Child hacks up a lung several times in the middle of the night. The lung slithers into my bed, each time, croupily demanding stroking. “Bad lung,” I say. It snarls at me, pops a few alveoli, right in my ear, like bubble wrap.

“BAD, BAD LUNG. BACK TO YOUR PERSON,” I order. I drag the lung back to the child, make her swallow it in her sleep, and still that damn lung finds its way to my shoulder an hour later, then two hours later: a damp wheezy roll of flesh, a wet fish.

By 3 a.m., spotty, dodgy sleep leaves me for good. “Sayonara, Sucker,” it hisses, before heading out to find a bar with tomorrow’s fortitude. I hear them laughing as they leave the house. “BYE, SLEEP AND FORTITUDE,” I yell after them. “Don’t let the door hit you on the whatever on the way out.”

No matter what I do, no matter what I think about, no matter how many Celebrity Boyfriends and Girlfriends I imagine cuddling me tight in the dark, I cannot sleep. F*ck it to hell. It is 4 a.m.

Lung has fallen asleep finally where it belongs: in child’s chest.

I wave a white Kleenex in the air. My bed allows surrender, boots me into a standing position.

I shuffle down the steps, deranged and coffee-seeking.

The coffee maker takes pity on me, begins whirring, suggests the Sumatra Bold.

Facebook. Email. Twitter. Netflix. Yes, Netflix. Boogie Nights. I have never seen it. I park myself on the couch, which is cranky for being so rudely awakened during its off-hours. After apologizing to the couch, I settle back for some coffee and Dirk Diggler. No light comes through the windows. Everything is dark, except the TV screen, and Marky Mark, who is currently lighting up my world.

I realize I AM Amber Waves. Except I am Brunette Waves. Which really doesn’t work. I try to remember my porn name. I think I am Tweety something. No. That doesn’t work either.

Coffee and a 5 a.m. movie is not the worst thing in the world, I have to say.

After Boogie Nights is over, Marky Mark calls my cell. I pick up. “That was a prosthetic,” he says.

“I know, but a girl can dream,” I say.

We have a good chuckle over that, but I tell Marky Mark I have to go because the dog looks like she might poo on the carpet, and anyway I have to get the girls ready for their dad.

“Switchover day,” says Marky Mark. “That blows.”

“Don’t I know it,” I say.

We hang up amiably. Steel gray light agrees to visit, via the Saran Wrapped windows.

I head upstairs. Much kerfuffle takes place, involving lost underpants; missing socks; sullied jeans; a dry erase board; how to draw an elephant from the front, not the side; hoochie-mama leggings; a crocheted hat; refusal of breakfast; brushing teeth before the refusal of breakfast.

Finally, the man who is their father comes to the door. The house holds its breath. It refuses to breathe while he is here. It can hold its breath for a very long time. When he leaves, it’s very drafty.

I mutter incoherent things to this man who is their father. I tell him about a $20 check to support the ninth graders at their school; folded Valentines; music binders. I believe 1/15 of what I say is heard. I announce, “I AM INCOHERENT” to no one in particular. The unheard words and sentence fragments gather around my ankles, a small herd of nonsense, pecking at my shins.

The children leave with their father. I avert another in-the-house poo by Red Dog #2, the border collie mix plagued with neuroses. We are stereotypes, she and I, so we get on fine, despite the ever-present poo drama.

I realize I must go to the supermarket. If you have read this blog before, you are sick of hearing me whine about the supermarket. Well, I am sick of you NOT whining about the supermarket. So there. It is a place of tragedy and demoralization of mankind. But I have reusable grocery bags so I can pretend I am doing something about my carbon footprint or something to prevent seagulls and sea otters from drowning in plastic bags. I Am A Good Person.

I put Red Dog #2 in the back of the car, because she hates her crate, and the crate hates her. The back of the wagon is the same size as her crate, but she likes the scenery better.

Inside the supermarket, they are playing songs specifically designed to undo my fraying brain. At the checkout, Sinead’s ballad “Nothing Compares 2 U” causes a small brain bleed.

