One of Those Mornings Where All the Littlest Things Go Wrong and I Have a Temper Tantrum, Thereby Securing Some Therapist's Job for Years to Come

It all began when I overslept, YET AGAIN.  Ugh!  Whoever invented the snooze option was clearly messing with me.  I was happily sleeping and dreaming that I was in New York City, filming an episode of The Best Thing I Ever Ate.  In my dream, I was a famous chef, and was sharing my favorite deli sandwich in the city.  When filming was done, I went and had lunch with some other chef.  You may have heard of her, Giada de Laurentis.  Maybe not.  She's not quite as infamous as me yet.  Anyway, all through our famous, pretty chef lunch (pretty Giada, not me), I was biting off those acrylic nails you get at a nail salon and spitting them in the bread basket.  Weird. (Weird because I typically bite my nails off during breakfast, not lunch. LOL).  I was enjoying the dream when my alarm jolted me awake at 5:35.  It's set at 5:35 because it just feels not as early as 5:30, but not as late as 5:45.  Just go with it for me people.  I wanted to get back to my NYC lunch, so I hit snooze.  More than a few times. 

Next thing I know it's 6:01 and I panic and fly out of bed to get ready.  Remember, I'm a mom, so I have to get more than myself ready for the day.  I'd let the Hubby get the girls' clothes all planned out and on them, but we all know I can't send my kids out into public looking the way he'd have them look.  All you moms out there are nodding and going, "Mmm hmm!  Tell it sister."

I proudly take a speed shower lasting less than 5 minutes.  Way to conserve water!  And then when I reach for my towel, it hits me.  I didn't get a towel.  Shit.  It's below zero, mid December, and now I have to air dry?  I do a naked cold and wet dance to get a towel (don't attempt to picture it, it gives even me nightmares), dripping water all over the bathroom floor.  More mess for me to clean up.  Yay.

Next, the Mess with People's Mornings goblins prevented me from pulling my toothbrush out of the toothbrush holder.  The toothbrush that is clearly too big for the holder is crammed there because I'm too lazy to get a smaller toothbrush.  Or a bigger holder.  I fight with that evil ass piece of plastic for a good minute, mumbling and grumbling some choice vocabulary, but I prevailed in the end and was able to brush away my morning breath. 

     My temper tantrum meter is now on a 2 out of possible 10.

By now I'm a little flustered, but still staying positive.  Until I try to put in my left contact.  Every single attempt ended in me muttering "What the...?"  Whenever that contact touched my eye, it went limp and flipped inside out.  Performance anxiety?  (Ladies, you're flashing back to a bad date right about now, right?)

Time to blow dry my  hair.  But wait!  Not until I clean out my barrel roller brush that I've discovered has carpet fibers in it!  Who the hell was brushing the carpet?  Next time you get the urge to brush the flipping carpet, use your own damn brush!

Temper tantrum meter: 4



Next came the following rapid-fire moments of frustration:  I find I'm completely out of foundation so I attempt to use concealor instead to hide my giant pores and crow's feet. I can't find my mascara or blush brush (Bossy Girl must have been playing with Mommy's make up bag again.).  And when I get a hankering for a 6:40 am glass of milk nog, I find it's EXPIRED. 

Temper tantrum meter: 8

When I go to the laundry room to iron my khakis, I find that the water chamber for providing steam while ironing is empty.  YET.  AGAIN.  Why oh why am I the only fricking person in my house who can refill the water in the iron??  Or replace a roll of toilet paper on the holder for that matter?????? (which suddenly reminds me of one of my all time favorite shows.  Mad About You.  When Jamie demonstrates proper toilet roll replacement. Watch it here. Replace the TP roll!)

Alert, alert!  Temper tantrum meter: 10!!!!

Now comes the stomping, sighing, eye rolling, swearing fit I'm so good at. Just ask the Hubby.  Thankfully my girls are nowhere near this dramatic event, because I suddenly remember something I read in one of my magazines. It was like a voice inside my head reading aloud the one single line in Redbook that had any meaning.  The mother is the emotional center of a home. 

Christ.  I'm the effing emotional center of my home?  My kids are screwed.