Momservation: Grocery lists and To Do lists are more certain than death and taxes.
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The kids are at school and I am trapped in this house with unguarded pillowcases full of Halloween candy. It’s an overwhelmed mother’s worst nightmare.
Rather than do something productive to get myself out the CGMST Club (Can’t Get My Sh** Together), I self medicate my anxiety by diving into a bounty of empty calories and broken promises to myself.
The Halloween decorations need to be put away. Better have a Snickers for that.
Need to make a grocery list and go to Costco before I have to serve parmesan cheese packets and pickle relish for dinner. Let’s see if there’s any Butterfinger in here instead.
I need to go to the mall to buy the kids jeans that actually fit instead of telling them to just wear high knee socks with their shorts to ward off the autumn chill. Or just eat some, not all of their Kit Kats.
The unfinished freelance articles, pitch letters, and novel in progress need my attention. Oooo, but so do these Three Muskateers.
The oil in my car needs to be changed before I continue to go another 5,000 miles hoping the reminder sticker on my windshield will forgive me. Some Smarties should take care of that.
The mail needs to be sorted so I can reclaim my kitchen counter instead of cooking surrounded by offers of easy credit, cheaper cable and lowering my insurance rates. Ah, but these M&M’s need to be sorted by regular, peanut and peanut butter then eaten.
The left-overs in my fridge need to be disposed of before they grow legs and throw themselves away. But why waste these Baby Ruths now?
The memory card on my camera needs to be emptied so I can continue making memories that get put on a disc never to be looked at again. Maybe after I find some bite size Milky Way.
The laundry needs to be done (Almond Joy), emails and phone calls returned (Reeces Peanut Butter Cups), floors vacuumed, swept, and mopped (Junior Mints, Twizzlers, Bottle Caps) and the dog needs to be walked (Whoppers).
Halloween is a boon for membership drive to the CGMST Club. As I’m rendered useless in my sugar comatose I can just imagine the horror on the faces of my husband and kids when they get home and find me beneath a pile of candy wrappers.
Digging me out, snapping their fingers before my glazed eyes, they will find clutched in my hands the official guilt remedy and pledge book of CGMST members – a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and O, The Oprah Magazine.
Because if there’s anyone who’s got their sh** together it’s Oprah. She doesn’t belong to CGMST. She belongs to GHOST. Got Her Oprah Sh** Together.