“Why do they play music that makes me WANT TO DIE?” I think about asking but do not ask my checkout cashier. He is dropping everything I hand him: savings coins, supersaver card. He charges me $13 for razor blades that are not mine. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something.

“I don’t want the razor blades. Not right now, at least. They’re not mine. They’re—”

I gesture lamely. He stares.

“—someone else’s. A MAN’s. I don’t have a MAN at home. I mean, I shave my legs. But I don’t know about razors that require blade-switchage. It feels like a fountain pen. Nice idea, but really, are you going to bother?”

“You’ve saved no money today,” he says, and hands me back my silver savings coins.

“Oh,” I say and do not say. “You’ve saved no money today either. I guess we’re even.”

“Nothing Compares 2 U” ends, replaced with a piano version of The Alleycat. I try not to do the steps as I bag my groceries. Right, right, left, left, back, back, back, back. Knee up, knee up, knee up, kneeeee. Turn, and jump, and CLAP.

My brain is mush. I need a nap. Checkout Chap can tell I need a nap.

I hate supermarket shopping with all my might. It is my week alone, which means I can eat whatever I know how to make, which is garbanzo beans with olive oil and lemon juice and cumin, and lentil soup. Try as I might, I can’t figure out what to do with any other foodstuff.

As I drag the bags from the car through the slush up the steps into the house: I realize that I am haggard. Today, I am officially haggard, and looking every cell of my 40 years of evolution and stagnation.

I wonder if neighbors are staring out their windows, clucking. “She used to be so VITAL. Now, she’s DOWNRIGHT HAGGARD.”

The shovel whimpers. It knows I am going to smash it into the ice floes stuck to the steps. It does not like pain any more than I do. “Be strong,” I tell the shovel.

Bash. Bash. Bash. Ice islands. I think I see a polar bear pawprint. F*ck it.

I did not fall on my knees at the supermarket. But Sinead coupled with The Alleycat…it was close. Let’s just say it was too close for comfort.

Inside the house, no animals have eaten any other animals.

It is very quiet. I eat Cowboy Salsa on Pita Chips. I don’t allow myself to double-dip, even though I am the only one at my pre-Superbowl party. I have standards, no matter what they say.

I would apologize for the strong language, but I didn’t write the naughty stuff. My trolls wrote their own lines. I’d give them credit, but they never leave their real names.

This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.

Downstairs, Soph is on a roll. She is doing the karaoke version of “Baby, Hit Me One More Time” for the twelfth time tonight. She’s stinkin’ good.

HB and I hung in there for a while, trying to learn all the dance moves so we could be proper backup dancers for Soph, but we’re beat, man. Those backflips took a lot out of us.

*****

My explanations take a lot out of them. And me.

“I don’t like the name of this song,” I announce lamely to the household. Again.

“We know, Mommy. You said that, like, forty times.”

“She means ‘hit me’ like, in cards. Like, ‘try me again.’

“Maybe fifty times.”

‘Give me another card.’ Blackjack. Like, uh, ‘CALL ME.’ Not HITTING hitting.”

“Blackjack?”

“Poker. Card games. You know it’s NOT ABOUT HITTING. Tell me you know it’s not about hitting.”

They perform their gold medal Olympic synchronized eye-rolling routine. Flawless. “WE KNOOOOOWWWWW.”

“Because hitting is always bad. ALWAYS. Unless it’s self-defense. It’s totally okay to beat the poo out of serial killers and anyone who touches you inappropriately. You, or your friends or family or pets. Then you can WHACK THE POO OUT OF THEM, and I will totally support you.”

“We know.”

“Okay. I just…I wish Britney named it something else.”

“We know.”

“Sing on. I do wish she kept her belly covered. It’s a little inappropriate. Let’s pretend she’s singing about cookies.”

They sigh. “Okaaaaaay.”

Mommy is a dork, yo, but a well-meaning one.

****

I have a little gig. I have a little gig at a big place where the hate hitters come out to hit, and hit hard. They make the Breed ‘Em and Weep trolls look like inert yard gnomes.

