Sometimes the funniest things come to me during the day, and I think, oh I should write this down, and then I don't. Which is why sometimes, I don't write a blog for weeks. It's because I forget things.

Today, however, the gates to freedom (which is a word used in a very limited capacity, since I still have 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who is just as needy, if not needier, than the previous) have opened. I completed the summer quarter of grad school 2010 and I now have a 3 and a half-ish week break until fall quarter begins. What will I do with my time? All this blessed time? I plan to while away the hours with deviant behavior. I will look, shamelessly, at stores online. Gap, at J.Crew...at L.L. Bean...hurt me. I will bake things. Which I do anyway, but I will bake things that take more time, more precision. I'll play with the kids even more. Outside. In my favorite season of the year. I will engross myself in mindless television. Things I don't normally get to watch. I'll...I'll...why am I in school, again?
Anyway. Also on this break, I'll have to do some mental preparation. In October, I have a surgery scheduled. A full-fledged, no-hormones-left-behind hysterectomy. Which isn't completely true, because I think they are leaving the hormone producing parts. So I don't have to take pills. That was one of my demands. To not have to take pills. I am bothered by this, somewhat. I always thought I'd have a lot of children. Like, maybe a lot, really. Four, five? Six, even. I know, Mom, you think I'm certifiable. I actually really like the little buggers, once in a while. But, see, then I got divorced, which was a real humdinger, and then I remarried, which was sort of an eyebrow-raiser, and then...well, we had Ella. Barely. Because I barely lasted through that pregnancy. My body was screaming "NOOO" and my mind was pleading with it, "come on, one more?!" So, I gave in. To my body's wishes, that is. I had one of those nifty tubal ligations, which had to be done in the "university" hospital, when the Catholic one refused to allow it...and I was sad, because I wanted to have her in the new hospital. But I regress. A year later: flash forward. My body is still screaming "NOOO" but now I don't know why, other than that maybe it's got some neurotic mind of its own...and it hasn't been treating me very well, lately. It probably wants me to go on some sort of rejuvenating Eat, Pray,Love style excursion, I'll bet. And I'm sure this surgery will end up setting me back enough that I could have afforded one. Anyway, I wasn't even going to mention it, publicly, but I will, because it'll put me out of commission, physically, for a couple weeks. What it may do, however, is put me IN commission as far as my writing goes. I'll be forced, yes, forced, to lay in my big chair and look at things on the internet. I'll have to check Facebook several times an hour. I'll have to Ebay. Which, as you can see, is not only a website, but a verb, an activity.
Speaking of Facebook, do most of you have one? I think most people I know have a Facebook page. I am contemplating the deletion of my own, personally. It's too consuming. It implies things that sometimes I didn't mean to imply. You can't use sarcasm too carefully, and I'm a natural cynic. I also sometimes feel overwhelmed by how super-wonderful-fantabulous some people's lives are. Some people's glorious marriages and too-cute-and-angelic-never-did-a-thing-wrong children. I mean, people, good for you. This is what I mean. I really am, inside, glad for ya. If it's all true. But that silly little cynic inside me says, it can't always be true. You gotta have bad days. You gotta wonder, sometimes, why God didn't just spell it out, women are superior, men really ought to take notes. Or be banished, to some cave in a remote location, with other men, and maybe between all of them, they'll find one working brain cell. You gotta, once in a while, want to duct tape your children to a wall and leave them there. Er, you know, something like that. That's the little voice of sarcasm in my head. And if I said it, publicly, it would make me out to be bitter and awful. Resentful, even. Maybe I am. So, in short, sometimes I think Facebook should be called Fakebook. And to all of my friends out there who do post the bad with the good: thank you. That's why I love you all. Misery loves company, right?! Kidding, kidding...but seriously. I'm going to start Truthbook. I'll send you an invite.