My five-year old said he didn’t know how to draw trees so I drew some examples for him. At the end I wrote “Mommy” on the paper and told him “That says ‘Mommy’.” He laughed like I’m stupid or something and he said, “What? That’s not ‘Mommy’. That’s how you spell ‘I love you!’”

I’d been out with my sister solving the world’s problems (doesn’t everything seem a little bit better today?) when my son called and said, “Mom, are you home already? I was upstairs and everyone was asleep and I went downstairs and then I heard someone sit down on the couch.” He met me at the door and was quite obviously freaking out. He insisted on checking every room upstairs for an intruder. Once he’d secured the perimeter, I started getting ready for bed. Because he doesn’t like living here, he thought it would be riotously funny to try to scare me when I was washing my face. He screamed and jumped out in front of me and so I threw him out on the street.

I’ve started watching Chelsea Lately and in order to see it, I have to DVR it. Which is not a verb. But “record” is misleading and sounds so low-tech. Anyway, I clicked into my DVR list and saw that my son was recording a show about paranormal activity (something about a kid who sees another kid’s ghost) and he’d creeped himself out watching this crap before I got home. SERVES HIM RIGHT.

I watched Chelsea and then decided I’d try sleeping. At 1:30 a.m. the bedroom was too hot and my five-year old had climbed into our bed and was being a big bed hog. At 2:30, the couch was too lumpy. At 3:30 the bedroom was still too hot and my brain had started to buzz and hum and show me a whole bunch of anxiety-causing stuff. Because that’s what your brain does when it’s tired and stupid at 3:30 in the morning.

I went back to the couch and watched the news only insomniacs and really old people are up late and early enough to see. One program was running a story from “The Vault”. The story originally aired in 1994. I knew that because there was a big graphic at the bottom of the screen that said, “THIS IS FROM THE VAULT. IT’S FROM 1994.” When the clip was over, there were two news anchors sitting behind a desk and one said, “That was from 1994.” Then the other one said, “Yeah.” All I could think was, “You two could be home sleeping. Why are you up all night talking about news from a million years ago? Please quit your job and sleep.”

My husband got up at 4:00 and I watched him eat toast. Then I got a horrible case of the giggles and couldn’t stop laughing at everything. I’m sure my husband appreciated being giggled at while he ate breakfast.

It was well after 5:00 when I got to sleep and now I hate everything except coffee. The End.

I wanted to take my kids to the waterpark today, but the stupid weather is a piece of crap with cloudiness and possible lightning and tornadoes. So I thought I’d take them out to lunch at this little Mexican restaurant that they absolutely loved the one other time we went there. It’s something to do and we like to eat. But when I said, “Let’s go out to lunch! Get out of this house for a while!” my daughter’s face melted and slipped off her face and hellfire licked at my ankles as her inner demon unleashed its wrath upon me.

Because THAT is like, SO totally lame. So lame, I should die for even suggesting it.

All manner of nasty remarks are flittering in my brain as I am slowly being crushed by her loathing. You can’t tell a 10-year old to take a flying leap. Especially when she is possessed by All The Hatred In The World. I’m kind of scared.

But also seriously bummed because I’m hungry AND I look really cute today. I have new sandals that don’t fart:

About a year ago I wrote the following about socializing with other women:

After a social encounter, I replay the conversation and scene over and over and over in my head and wonder if I should have said that or if that hug was awkward. Did I say too much or too little? Was I weird? Overbearing? Hyper? Bitchier than usual? Could that other woman tell that I intensely dislike her? Did she understand that comment or does she think I’m racist?

I’d talked this over with a friend before I wrote that and she surprised me when she said she felt the same way. I see her as a very confident, I’ve-got-my-shit-together lady and wouldn’t have guessed this inner dialog plagued her, too. Once I hung it out there, I got a lot of feedback on that post and it still attracts visitors who Google about social anxiety. I was reassured by the “me too!” comments. I was able to see this problem as common. I didn’t feel alone with the voices in my head that tell me how awful and awkward and uncool I really am.

It also made me sad. Why are so many kick-ass ladies struggling with social anxiety? What is going on in our heads that we can’t shut down that thinking and just be happy we got to spend time with our friends and colleagues? Shouldn’t knowing that she’s obsessing and she’s worrying and she’s panicking give us good cause to take a deep breath and tell those evil inner voices to just fuck right off?

I needed to give myself a break here. So much of what I do day to day as a mother and a woman is scrutinized and pored over. Did I sound smart handling that situation? Am I wearing the right thing? Is my hair outdated? Are my kids in the right preschool? Am I feeding them right? Do I sound like my mother? How can I do more/better/perfect? This list could go on forever. “Am I good enough?” can be on constant loop in my head. I know I judge others and I assume they’re judging me and then I turn in on myself and do it some more! I needed to learn to recognize under-the-microscope, self-analyzing behavior and stamp it out.

Aside from picturing a giant foot crushing the microscope, I try to categorize the anxious thoughts. I use a strategy I learned when I sold Mary Kay in a previous life:

1. Do it.
2. Delegate it.
3. Dump it.

Isn’t that genius? I can sort a lot of my life this way. It’s super for weeding out the unproductive thoughts and getting down to the real meat and potatoes of my anxiety. What is truly bothering me? Is it something I can change? Do I need to take action right now? Or should I just toss this bit of anxiety into the garbage?

I’ve been seeing old friends lately and have found that much of that anxiety has dissipated. It’s not gone entirely, but I am able to push the anxiety-laden thoughts to the back of my head where they can be sorted. I remind myself that I am the only me I’ve got and they keep inviting me to join them, so I must not be that bad. (Or, I am that bad but they like to invite me so they have someone to make fun of after I leave. Which is probably why I leave last. I won’t tell you I’m cured.) I also think about how many people are suffering with this enough that they turn to Google. I believe it’s getting pretty serious when you get Google involved.