I’m not going to read the comments there. Because that ain’t pretty, there. I never signed any contract that agrees to let people poop on my doormat or into my open hands. Someone made the mistake of reporting a comment that was nasty, and it just got bounced into my email inbox. Goodness GRACIOUS, the world is full of asshats.

I could write that I had sold my house, used the proceeds to start an orphanage in Central Africa, given up all gluten, sugar, meat and sex, and cured AIDS, cancer and bad hair extensions. And That Brand of Hater would appear. There’s a hater for every story.

It’s pretty wack. Anonymous hating. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.

And I don’t know how you read THIS general story:

I loved my ex-husband very, very much. He loved me. We have wonderful daughters. We broke up. We both tried online dating. A sad, funny thing happened. I took the sad, funny thing as a sign from the sad, funny universe that maybe we should work it out. I thought this for perfectly valid reasons. He did not agree, for his own perfectly valid reasons. It didn’t work out. We are all still alive and breathing. The End.

And get this conclusion:

The writer is a petty, picky bitch. The writer is lucky to have her own teeth. She needs to get a dog. The writer is a $#@!ing twit.

A friend wrote me, “A slut does everyone. A bitch does everyone but you.”

That made me laugh.

In that case, I guess I am a bitch.

And I am lucky to have my own teeth. I will add that to my Gratitude Journal for Petty, Picky Bitches and Twits. Thank you.

Way ahead of you on the dogs, buddy.

It’s live! And it is PURE AWESOMENESS.

The Fifth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Concert, hosted by Citizen of the Month’s Neil Kramer, is a holiday assortment of various bloggers Doing Their Holiday Thang, whatever their holiday or their thang might be.

The Mater and I are in the ninth (or so) slot, with a very special mother-daughter Christmas duet. So special, my girls covered their eyes and shrieked while watching it this morning. I’m sure they’re just very, very proud.

DON’T MISS. And a very Happy Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah to everyone!

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

Tomorrow—Wednesday, December 15th, 2010—you are going to want to go HERE.

I’m not kidding. One more time: you DO NOT WANT TO MISS IT. THE EVENT OF THE SEASON! OMG!

That’s my pal Neil’s blog, Citizen of the Month. He is all famous and smart and crap but he talks to me anyway on Facebook and Twitter. And sometimes, he even comments here. He Expects A Lot From Me. He thinks I’m stinky at social marketing and have, like, ZERO game in the world of media savvy and self-promotion. Which I am and I don’t.

He is not impressed with my vocal talents, but he’s very impressed with The Mater and her musical stylings. WHAAA? How could Neil have an opinion on THAT?

Ah! You will see why. TOMORROW. Aren’t you getting excited? Aren’t you? Seriously. You should be planning your special froufy coffee drink with which to enjoy this event.

For the record, I am kind of impressed by myself anyway. Because that’s the first step toward being good at self-promotion, as I understand it. Being suitably impressed by my own mediocrity and dubious achievements to tweet and Facebook about it all.

U KAN HAZ TWEETS, TOO! Follow me @breedemandweep on Twitter and HAZ MAI TWEETS! I kan haz ur tweets too?

I IZ IMPRESSIVE! #impressivejenn #yayselfpromotion #selfmarketingmakesmeclimax

Anyway. Tomorrow. It’s a date, okay? Trust me. Oh, yes. Holiday merriment at its finest. AND YOU WERE THERE. Or, well…you will be.

K thx bai!

Love,
Jenn

What I really like
is that fake name
you love to use.

It’s so freeing,
to be untraceable,
unaccountable,
anonymous.

Give thanks to your Lord
as you wait on the corner
in your ski mask
for your next assignment.

Under the mailbox, you will
find a paper bag holding
smooth, heavy stones.
Your favorite.

Dig deeper. There’s a key,
and a map to your shiny
new glass house. Praise be.

It must be nice to know,
to always know, what is
right, what is true.

It must be nice to know
that black is black and
white is white and gray
is reserved for pussies.

A thought.
Meet me for coffee,
before you judge.
I’ll pay, asshole.

