So, yeah, the old lady leaves for San Francisco tomorrow morning. Four days -- outnumbered by the spawn. Holy shitfuck. And me with a weakened immune system. I will prevail, however. I'm one wily mofo and I know all of their trickery.
Tomorrow should be no problem. It's my day to get up with them anyway, and I normally pick them up after school on Thursdays. The day starts getting long at around 6:30, when the old lady won't be around to join in for the dinner/bedtime heinousness. Then I won't be able to sleep tomorrow night, what with Miss O's coughing, my own phelgmishness, and the fact that I just can't sleep by myself anymore. I mean, it's no fun farting under the covers if there's no one around to waft it toward.
Then Friday morning will suck, 'cuz I won't be able to sleep in, and then I have to cut my normal long work day short to pick up the kids, and then I'll finally say to myself, "Dude, lighten the fuck up and have fun with it," and I'll suggest to the spawnlets that we go out to dinner or something and they'll say, "We don't want to go out to dinner!" and I'll say, "Who are you guys?! What kids don't want to go out to dinner?!" and they'll say, "We just want to have chicken nuggets and watch a movie," so I'll truck 'em over to Schlockbuster to try to find something remotely watchable that doesn't involve Barbie or Bob the Builder or Angelina Ballerina or Evangelical Vegetables, which will be impossible, and we'll end up renting "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang," which they'll hate and which I'll probably realize really isn't as good as I remember it, and then we'll end up watching an hour of Spongebob and then they'll cry because they miss their mom, and then I'll tell them a story and they'll finally go to sleep.
Then there's the whole weekend to deal with. Oy. Saturday, MAYBE they'll let me sleep in, and maybe I'll take them out for pancakes somewhere, and then we have to go buy a goddamn birthday present for the kid who's having a party on Sunday, and they'll want to get something at the toy store too, and I'll say, "Are you kidding me?! After all that crap that you got for xmas that you're not playing with?!" and they'll half-heartedly whine while secretly appreciating the irony, and I will prevail, and then we'll go home and maybe I'll become momentarily not myself and suggest that we go to Family Swim at the Y, and they'll say, "YAY!" and then I'll become myself again and say, "Why the shit did I just suggest that?" but we'll go anyway and they'll both have fun looking at the wrinkly old man penises in the showers and tittering, and we'll swim and then go home and I'll pass out on the couch while they play a rousing game of "Let's Mess Shit Up," and then dinner, baths, bedtime, blah, blah, unconsciousness.
Sunday, I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do. Miss O has a birthday party to attend, a swimming birthday party, no less -- yeah, maybe I'll blow off the swimming on Saturday. I don't know. Anywhich, unless I can get our sometimes babysitter to watch Mr. Z for a few hours, I'm going to have to drag him along to the party because there's no fucking way Miss O is going to let me drop her off and leave. So I'll sit there with my thumb up my ass for three hours while Mr. Z whines that he's bored, and I'll have to entertain him while trying to coax Miss O into the goddamn pool -- "C'mon, Miss O... you LOVE swimming, remember? All your friends are in there, see?" And she'll finally get in five minutes before everyone has to get out and have cake--
You know, I don't know why I'm thinking about all this shit now -- I'm depressed and the old lady hasn't even left yet. Fuck this.
I'm going up to watch me some "Andy Griffith" and eat me some Newman O's.