This isn’t the answer for ridding ourselves of all social anxiety. I think we need some degree of unease to keep our egos in check. A little reflection is a good thing. But wringing hands, crying, hating myself and avoiding social interaction was just too much and, as it turns out, unnecessary. This means I get to look forward to lunch dates and Tupperware party invitations (seriously. I need some new Tupperware but I don’t want to host a party. Do it for me and give me your free stuff. Thanks.) and my fifteen-year class reunion this summer. Wee! People who remember me thin and haven’t seen me in years! That’s like The Greatest Recipe For Social Anxiety Ever. Bring it on. I’m so going to kick some ass.

Thanks to Loralee, I found this tasty nugget of genius:

What Celebrities Would Look Like If They Moved to Utah

#13, 16, and 19 are my favorites.

Three stupid things:

1. Bread, a very smushable product, is packaged in very non-sturdy plastic bags.

2. My bedroom is always 300 degrees hotter than the rest of the house.

3. Expensive sandals that make a horrible farting noise when you walk.

I am currently suffering from “This Obsession With David Cook Might Cost Me My Marriage” syndrome. Common symptoms include recording daytime talk shows, recording nighttime talk shows, spending hours searching YouTube for variations of “American+Idol+David+Cook+MyNewBoyfriend,” preoccupation with anti-aging skin care products, Singin’ In The Rain, neglecting one’s children and swooning at “Hello.”

The night of the American Idol finale, I made my mother and sister hit redial to vote for David Cook for four hours. I was panicked. David Cook is DA BOMB, DAWG, but Archuleta had the better night. In the middle of all the craziness, I emailed my friend (who you and I will call Mrs. Smartypants) and told her I was freaking out.

I’m with my sister and we’re voting for David Cook like mad. I cry when we get through because that means people aren’t voting enough to totally tie up the lines. And then I watch his old performances on YouTube and cry like he was my boyfriend and we broke up and it’s still killing us inside.

We’ve voted way over one hundred times.

Really? We’re voting for David Archuleta, we even had t-shirts made.

(This is where I nearly had a nervous breakdown. I was unable to reply.)

Don’t cry! I was only kidding. We love David Cook.

I about died over the tshirts thing. then I saw, “Don’t cry!” and started breathing again.

My mom is dialing now. She’s getting through almost every single stinkin’ time.

I’m dialing and I’m getting “all circuits are busy.”

Ooh. You get a different message. We get busy signal or “thank you for voting for super awesome baby makin’ machine”.

My sister is still dialing. I’m looking on YouTube for the scene in Raising Arizona where Holly Hunter cries, “I love him so much!”

My sister’s still getting through.

Archuleta sounded the best tonight that he’s ever sounded but DAVID COOK CRIED.

Again.

And I have a shattered little heart. If this was next week, I probably wouldn’t even be voting. I’m ridiculous with hormones this month. RIDICULOUS.

SAVE DAVID COOK!

Clearly, I was out of my mind with worry.

Because my friend’s husband has no concern for my mental health and believes himself to be endlessly clever, he said, “Tell her ‘David is Cooked!’” I told her I’d only forgive his VERY UNFUNNY remark if they made a CD for me.

Yesterday, the CD was waiting for me in my mailbox. I shrieked, shredded the envelope, ripped open the case and crammed the CD into the player. Once I’d pulled myself together a little bit, I looked at the case and thought it was so nice of them to make a cover and include the song list because that wasn’t necessary but totally nice. Mister Smartypants is so totally forgiven.

Later, she asked me if I saw it.

Uh, what was she talking about? Did I see what? Huh?

Oh. Who’s that other guy on the cover? Could it be… MISTER SMARTYPANTS?

WELL AREN’T THEY JUST HILARIOUS.

How is life so busy? When did people ever have time to grow their own food and bake their own bread and sweep mud floors to a high gloss?

(I know the answer to this is that they didn’t have internet. Or American Idol. Or The Hills. Or chick lit. Or YouTube. Or chronic laziness.)

This is the last week of the 2000-08 school year and I have to tell you, I was done months ago. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this week my whole life. No more homework, permission slips, meetings, lunch money. No more rolling out of bed at 7:25 every morning on days I don’t have to work before noon! It’s like I’m four days away from living The Dream.

Except. My beauty-precious-gorgeousness baby boy graduates on Wednesday. My Little Guy. My Last Preschooler. I thought the first day of preschool with my first child was tough. This last preschool day with the last kid is sure to turn me into a snotty, sobbing mess. His teacher and I couldn’t look at each other today without Kleenex hosting an intervention. I might require sedation for a preschool graduation ceremony.

I have high hopes for this summer. Our plans include t-ball, swimming, and a summer concert. We’re going to have an extended visit from faraway friends, a high school reunion and hopefully a gigantic chunk of downtime to watch America’s Next Top Model reruns.

With a sleep-puffed face, bloodshot eyes, and his yellow hair sticking out from his head in all directions my Little Guy came to me in the middle of the night and said,

“Mom, if I had a dinosaur pet and he was mean to you and nice at me, then I would name him Mad.”

“Matt?”

“No! MAAAAAAAAAD! Mad! That’s why he can bite you but he doesn’t bite me.”

I’m glad we straightened that out.

I just finished reading Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg. I started crying in the middle and didn’t stop until just about now. My eyes are puffy and I can’t see quite right and I feel like I just got home from a funeral.

It was good.