New post at Single Mom at Work. Theme, sentiment: not new. I can’t help it. The nightmares throw me, hard. Damn brain.

mommyjenny I cannot believe they got a Canadian mime to pretend to fix the Olympic cauldron. Even H is speechless. #ocanada #fearthemime
45 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock I sort of love that they got a Canadian mime to pretend to fix the Olympic cauldron. #sortalovemimes
44 minutes ago via web

thesueyside If those white-clad Gidget snowboarders make a maple leaf, I will slit my wrists. In a maple leaf pattern. #fml #readyformyclosingceremony
22 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny @thesueyside Stay alive. The Marriage Ref with Seinfeld and Baldwin is next up. #laughteristhebestmedicine
15 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock OMG. THEY PUT RUSSIANS IN INFLATABLE HAMSTER BALLS WITH CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND EVERYONE IS KEEPING A STRAIGHT FACE. #killmysenseofirony
14 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny If I can’t get my kid to brush her teeth, I sure as hell can’t get her to the Olympics #parentingsux
12 minutes ago via web

thesueyside The Dan Jansen commercial makes me cry. Joannie Rochette’s hat makes me cry. Shawn White’s coif makes me cry. #wishiwerekidding
11 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock @thesueyside The head of Canada cannot speeekez les Francais. I bet you can say merci beaucoups without pronouncing the p. #blamecanada
9 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny Bob Costas just said “Amen” to Neil Young. No, seriously. He actually said, “Amen,” and I snort-wheezed drool on the dog. #neilyoungwhatiswithyourhat
6 minutes ago via web

dreamyjenn WTF? Why is Doc Baker tooting into a harmonica under gigantic icicles? Where’s Project Runway? #adhdnotjust4kidz
4 minutes ago via web

thesueyside Someone just said AS IT WERE. Show me to the bridge. I want poisoned candy and I will lick and lick until I can lick no more. #arsenicnotSplenda
3 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock Oh, William Shatner. You have never made love in a canoe, and we all know it. P.S. They spelled ‘prairies’ with only one ‘i’ on the big-ass floor postcards. #atleasticanspelleh?
3 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny O, CATH-er-ine O’Hara, I love you, but I hate the writers who gave you this material. Sorry, eh! #noEmmysontheway
2 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny @jennyfromtheblock They photographed PEE IN THE SNOW. Please tell me you saw that too. #urinedoesnotbelongintheclosingceremonyoftheolympics
1 minute ago via web

thesueyside I love Michael J. Fox. #totally
1 minute ago via web

mommyjenny I love Michael J. Fox. #absolutely
1 minute ago via web

jennyfromtheblock I love Michael J. Fox. #alexrulesbutiwoulddojasonbateman
1 minute ago via web

thesueyside But he said back bacon and poutine and now I want to cry again. I am pathetic. Pathetique. #fixme
45 seconds ago via web

jennyfromtheblock @thesueyside Buble Alert! With Mounties! SHUT OFF THE TV and call the Good Samaritans, stat #weloveyouandinflatablemountiesblow
30 seconds ago via web

mommyjenny @thesueyside @jennyfromtheblock THEY DRESSED A CHILD AS A HOCKEY PUCK AND BY GOD I WANT TO SMASH IT, HARD #sowrong
30 seconds ago via web

dreamyjenn Are those inflatable mountie sex dolls or should my mom be adjusting my med trays? #mountthis
25 seconds ago via web

jennyontheblock OH MY FUCK THEY ARE BRINGING IN THE BEAVERS #ohmyfucktheyarebringinginthebeavers
20 seconds ago via web

mommyjenny I think I just saw a mountie blowup doll hump one of the beavers #bleachmybrain
20 seconds ago via web

dreamyjenny @mommyjenny No, no, it was a beaver mounting a canoe. Someone stand on guard for me or I am going to piss myself in my sleep. #withglowingfarts
15 seconds ago via web

jennyontheblock I think the maple leaf nymph with the big titties just touched herself inappropriately #dragqueensfindingwork
10 seconds ago via web

thesueyside @jennyontheblock @mommyjenny @dreamyjenn I feel much better now. Made it to the Marriage Ref and they taxidermied The Fonz #perfectending
5 seconds ago via web

I was all like, you’ve got naughty cartoons in your bathroom! How can you get away with that?

