Sclemeel, schlemazel,

I swear my life is an episode of Laverne & Shirley. People ask, “Did that really happen?” The answer is unfortunately yes.

For example, tonight a simple chore ended in disaster. I decided to paint the trim on my porch. Why doesn’t your husband do it? Well, because this isn’t the 1950’s. I don’t expect the man of the house to do all the manual labor. I actually enjoy that sort of thing. I know it seems cray. (Yeah, I am down with Kanye West) I also love to garden and fix things. I get it from my father.

It is also my only chance to be alone. I even listen to vulgar music on my IPod just because I can. I don’t want to row the boat down anymore fucking streams.

I applied a coat near the roof of the porch. Then, climbed down from the ladder and stepped back to admire my work. Picasso who? By this time my daughter discovered I was outside. She stood at the window yelling and spitting simultaneously, “Can I help?” No. She manages to stain her clothes with washable markers. Imagine the damage she would do with Benjamin Moore. “I am coming inside sweetie.” as I turned toward the garage I felt a gust of wind on the crack of my behind. I was wearing my ‘fat pants’ which were loose and falling down. I would normally enjoy the breeze and celebrate my weight-loss accomplishment, but my neighbor was standing in his drive-way…. Behind me! I quickly reached down to hike up my pants. The paint can slipped out of my fingers and crashed to the ground. White paint splattered on the sidewalk, bushes and a few droplets even landed on my face. I spent 45 minutes with paint remover and a tooth brush scrubbing cement. My daughter, mouth covered with her tiny hands, said, “Uh-oh. You should have let me help.” She is probably right.

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