Country Fair this weekend, even though a bunch of our friends are going, but it’s raining so i don’t care, anyway, as the rain makes me “la-di-da, maybe I should build a fire in the fireplace! Oh, wait, I don’t have a fireplace…”

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(this entry is from Sat. 4/30)

Lied to husband. Said I had no plans to spend his money when in fact I did (having already booked massage and haircut at day spa. Was unable to book manicure/pedicure appointments due to impulsiveness of call — two hours in advance). In desperate need of being around adults who do not urinate on floor when bored, as WB has taken to doing.

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Friday Advice Column for Neurotic Mothers and Others:

Today it’s Wacky Mommy’s turn to ask for advice:

How do I find inner peace and tranquility, or at the very least keep up with the laundry?

I’m a housewife, which means I pretty much sit around all day on my
voluptuous ass, eating bonbons and watching soaps (“General Hospital”
and “Desperate Housewives” on tape) while the kids turn the living room
into a golf course using their toy clubs, plastic cups and, for golf
balls, uncooked eggs.

I’m a stay-at-home mom, which means I spend every minute of every day
zooming around to Mommy and Me yoga, music, and swimming, and no time
for naps! We’re on busy-busy schedule. Maybe a car nap in the mini-van
if we’re lucky. We have healthy, nutritious snacks like Pirate Booty
and organic soy milk and then it’s zoom-zoom at the park. Then off to
ballet, where the other mothers and I critically eye each other’s spawn
and tell ourselves, “My daughter is so much more coordinated than hers.”

No, I’m an anxious mom, cuz we’re always sick, we always cancel
playdates, we have Hoof-and-Mouth, chickenpox, rotovirus. We throw up a
lot. We break out in random rashes. We break other people’s toys when
we do make it for a playdate. We’re not potty-trained in a timely
fashion, we talk back to grown-ups, we throw fits and we never ever
have dinner on the table when dad gets home.

Really, I’m a woman. A voter. A laundress. I’m worthy. I’m not worthy.
I’m a Domestic Goddess. I’ve been called “vitriolic,” “tramp,” “snatch”
and “bitch.” I will claim the last label but not the first three. I am The Bitch. I’m a writer and editor and lover. I’m a gardener and a hiker and an ice
skater. I love to sleep. I love to read. I like TV. I’m a wife and a
mom and a housewife and a worker and a lot like you, maybe.