Girl-About-Town Needs a Dayjob

Somebody please rip out my ovaries. Go on...I'll bite down on this wooden spoon while you do it. While folding my socks into tight little balls, and despite the "no-reality-shows" TV rule I've instituted in my household, I inadvertently happened upon a show called, Nanny 911. Playing on the Mary Poppins myth that British women make the best nannies, the show featured a nanny (complete with hat and carpet bag) who observed a family with four unruly children and the parents whose fault it was.

The kids were spitting, swearing, hitting, running and generally being bratty and disrespectful. Oy gevalt! The worst of the lot was the six-year-old who had never had a "time out" (though he surely deserved them) and his four-year old little sister who could string expletives together better than a truck driver who had just stubbed his toe.

By 8:55 pm, everybody had learned how to respect each other and the parents figured out how everything was their fault, but really, they knew better now. Mom, Dad and the kids waved and cried as the Nanny slipped out the front door, another family saved from themselves.

Until today, I was enjoying my time off between jobs. Playing house, doing domestic things like grocery shoppping and laundry, picking up drycleaning, watching reruns of Buffy and Angel on the WB. It's been kind of fun, I have to say; it's been so easy to let my mind wander and wonder what'd it be like to pop out a few kids and call myself a "stay-at-home" mom.

Well, that little domestic fantasy of mine just went the way of Tab and Fen-Fen. I was suddenly reminded of how miserably predictable I am when I got angry at my S.O. for coming home after 9 pm from the driving range. I had a big pot of resentment simmering on the stove and it was about to boil over if I didn't watch it. I had spent the entire day doing homey things. Foodtv.com, Epicurious.com, the "Beef. It's What's for Dinner" people--I searched online in vain for a simple recipe for a top round roast that HE bought last Sunday (with no intention of cooking it himself). I separated lights, darks and delicates and laundered sheets and towels. I fought the masses at an unusually-crowded-for-a-Monday Berkeley Bowl (buying his cooking papaya) and spent twenty-minutes convincing myself that no one will die if don't buy the low-carb pasta at Trader Joe's.

Then He comes home, eats his leftover Chinese and bolts to the driving range. I spent the evening whacked out, more angry at myself than at him. How did this happen? I used to be independent..a girl-about-town, coming and going as I please and you can go to hell if you didn't like it. Resentment, anger, feelings of being underappreciated and taken for granted...guess you don't have to actually BE married to feel like you're married. With kids in the picture, I imagine those feelings would only increase exponentially. I've seen the future--and I'm backing the truck out slowly.

Oh, I have no intention of breaking up with the S.O. anytime soon. I have a wedding to go to in a month, for Chrissakes. I will, however, remember that as much as I love not punching that clock every morning for the Man, working for the Wo-Man, namely me, means more than watching Starting Over and Ellen everyday. I'll have to keep challenged, keep writing and learn how to keep a dayjob.