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My family is having that conversation - the one about permanently taking away the car keys to prevent another disaster that may hurt other drivers.

In my defense I tend to hit empty cars.  Or walls.  Or empty cars and walls.

Yesterday I had my third car accident in two years.  As I’ve repeatedly explained to Nathan, that record is pretty good for me.  In 1988 I had five accidents one of which involved a drive through cement post.  No humans or animals were hurt in the making of any of those insurance disasters.  The most embarrassing of the bunch was when I accidentally rolled into the car in front of me at a light and, when I got out to say I was sorry and beg forgiveness, I put the car in reverse instead of park and slammed into the car behind me.

Oops.

So this time another damn parked car hit me!  What is wrong with these people?  At this point I think it’s their own fault for parking anywhere near me. 

Of course, I had to hit a BMW.  Convertible.  2008.  Navy blue.  It was quite lovely.  Before I confused the clutch with the gas and flew backward out of my driveway into its cute little driver’s side door.

Oops.

Really, I was just trying to make my mom feel better as she had her accident right in front of her own driveway too.  I almost got hit by a moving car that was able to brake in time or I would have had the very same accident as my mother.  Except she was driving her car forward and it wasn’t a stick shift.  And I’m not 82.

Oops.

On a high note, my mom recognized me when I finally made it to the hospital.

On a low note, when I asked her if I could get her anything she said jewelry.

Okay, Mom.  Let me see if the nurse has an extra diamond tiara floating around.

Go ahead. 

Shake your head.

Laugh at me. 

Lord knows I am!

I’ve watched all the Oprah Winfrey shows about methamphetamine addiction.  It’s fascinating and I often wonder: if I took one hit of a meth pipe, on Girl’s Night maybe, would I be selling our furniture on eBay for my next fix?  My rational brain tells me I would never take the first toke; but let’s remember, I don’t often hang out with my rational brain.   I spend far more time with her psychotic sister, the brain that actually worries I might wake up one day, rob a bank, get caught, and spend the rest of my life in an orange jumpsuit.  On a whim.  Armed with a gun I just happen to see lying in a bush as I walk into the bank to make our monthly loan payment.  You can see how it might happen.

So I like to think of myself as free of addiction, as not having an addictive personality.  Amanda recently wrote about cigarette addiction and I chimed in that I’ve only ever been addicted to milk and Nathan. 

I bet everyone believes that about themselves the day before the intervention.

Isn’t the first step on the Twelve Step Plan actually recognizing you have a problem?

Hello Step One.

For weeks now I haven’t been able to turn off political television.  CNN, CNBC, MSNBC, and when I’m desperate for a fix, I’ll even risk stroke, heart attack, lung hemorrhage, and self-implosion by turning on Fox News.  That’s when I know I’ve crossed a line - when the high I get from Brian Williams just isn’t high enough and I have to step up the danger with a quick drag of Bill O’Reilly. 

That’s in over your head.  That’s a real cry for help.

The only housework that’s gotten done in weeks is that which can be accomplished in three minute commercial breaks or can actually be achieved in front of one of our two televisions.  Bathing Finn is out.  Hot meals are a thing of the past.  Forget raking the effing leaves. 

The den is clean though.  My closet is organized within an inch of its life.

I suffer painful withdrawal symptoms if I’m forced to leave the house.  Just the time it takes to walk from the den to the car, strap everybody in, get the engine running and NPR adjusted on the radio leaves a rash all over my face and neck.  My breathing becomes jagged.  I hear a ringing in my ears and my heart pounds at double speed.

If I miss the first fifteen minutes of The View nausea sets in.

An hour without knowing how far the DOW has fallen and I start hearing voices.

An evening without Chris Matthews and my head pounds like I’ve been hit with a Hardball.
 
You Tube is my only balm.

Every day I try to quit.  I tell myself I’ll only watch for one hour and then I’ll turn it off and do something healthy like take a shower.  I’ll turn the bedroom set off in an act of self control, grab my towel and head toward the bathroom.  But as I pass the den television the sweat beads up on my forehead and I start to shake.  Just one more hour…

The implications of quitting terrify me.  I may miss the big break in Clothing-gate.  McCain might slip in the f-word at a rally or refer to good old George as Obush.  Or maybe he’ll try to give us Pennsylvanians another compliment.  Michele Bachmann might announce to the free world that she has sex with animals.  Biden may get his foot caught so far down his own throat he’ll choke to death, and who knows?  With the bar set so low I might actually be asked to take his place.  Well shucks, I am a soccer mom! 

