Sick Days and Reality Television
So, while still recovering from an intimate night with me and the porcelain goddess, I stayed home from work. Alone. Yep. After hauling my ass off to school to drop him off (and weakly stumbling across the walkway to get him there) and then bringing my daughter to the sitter's for her normally schedule day, I went home and crawled into bed. For four glorious hours. Sure, it was all recovering from the night before, but it was still something I rarely enjoy. Too bad I had to be barfing up the last 2 weeks of meals to get the pleasure. And then I sat down for a little day time television.
Normally, if it isn't Spongebob or Yo Gabba Gabba! to keep the kids occupied (or football/basketball for the husband), I might toss on a home improvement show. Or say, some fashion related thing that keeps me mildly entertained while I read. Or surf the web with my trusted laptop. But that day, sick and all, I decided to land on reality television. I found myself absorbed in a marathon of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Can I first just say--what the hell? Seriously. These women have children? Or at least 2 of them do--they show these glamor shots of them smiling and all cute, but um, WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY with all these nights out and drinks with girlfriends in parking lots? Of course, my confusion and awe at the whole lifestyle that is so foreign to me did nothing to stop me from watching. Three hours, a few glasses of iced 7-Up and more moments of yelling at the television later, I was still entranced. But the point is--Never. In my life. Can I imagine a life like that. And (this is a close second) how did these women end up married to these men? I mean, what kind of money do they make to by a $5000 handbag!?!?! Seriously. What did I do wrong in my life to have to worry about when money comes in? Can someone tell me? Because I went to college, found a decent career, and it still feels like I am barely making it some days. And these women can't even decipher that 1/3 of a pizza is MORE than a 1/2 of a pie. And that, you know, you spell cat with a 'c,' not a 'k.' It is frightening.
But maybe it is more frightening that in over 2 weeks that I have been living the crazy life of a working mom that THIS is what I come back to blog about.





