Two Weeks' Notice

My liver has officially put in for disability benefits and is calling it quits. Most likely, this is not because it's put in a lot of work lately, with what it's required to do filtering out the occasional glass of wine or bag of Milanos. (Did I say bag? I meant, um, "serving size"). I'm pretty sure, though, that after all the time and effort and damage exerted during my younger years, poor old Bessie has had enough. Or, at least, she's looking to move into the body of someone without two small children, someone who could handle a shot of booze if there were an active champagne cork aimed at her head, unlike yours truly.

Let's be honest, though...like this is a HUGE surprise. You hear it from anybody who's had kids and is not currently sporting an arrest record or hanging with Britney Spears: once those charming spawn come hither, you can kiss your old life goodbye. Hell, once the line on the test stick turns pink, that's your Bat-signal to put on your big girl panties and grow up. (Your mate, however, is still allowed a probationary drinking period and can reap the benefits of having a designated driver for nine months straight, given his ability to maintain a constant flow of ice cream in your house).

In truth, I love my kids to pieces. My husband does, too. But if you had sat us down three years ago and presented us with a picture of our lives today, we would have laughed heartily before inviting you to come along to Happy Hour for cocktails and free jalapeno poppers. Life was different then, you see. We spent a lot of time at the bar. We met in a bar. We expected a certain amount of upheaval after having kids, but it was always assumed that our Sid and Nancy alter-egos would return once we got a handle on the whole "baby" thing. (Mind you, this idea was hatched before Irish Twin #2 showed up on the scene.) So much for best-laid plans, eh? (Bada-bum-bum-bum).

Most of our recent attempts at not being lame have proven fruitless debacles. Take, for instance, one weekend recently when my "fun cousin" was visiting and we were meeting up with friends in the city. Everyone was feeling great, plus, we had an actual babysitter that didn't show any outward signs of bipolar disorder. All the ingredients for a good time, right? Naturally, we all ended up stinking drunk with a $500 bar tab and a Hall Of Fame hangover that made me want to peel the scalp off my head if only it would have dulled the throbbing pain. Our boys were gracious enough, however, to wake us for the 6AM shows on Nickelodeon lest we miss the fun of Blue's Clues (except this particular morning Blue had developed a freaky doppelganger since my eyes were unable to focus as they pulsed out of their sockets and onto the area rug). My husband came through like a champ, however, getting up right away and giving the baby his bottle. That morning, I came to see him with even more respect and almost felt sorry for my friends who complained that their husbands were not quite as "with it" as mine....that is, until I found that he had snuck off, baby in swing, and was curled up in a cozy ball sleeping on the kitchen floor. Face-down. I wish I were kidding.

I've decided, though, that being a total pansy is a blessing in disguise. It's not like any of us old married farts are out to flirt anymore, and the binge-drink aftermath is almost as bad as being in labor: it's painful, you want to throw up the whole time and it lasts for HOURS. And then, just when you're certain you can't take any more and swear up and down your pledge to recoil in the face of liquor from here on in....somebody poops. A lot. And it will be green. And assuming your husband is not the culprit, you will finally resolve that it's just way too much work to have that kind of fun anymore when there are small people depending on you. And you may find that actually, it's okay to move on and find new ways of amusing yourself. I certainly have. My liver will thank me, once it returns.

Muscle Cars Make Great Birth Control

It occurred to me the other day that despite my wonderful marriage to a responsible, committed husband (who has been pre-beaten and molded by a military academy, for my convenience), I might be in imminent danger of losing him to a "girlfriend" on the side. And not some bar skank with a grown-out perm and numerous STDs that I could easily take in a fight with my Jersey heels and some large friends. Oh no...this one poses a real threat. She lives in my house, for Chrissakes. And I hate to admit it...but she's a pretty piece of you-know-what.

I speak, of course, of the 1971 Dodge Dart that's lying in the garage in pieces, like an autopsy. This is the second of what will no doubt be many cars into which my husband will pour his efforts. He's one of those muscle car junkies whose idea of heaven is a big stinky garage and a project car. Call me neurotic, but somehow I find it hard to muster excitement over the rusted metal parts and flat tires that take up the garage. Both sides. Every. Square. Inch. Of my parking spot. Note below (despite how pretty and shiny the engine looks) the complete lack of space to walk anywhere:

Not only does this whole project force me to cross the street in front of our house with two small kids to get to the visitor lot that holds my car, but it steals my husband away for hours at a time. He returns eventually, glowing with excitement and reeking of whatever it was he had been playing around with. The handyman's version of lipstick on the collar. And then there's me, watching House Hunters by myself with a glass of Pinot (and by the way, this is no fun whatsoever if there's nobody there to commiserate on how irritating it is that the women always make boneheaded complaints about paint color. How hard is it to pick up an effing roller? Seriously).

It's right around then that my personal Mope-a-palooza begins. I'm not a jealous person by any means, and I abhor needless drama in our house, but this personal hobby has started to morph and take on a life of its own, sucking time (and more importantly, money) out of our little "nest." My mother-in-law tells me similar stories about my husband's father and his golf addiction (insert witty comment here about "apples" and "falling from trees"). Thankfully I am able to glean from her many years of experience, and she is tremendously helpful despite the fact that I am complaining about her son.

Without even picking up my old college psych textbooks, I can tell you that if honesty prevailed, I would admit that a lot of this stems from the fact that right now I can't think of any passion that makes me twinkle the way he does when he works on his cars. Or at least not within the constraints we have to work with. Anybody with kids and a budget can tell you that. Given buckets of money and an au pair, I would be in a cooking class in Tuscany right now. But I'm NOT. I'm HERE, writing because my kids are both sleeping and this is free.

All concerns about money aside, it is kind of endearing that the car relaxes him to the point where his stress level goes way down and his eye stops twitching the way it does after he gets home from work. And despite the fact that I have no idea how the car works and I have to put on my "Stepford Smile" and nod and blink my way through his re-enactment of what he's just made, the car is starting to come together and look, well, kind of good. I suppose being widowed by a hobby is the price to be paid for being married to someone who takes pride in everything they do. Bummer for me, but livable regardless. Unlike the bar skank, this habit won't go down with a right hook and a drink to the face, so I may as well buck up and smile.