Oh how I hate the heat.

In case you didn’t get that the first time, let me say it again. I HATE THE HEAT! Summer to me is nothing but 12 weeks of suffering under that sweltering son of a bitch otherwise known as humidity. Throw in a little noose tightening at the hands of the electric company and you have yourself an entire season of oppression.

Okay, maybe that comes off just a little too harsh. I can’t help it – boob sweat makes me cranky.

Whoa! Did I just say that? Apparently the heat has traveled from under my boobs straight to my head!

That’s right…there is an “under” to my boobs…I am guessing it is what they have been pointing at for the last 10 years.

Oh my gosh, how has this post gone so bad, so quickly?

Oh that’s right – it’s because of the heat. The hot, steamy, staggering, skin burning, hair frizzing, sweat soaking heat and his faithful freakin sidekick, humidity. Have I mentioned I hold them both in deep contempt?

I also hold them completely responsible for any damages caused when I ran that red light and took out two mailboxes in hot pursuit of an ice cream truck.

I’m sure you couldn’t guess this, but I much prefer the winter. It’s not that I enjoy sub zero temperatures or deep freezing wind chills, but at least when you get cold, you have ammunition. Another sweater, extra blankets, three layers of socks.  But in the summer, once you’ve hit naked, you’re out of options.

I should probably move to a cooler climate. But you know, with global warming and all, I guess the grass isn’t any frostier….

Perhaps I should go lie down and pray for an early Fall. There is no Groundhog for that now, is there?  My guess is that Phil’s contract with the town of Punxsutawney states that he doesn’t have to come out of his air conditioned hole. Alas, I’m left with nothing but a Sharpie to check off the calendar on the fridge.

While I’m there, I’m going to put my bra in the freezer.

If you’re on a diet, here’s a tip: Never buy a case of Hershey bars for a party that is a week away. This falls under the same category as never buy Halloween candy when it is on sale in September.

I’m not even what you would call a chocolate lover and those damn things are calling out to me. Thirty six candy bars is too many to have in the fridge, waiting to be wrapped and stuffed into favor bags. And since there are only twenty four favor bags to make, it seems only right to eat the ones that won’t be invited to attend the party.

Maybe I shouldn’t eat all twelve leftovers, but don’t you think it would be wise to sample at least one? You never know, we could have a bad batch. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of 24 tummy aches. It would actually be irresponsible of me to not sample them…don’t you think?

Yes, yes, I do believe it is my duty to try them — for the sake of the kids. And I think in the interest of establishing an accurate sampling, I will have to try more than one. After all, the one I try just may be the one and only good candy bar in a box of otherwise rotten chocolate. Could I really go on to assume the other 35 are just as good? I think not.

I think perhaps I need to select quite a few at random and test them over the next few days. I don’t think I need to taste as many as half, but I do need a good percentage, just to be sure. 1/4 might be enough, but I think I would still feel a tad unsettled. 1/3 feels like a good amount — the perfect amount to really feel certain that all the bars are indeed, edible.

Now let’s see…1/3 of 36 is…oh what do you know…12!

I remember nearing the end of the eight grade school year, there was a lot of bustle and hype about the upcoming yearbook. There was even a yearbook committee. I so wanted to be on the committee, but the class nominated and voted on the students who would hold the honor of committing our senior year to paper. I wasn’t even in the running. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to be named “most popular”.

The girl who sat in front of me was selected to be on the committee. For the purpose of this story, I’ll call her Patricia…because that was her name. I don’t remember which other students made the committee. But I have always remembered Patricia, and the reason being is this; when the yearbook came out and everyone’s fate was determined in ink beneath their photograph, Patricia’s read Most Fashionable.

“Huh?” was my initial reaction. And even now, decades later, it is still a head scratcher. You see, Patrica and I went to Catholic school, where everyone wore the same uniform, right down to the socks and shoes. How in the hell can one person be more fashionable than the rest when they are all dressed exactly the same? I’ll tell you how. She was on the committee and wanted to deem herself as such. And so she did.

I wonder whatever became of Patricia. Fashion model…designer…editor of Vogue? Because with that eighth grade credential (albeit self assigned), I’m sure she grew up to secure a grand career in the world of high end fashion.