If that doesn’t happen I may just turn to methamphetamine for relief.

Either way I’ll probably end up on Oprah.

As my brilliant savvy friends expound on the virtues of something called Twitter, I have just discovered something equally as fascinating called FACEBOOK. Ever heard of it?

Like all things social, social networking is not one of my strengths. Because I run a blog, I get invited to join many of them. I join them all and then promptly forget about them the next day. BECAUSE I HAVEN’T A CLUE WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THEM! My favorite is Cre8buzz which I joined the minute I heard of it, during the beta stage, but couldn’t figure out what the hell I was doing and promptly deleted it from my favorites in a fit of middle-aged angst. The best part is they now send me an email every day informing me of my blog rank - three million something, just below that blog about people who collect hub caps from the side of the road. A real ego booster…

But this FACEBOOK thing is different. When I first set up my own account I was like a sugared-up kid on her first trip to Chuckie Cheese. I ran from game to ride to machine wanting to play with everything at once. And I even figured some of it out with a little help from my friends. My favorite part is the photo album. Can you believe I can actually put all of our vacation photos up on the web and like anybody with the url can access them? It boggles me sober!

And YES! I have friends! Never in my whole socially retarded life have I been able to make friends so quickly!

So about the Twitter thing - I’m just not ready. Maybe in ten years, when the rest of you are inserting needles into your eyeballs and transporting your every thought into your network of other needlestickers’ brains, I’ll be ready to try texting my life in 147-character sound bites.

In the meantime, if you have a FACEBOOK account, let’s be friends! You can find me under simplynutmeg.

I bought lipstick yesterday.  This shiny little tube of long lasting loveliness was sticking out of a 75% off basket near the check-out aisle at CVS.  It was a tender shade of cinnamon (which is very close to nutmeg), and I felt I deserved it as Nathan was on a plane to Florida at the time.  Last night I wore it out to dinner with the Old People, who couldn’t see it, but I felt good with my shimmering lips.  (I ain’t no stinkin’ shlumpadinka!)

When I got home from a lovely dinner at which regularity and prunes were discussed very loudly, I was impressed to see my lipstick was still intact.

This morning I woke up from a very bad night with a feverish four-year-old in my bed.  I stumbled into the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and assessed the damage in the mirror.  I found the usual: eyes purple and puffy, hair plastered to my pounding head, a Polly Pocket shoe tangled in my bangs, a deep sleep-crease disecting my left cheek, and perfectly painted tawny lips. 

Freaking scary, I tell you!  

I”m a bra stuffer.  It’s not what you’re thinking, although I could use a little help in that department too.  I stuff because I just don’t have enough hands or arms or bags to carry all the crap I need with me at all times.  And pockets full of that crap add ten pounds to you in photos.  (You just never know when the paparazzi will be lurking outside of Shop ‘N Bag!) 

I keep everything I might need for the day at my fingertips in my bra because I’m too lazy disorganized late creative to pack a boring old diaper bag or purse.  At any given time (if you decide to go looking) you might find mingled in with the biology a cell phone, credit card, pacifier, shopping list, tissues, business card, lipstick, keys, pen, diaper, or a lap top.  Okay, I was just being silly with the last one but the rest of the list is viable. 

The problems crop up when I wear turtle necks or dress in layers.  People find it disconcerting when I have to go rooting around in there to, let’s say, pay for my coffee or write a check.  Once when I was in a business meeting, my boob vibrated and I screamed.  Then I had to sort through my right cup to turn off my cell phone.  I’m sure my boss added psychiatric to our insurance package that day.  The worst is when I go to nurse the baby and he pokes his eyeball on a set of keys or gets a paper cut on his nose from my shopping list.  No, the worst is when I forget to re-hook the nursing flap and everything falls out on the ground (even the boob) at the checkout counter of Target. 

You’d think I’d come up with a better system but Works for me Wednesday’s hasn’t covered bra organization yet.  So for now, if ever you find yourself trying to pick me out in a crowd, like at a blogging conference or maybe a psychiatric ward, I’ll be the one with the vodka bottle sticking out of my cleavage.

(Reposting today because I get lazy sometimes.)