And he was all like, welcome to Urology!

No, seriously? Kudos to Urology. First off, the nurse was incredibly compassionate.

I was all like, I know I’m talking a lot to you, but I’m trying to talk fast and not waste your time. I’m trying to tell you what I know. This isn’t mania. Please understand. This is me having two little ones and being worried because I don’t know which way to turn.

And she was all like, I hear you.

How about that?

I hear you.

And she meant it, too.

I was all like, thank you. Thank you so much.

The urologist referred to the nurse he worked with as His Boss.

He was all like, I’ve got to check with the Boss, but let’s try to rule out a few things today, if you’re up to it.

I was all like, you bet, yes, please.

He was all like, okay then.

I was like, a urethral stricture seems really unlikely to me, how about you?

He was all like, hey, that’s cool that you’re smart, you’re right, urethral stricture is something we usually see in major pelvic trauma. But you seem like you’re in a lot of discomfort, and you’ve tried to urinate five times since you’ve been here. We could do a cystoscopy—

I was all like, ooh, yeah, that’s the long tube with a camera on the end of it that you guys like to push up into bladders.

He was like, well, it would rule out stricture and give us an idea if the bladder is the main problem, or if it’s an innocent bystander to some other growth in your abdominal organs that’s pressing on it. It might point us in a new direction, diagnostically.

I was like, you mean we could do it TODAY? In your office? And unicorns are real?

And he was like, yep, we could do it now, with the Boss.

I was like, bring it.

So they brought it. I was all like, hey, you’re sticking a camera up my spasming bladder. Won’t I pee in your face?

And they were all like, hey, we’ve seen it all.

And so they stuck the camera in. And I was all, yay, look at me, this is a cakewalk, I rock!

And then they looked around, and that kinda hurt, but I was still all like, look at me, I still rock!

And then they yanked that puppy out. And that didn’t hurt so much. But then I stood up.

And then my bladder said WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, YOU SICK MOTHERFUCKER?!?!?!?!

And I got dressed. And when the doc came back in the room I was hunched and whimpering on a chair like a cat that needed to be euthanized.

And I was all like, um, do you have, like, anything HERE, not at a PHARMACY, for PAIN, like NOW, like IMMEDIATELY?

And he was all horrified, like, duuuuuuuuude. And that doc, God love him, he ran out of the room, brought me a cup of water himself (can you count the times a doctor has brought you a cup of water himself?), and two boxes of Vesicare, which is supposed to batter the angry bladder into submission.

And he was all like, um, I’m really sorry it hurts. Take one now, but it won’t work for a while.

And I was so touched, I was all like, thank you. I don’t care if it doesn’t work. Just thank you for your kindness and compassion, dude, because you played this one really, really well. And you should know that, Dr. Urologist.

And he was all shocked. Because, hey, I don’t think Urology gets a lot of kudos.

And so we went over the test results, with the Boss checking in too, and leading me to the private bathroom in the back when the spasms would take over.

Bladder’s not draining. Could be interstitial cystitis, but he’s not ready to make that diagnosis, because 1) ain’t no cure for THAT and 2) more fun stuff needs ruling out that covers the other scary weird painful symptoms that have been going on for over six months.

So next up: more procedures you won’t want to hear about. Colonoscopy. At 39. I have never felt hotter in my life.

And: Laparororoosooscospy. To see if something’s THEEEEEEEERRE. If I’m incubating ALIENS and they sleep on my BLADDER.

But in the meantime, I have to find a primary care physician as nice and smart and thoughtful as my urologist.

I’ll look for dirty cartoons in the bathroom. That’ll be my tip-off, clearly.

Bring it. I am going to Iceland this year even if I have a colostomy bag hanging out of my Sharper Image backpack.