Or maybe she is waitressing at Applebees and color coordinating her hair clip to her polo shirt. I Googled her and came up empty. Wherever she is, I am sure she is the most fashionable one in the room.

What does this all matter to me now, thirty years later? Not a hell of a lot, I suppose. It’s just that I find myself a lot of the time wondering if I take this pajama mommy thing too far. I mean, there are days I pick my kid up from school wearing something I wouldn’t have been caught outside in before becoming a mom. I guess my priorities have shifted.

Not that I have ever been fashionable. Far from it. I’ve always had my own style, without ever actually being in style. I guess the closest I’ve ever been to being fashionable was when I wore my eighth grade uniform. That was the last time I dressed the same as the rest of the kids were doing.

And in case you were wondering, I was voted Most Lively.

For more about my fashion woes, check out the latest humor column from Pajama Mommy, Fashion Weak.

And so another long weekend draws to a close. And I am left wondering where the hell it went and even more importantly — who the hell made this mess in my house?

There’s the mountain of paperwork on my desk, waiting to be sorted, shredded, recycled or transformed into origami. Not that I know how to do origami. And I’m fairly certain that if learning how had been on my to-do list, this, too, would remain undone.

The only thing towering higher than the paperwork is the folded laundry. It sits on my bed, waiting to mock me when I am weary and have no place to rest my head.

The mood in our home has turned sour, as the air is thick with the pending doom of Monday morning. My husband has retreated to the home office, to drown his sorrows in a computer game. The four year old is sleeping, undoubtedly tired out by the foot stomping, crying tantrum accompanying her insistence that she is NOT GOING TO CAMP TOMORROW!

If only I could call my boss and tell him the same. I’m not coming to work because I don’t WAAANT TO! I don’t LIIIKE IT! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!

The only happy one around here  is the cat, who seems to recognize the packing of lunches and backpacks as the sign that tomorrow morning we will all depart and leave her in peace to roam around doing her secret cat stuff.

Yes, the weekend comes to an end with a heavy sigh. And since tomorrow is an early wake up, I suppose it is time I retreat to the bedroom and dismantle the freshly laundered monument to procrastination, slip into bed and drift off while visions of lottery winnings dance in my head.

I’ve been in some awkward moments and heard some disconcerting things in my time, but none so much as hearing a declaration of love from MY BOSS!

I was at home, and had been for a week, due to my little girl being sick. We were nearing the end of a lengthy conversation about the happenings at the office, when his other line started to ring. He needed to rush off to answer it and said, “Okay, let me get that, love you,” and hung up the phone.

After the administering of some smelling salts, I realized it was only a result of his haste, he must be so used to abruptly hanging up on his new wife, he said it out of sheer habit. I honestly believe he has no idea he even said it.

Had he stayed on the phone a moment longer, perhaps I’d have come up with a worthy retort.

No thanks, I’m taken.

Can this be considered harassment?

How about a paid vacation?

I’d be honored to be your third wife.

The truth is, I’ve been working for him so long, it sometimes feels like we’re married. Though I doubt he asks his wife to get him a cup of coffee or run to the deli to fetch him a sandwich. And because his marriage is only a few weeks old, I’m sure his new wife looks forward to him walking through the door, whereas I’m standing on the don’t let it hit you in the ass side.

I’m not saying he is a bad person. I’m just saying he isn’t my type. At least not for what he pays me. Maybe for the right price….

No..no no… I’m just kidding. If I were to prostitute myself it would be the old fashioned way – on the street with no commitments.

Really…I’m not serious. I would never have sex for money. Besides, I’d go broke unless I charged by the pound.

But it would be nice to get a raise. You know, one based on genuine appreciation of a hard day’s work.

I’d take that over a declaration of love any day.

I’m convinced that all those drivers who cut me off on the road and run red lights are headed to Costco.  Every time I make my semi-annual trip there, the parking lot experience alone causes me to rush home and scope the internet for a quiet town to relocate to.

On the inside, the people with their enormous empty carts won’t think twice about taking out a four year old as they circle the sample food stands. To Costco, it’s a free sample. But apparently, if you eat 20 of them, it’s a free lunch…for a family of six.

