I don’t have time to post.

Seriously, I don’t.

Why?

Well….

I have an unnecessarily stressful full-time job in publishing,

And a 7 year old son, who is also unnecessarily stressful, in addition to being unnecessarily a lot of other things, including:
messy,
hungry,
forgetful,
interested in completing death-defying stunts involving household furnishings,
and smart.

Seriously, he answers questions on Jeopardy about planets and reptiles and mythology.

Real Jeopardy, too, not that silly kids one that I like because I can answer ALL of the questions.

So there.

And I have a wonderful, stupid boyfriend who enjoys alternating between:

needing all of my attention and

being a complete dick,

which doesn’t bother all that much, other than the fact that it is very difficult to plan when I will have time to write, ya know, with all that bipolar-ness going on.

And a Jewish mom, who never hesitates to apply copious amounts of Jewish Mom Guilt at my not coming over enough

or calling enough

or involving her in my life decisions enough

and who has recently learned the wonders of texting and can now apply guilt without even having to speak to me, which comes in very handy when I am unavailable to take her calls (read: screening), and who can now electronically guilt me, knowing that it always hits the target, like one of those guys in the army that presses a button in a computer lab somewhere in Oklahoma and a bomb lands on some unknowing civilian in Kabul.

What is Jewish Mom Guilt?

Come on. Would it kill you to call you mother once in a while?

Is that so much to ask for the woman who birthed you for 32 hours because your head was too big and fed you for 18 years and cried at your graduation?

God forbid she should have a heart attack and die on the kitchen floor and no one would know for days because you’re too busy to pick up the phone to say hello.

There it is. You feel it.

I also have an African American dad, (who hates the term “African American,” but I just can’t bring myself to say “Black dad.” It sounds wrong), who, in his “golden years” has found himself a sometimes-employed contractor and full-time car-tinkerer, who insisted on replacing the struts of my car himself and turns every TV on in the house to a cable news channel and then leaves the room, which I assume is a preemptive maneuver to ensure that CNN will be playing at all times, no matter what room he happens to be walking through, and eats fried chicken so often that I call him sometimes randomly just to be sure his heart has not turned into a giant, oil-soaked drumstick, and who has himself recently Facebook-friended me, which is disturbing in and of itself, outside of the fact that I now have to block him from viewing any alleged pictures of me holding an alcoholic beverage or pretending to lick someone…

or both.

Or both with no shirt on.

Not that any pictures like that exist, or anything. Just sayin’.

Oh, and I have a cat that is allergic to chicken. I sometimes mock her for her lack of cat-ness because, seriously, what kind of cat are you if you can’t eat chicken? It’s like cat blaspheme. It’s like those sad vegetarian dogs that have absolutely no muscle tone and shake all the time, like they’re always cold.

So I have to buy her gourmet, really expensive food.

Like, more expensive than anything a cat eats and then poops out should ever be.

It’s made out of duck and green peas, which sounds gross to me but is admittedly fancier than most of the meals I have ever had in my life.

And I can only imagine that, if she could, she’d also request a palate-cleansing sorbet, followed by a second course of seared foie gras in truffle oil.

Spoiled bitch.

All of these beautiful, lovely people and animals keep my life painstakingly busy.

What do you like to do when you’re alone, Rachel? you ask?

What does this word mean, “alone”? I don’t comprehend.

Ok, ok. I like to walk around and take pictures of things. I like to cook, and have so many strange, stupid food aversion issues that I pretty much have to, all the time. More about that later.

I like to read, and then see movies and complain about how much better the book was. I know, that person is really annoying, but did anyone see “My Sister’s Keeper”?

Honestly.

God, do I sound boring. The truth is, I don’t really know what I like to do anymore, because I have spent so much time doing everything for everyone else.

But I do know that I love to write. And I hope that, throughout the course of this blog, and the brutal honesty-spewing that fills it, I’ll figure the rest of that stuff out again.

Except that, I don’t have time to blog.

So, I am writing now, at 11:30 PM, when I should be deep in the throws of that thing I have heard others call “sleep,” and which I have spent the last 7 years chasing, but it’s sneaky little bugger and always evades my best efforts.

11:30 PM, because I have just finally, finally found a minute to myself.

And only really because the BF is being a dick.

Thank God.

This Three Day Weekend post was submitted by Rachel from A Pecan and a Matzah.  Are you reading her?  You should be.