I've placed my order for a Mr. Big bar on Geekster and Intrepid's way home from piano lessons and band practice. It's been one of those days.

I'm wearing the fifth shirt of the day. That's right: my fifth. Number five. Numéro cinq. Número cinco (had to throw that one in for The Madre). Since I stopped drinking caffeinated coffee, Spawnling's pukefest has calmed down quite a bit and he's a lot happier. However, he's still a spitter-upper and I find my shoulder quite wet and full of icky-smelling, curdled goodness. That is, if I either forget to wear the receiving blanket or he decides to miss it, the latter being the most common scenario. Little bugger.

I still maintain that having no real coffee sucks. But you know what sucks more? When you're on your way home from visiting the in-laws and you're an hour into your three hour trip and you stop for lunch and the Tim Hortons server from Podunk, Ontario keeps repeating your order back to you wrong so you eventually let one little thing go and accept a regular coffee instead of a decaf and you get home and feed your baby and your baby screams and vomits profusely for the next six hours.

That, my friends, sucks more than...Oh wait. I can't say the rude thing I wanted to because my mommy reads my blog. She thinks I'm perfect, you know. Let's just say it had something to do with dead goat appendages. Enough said.

Know what else sucks? When your mom is too sick to Christmas shop with you. Do you hear that, mom? Your illness is ruining my fun. This is unacceptable. Sure, some people might think that you have some serious health issues keeping you from working or going shopping with your daughter, but I suspect you just like the attention.

(Ok, she's actually chronically sick and it really does suck worse than a baby screaming because of Satan disguised as an eldery Tim Hortons lady in Hicksville, but you have to find the humour in it somewhere, right?)

I try to do this in just about every less-than-pleasant thing going on in life. Being the wise person I am, I once made up my very own saying about life. My deep thought follows:

Everyone is dealt a shitty hand in the game of life. It's how you play your cards that matters.

Can you imagine if that saying gets passed down through my family? 'Your great, great grandma Maven used to say...' would be quickly followed by 'Um, she used bad words like that?' and 'What's a 'blog'?' and 'Was she one of those trashy people you talk about with your friends, mommy?'

By typical definition I'm actually quite trashy. I'm uneducated, had my first child out of wedlock and had to go into rehab at the tender age of fourteen (not in that order, mind you). Do you realize I just described about 80% of Maury's guests? Now I just need to go on the set stark raving mad with four different guys and try to convince all of them that they fathered all three of my children. I also need to say that I'm 3000% sure. Because they all say that, being the mathematical geniuses they surely are.

Sounds like a fun Wednesday. Maybe I'll talk to hubby when he gets home and we can try to plan a vacation around it. A free hotel room in NYC and all we'd have to do is swear a lot and spend ten minutes running off the stage screaming and crying. Sounds like a fair trade off to me.

I think trashy is really just a state of mind, though. I know I'm trashy because only trashy people watch Maury (I'm embarrassed to say that I watched nearly every day when Gutsy was a baby). However, I'm able to hide most of my trashiness behind material things. Stay-at-home-moms are great at hiding our imperfections.

And our judgement.

And our occasional feelings of inadequacy.

And the fact that Vicodin makes toddler tantrums more pleasant.

Haven't you watched Oprah? Everyone has something to hide and something that they hide behind. For example, the van makes me look like a soccer mom even though none of my kids are in soccer. The Fourbucks latte in my hand makes me look like I'm a bonified yuppie, even though track pants and puked on shirts are my work attire most days. Using big words in my blog makes me look like I never use a thesaurus.

Because I don't.

I'm just incredibly verbose.

And gifted.

And really hot, too.

Oh, and I still get carded when I go to trendy night clubs.

Which is often because the nanny likes to work weekends. For free.

And she's uglier than I am.