Friends always wonder at the fact that I can go to Costco and come out having only spent $20.00. The truth is, my aversion to being knocked in the rear by someone else’s cart at every turn far outweighs my need to browse for a 30 lb. box of granola.

When I go to Costco, I have a clear mission. Get in, get the four items that actually make the trip worthwhile and get out. The first 2 are easy, the latter requires waiting on a long line but hey, once a year I really need that $15 sheet cake. And I get to pass the time by hearing the one sided cell phone conversations of everyone  waiting on line around me.

When I finally reach the exit, I have to wait in yet another line so that someone can check that the 4 items in my cart match what is printed in my receipt. Because, you know, I might be trying to smuggle out a giant package of toilet paper, hoping to go unseen.

I actually need to go to Costco now, but have been procrastinating. I actually have a need for a giant box of candy bars to make favors for her birthday party. And of course, I need to order a birthday cake. There’s just no other place that can provide a cake to feed 40 people for $14.99. So I suppose my venture will happen soon.

Perhaps I should wait until noon. I hear they offer a free lunch.

So I’m driving to work when suddenly I am faced head on with a jogger. There is no sidewalk, no shoulder, nowhere to go to avoid him but, you guessed it, into the oncoming lane. And the fact that he is jogging against traffic on a winding road with no possible place to dodge an oncoming vehicle is not even what I hold questionable. What I find to be unbelievable is that he is jogging in 110 degree heat with a humidity level of can’t even breathe when I’m standing still.

I swerve quickly into the opposing lane to avoid striking him down, though I am tempted to hit him, if only to put him out of his misery. I’ve got to admit, he is dedicated.

I’ve never been that dedicated to anything, least of all exercise. I’ve always thought I don’t actually have a weight problem, just an aversion to sweating. The extra pounds are just a symptom.

And I don’t have a problem with joggers. Well…other than the fact that they make me feel bad about my own sedentary life, with all of their neither rain nor snow nor desert -like heat will stop me from running my daily 5 miles. I mean, how are the rest of us supposed to live up to such standards.

There I am, watching the sweat pour from his body through rolled up windows, the AC cranked so high, my skin is flapping like that guy from the 1980’s Memorex commercials, and I can’t help but think that he looks like he is going to keel over at any moment, causing a traffic jam that will leave me without enough time to stop for a double caramel frappaccino with extra whipped cream.

And I have to admit, the jogging against traffic thing kind of irritates me. I mean, it is really a safety hazard. Besides, it’s harder for me swear at you if I have to make eye contact first.

I’m sure the jogging enthusiasts are going to send me email. Or worse, form a mob and show up at my door, forcing me to run alongside, daring me to keep up without passing out from heat exhaustion, dehydration or ice cream withdrawal.

Perhaps I should draw the curtains and live by the light of the computer screen, keeping them at bay by proclaiming my new found love of this daily activity. I can blog entries marking my progress, my renewed body and spirit and my overall healthy lifestyle.

And maybe someday I’ll even venture outdoors and try it for real. Someday when it is cooler…but not too cold. Until that day when the absolute perfect weather for jogging occurs, I’ll just blog about it from the comfort of my air conditioned living room.

So, I went and turned forty. Forty is not so bad. At least it’s not 50. Well, that’s what one of my well wishers wrote, anyhow. Guess I’ll find out for sure in a decade or so.

To tell you the truth, the view from forty is not so different than the view from thirty nine. I guess I’ve been preparing for a whole year, so it didn’t hurt so much.

I was brave enough to spend my birthday in my bathing suit. The only thing worse would have been to spend it in my birthday suit (well, depending on the situation, I suppose…). It was actually kind of liberating, doing something at forty I wouldn’t dare do at thirty…or even twenty. Funny how time changes perspective. At 20 or 30, I sure had a better body than at 40. But I also had a grand fear of judgment. Something I still have, I suppose, though the things I care about being judged upon have shifted.

So I’m at this water park and honestly don’t have a worry about whether the kids are chuckling at the size of my rear end. What I do worry about is if my daughter is watching me, and seeing me light up every time she falls into my arms at the bottom of the slide.

That’s a birthday gift for both of us.

For the lighter side of turning forty in a bathing suit, check out Fat Forty and Frizzy at http://www.pajamamommy.net

I’ve been in such a funk. And that’s an understatement, really. More accurately, I’ve been pretty damn depressed. I just can’t seem to stop mourning for the babies I lost, first in October, then in March. I feel so sad and angry and….alone. I feel like I want to cry out to the world, but the world feels I’ve had my allotted share of grieving time and why don’t I just stop whining and get on with things already. I stopped expressing my pain when I realized this – that my pain was frowned upon because I wasn’t that far along or because I should just be grateful that I have one healthy child or that enough was enough already and they were just tired of dealing with my sadness. Like there is a time limit on when you are supposed to snap out of it and “get over it.” Well, I’m not over it. I may never be over it.

Sometimes – most days even, I do just get past it and get on with things. But the first baby I lost was due yesterday, May 21st….and the closer we got to that date, the harder it got for me. I’m resentful about having to get up and go to work when I am supposed to be on maternity leave. And to go there and try and work through the day while everyone else is so wrapped up in the B.S. of office politics just seemed…pointless…empty…stupid.

I mean, there are more important things in life. And there are certainly more fulfilling ways to spend my time. Like nursing a newborn and losing sleep over the one thing in life worth losing sleep over…caring for baby.

But I’ve been robbed of that. Twice. And there I sat in my office, the day before my baby had been due, the baby who was no longer due that day or any day, or ever…there I sat listening to the complaining and feeling so empty….empty for the loss and empty for the fact that I sit in this place and serve little purpose to make the world – or even just myself – better.

And as I sat there, it happened. I started crying…not just crying even, but sobbing, unable to stop. So I picked up and left.

No, I didn’t quit, just took a couple of days off. I need to mourn, I need to rest, I need to just be. I need to honor the two little lives I lost. I need to accept that there may never be another child for me. That I may never have a second child and my daughter will never be the big sister she so aspires to be.

And it’s not that I am not willing to give it another try. I’m just so afraid of losing another. And I’m not sure my husband is willing to try either, not because he is hurting too badly, but because he hasn’t the faith that I can bounce back from a third loss.

Right now the whole idea has been tabled. By me. I don’t want to discuss it or even consider it until I am in a little bit of a better place, maybe once I can look at a pregnant woman without feeling sick inside.

I was getting there. But that due date just brought it all to the surface again.

So yesterday I get a bill from the hospital for $313.00. This is for the ultrasound that confirmed my miscarriage. As if it’s not enough it cost me $45.00 for the parking ticket the day I had the D & C. A parking ticket for parking at a broken meter….like it is my fault the meter was broken. The meter wouldn’t take the damn $2.00 in quarters, so instead of charging me the $2.00, the city tickets me $45…yeah that makes sense.

Anyhow, this bill comes in the mail and I have to say I know I shouldn’t have let it, but it ruined my whole weekend. Why is my insurance not covering this? Is my coverage limited to one miscarriage per year? They paid for the first, second one is my responsibility? Why did my doctor send me there without making sure they would cover it? And why do these type of things always come in Saturday’s mail, when you can’t even call anyone to try and rectify it?

Instead it gets under my skin and irritates me for 2 days.

And yeah, I know it’s not necessarily the bill itself that bugs me. It’s the reminder. Like I needed a reminder. Like I don’t remember every single day.

I am sure tomorrow I will call the doctor, call the insurance company, call the hospital and somehow manage to find out who didn’t process what. And I am sure they will resolve it and I probably won’t have to pay a cent.

But I will have to pay in other ways. Spending hours on the phone dealing with the subject, undoubtedly crying as I am right now.

The worst part is, the baby from the first miscarriage was due this week. I should be planning my hospital stay, shopping for diapers, getting the last details of the nursery put together. Instead I get to argue with hospitals and insurance companies who don’t give a damn that my babies died, just as long as they don’t have to foot the bill.

I can say this much. I don’t care what they all determine, I am going to contest this bill. I refuse to pay. I’ve paid enough.