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My brain: Write something funny, Kim. Go on. Spew something totally inappropriate, watch your husband cringe, then chuckle it up at your family’s expense.

My soul: I can’t today. I just can’t.

My brain: Sure you can. Here, let me help you: Remember that guy in the waiting room at the Ears, Nose, & Throat doctor?

My soul: Which one?

My brain: Which one!? How ’bout the one with the goddamn aquarium fish stuck in his ears?

My soul: Yeah, that was pretty funny…

My brain: What’s wrong with you?

My soul: Snow day # 5, that’s what wrong. The cold, the isolation, the children, the children, the children. Lord knows, I love my kids, but every time I’m on the verge of almost stringing together a somewhat coherent sentence…”Mommmmm! Wipe my butt!” “Mommmm! I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO CUT MY NUGGETS THAT WAY!” “MOMMMM! MOMMMM! MOMMMM! Whatcha doing?”

I’m fried. I’m throwing in the towel, regrouping, and hoping that next week brings sunshine and 9am-3pm school days.

My brain: Fine. At least do a lame-ass repost.

My soul: Good idea. I think I’ll re-post about my happy place…

An Excerpt from my Unwritten & unpublished book: Things I Should Be Grateful For, But Dammit I’m Not

I do want to go, I just don’t want to go with him…with them.

He parks the car next to the entrance, and for a moment my thoughts are lost in the familiar soothing rhythm of the automatic doors- open, close, open, close, open, close. I want to say “take me home”, but it’s the promise of what lies behind those doors that keeps me quiet. My hands begin to shake and my heart starts racing, and just like that, I am powerless to leave.

I look at my husband and nod. It’s a nod that says “yes, I want this and we will enjoy it together”. With that, he smiles and we all get out of the car in slow unison. Hand in hand and void of ceremony, the whole family enters my private sanctuary, a sanctuary that has now been horribly violated by their presence. And somewhere in my soul a voice is screaming, “This is my heaven! You should not be here…this is MY MARSHALLS!”

source: www.marshallsonline.com

“Come forth, my child, and save.”

I now realize this trip was a mistake. There’s no joy in lazily shopping for fabulous bargains with your husband and children. None at all. I must find a way to shop undercover to avoid hearing Collin and Brian bitch about how long I’m taking, or schlepping Ana to the bathroom 5 times.

As soon as we cross the threshold, I thankfully realize my subconscious has a plan B. Damn right subconscious! You rock!

As if directed by angels, I quickly point to the left and shout “Look! Cowboy Cheerleaders are giving away Barbie dolls and Xbox games!” I go right.

I devise Operation Labia, so called because the term is both feminine and covers a place equally important to me.

Without a doubt, the first area I must visit is the Home Goods section. There are very few hiding places here, the aisle are streamlined and all the furniture lies in the center, not unlike the Cornucopia in The Hunger Games. Once my family realizes I lied to them, this is where they will come to seek me out and kill my joy.

As I’m looking at mirrors for our dining room, I suddenly see 50 reflections of Brian sitting in an armchair that’s on clearance for $149. It’s a startling sight, and thankfully he doesn’t see me. He’s too busy acting like The Godfather, barking orders and sending the children out on short missions to search for me.

I duck and watch the scene unfold from the safety of the bath towels. While Brian is a brilliant strategist, I believe he’s foolishly putting too much faith in Ana’s ability to stay on task, as witnessed by her unsupervised handling of China plates and licking of coffee mugs. This is his problem, I remind myself.

I quickly move on, knowing I must stay one step ahead of them. And so I make a mad dash for the shoes. Suddenly I hear Collin’s voice yelling,” I see her! I see her!”

I switch gears and loop around down the toy aisle. I begin knocking Dora dolls and Star Wars Legos off the shelves in my wake. Ha ha ha! You’ll lose your little minions here, Brian!

Once back at the shoes, I take my time knowing the children will not and cannot be persuaded to leave the toy section. It is here, among the discounted Uggs, BOC, Bandolino, and Michael Kors shoes that I feel most at peace.

I’m meditating among the seasonal boots when I hear them coming. As I peek up from zipping a Bare Trap faux fur suede boot (with cool buckles on the side), I see them heading my way in a reverse triangular formation. Brian is in the back sending the kids (who are clutching toys. A bribe tactic no doubt) down various aisles. I hear shouts of “negative” “all clear” and “no, Pooperbutt”. I start to wonder if Brian has military training.

They are getting closer.

With one boot on and the other tucked under my arm, I begin a modified army crawl towards the Ladie’s Knits.

Arriving at my destination, I insert myself into the clothes rack and begin shopping from the inside. I can’t help but to feel safe and happy as I am nestled by soft sweaters, and my cheeks tickled by their discounted sale tags. I know it’s time to leave when I hear myself humming “I’m a Little Tea Pot”. I fear I’m cracking.

I grab 3 sweaters and drape them over my head to use as camouflage on the way to the dressing room.

Tucked in the back dressing room, I begin to try on sweater #1. It’s not really my color but the shape looks like it could be super flattering. I have it poised over my head when, in an eerie sing song voice, I hear “mommmeyyy, oh mommmeyyy”. Shit!

I quickly jump onto the tiny stool that all dressing rooms have. Yes, I’m convinced that this is the stool’s sole purpose and I send the designer a telepathic “thank you”.

I hear her coming down the dressing room corridor, looking under the doors for the familiar cracked heels and deformed baby toes of her mother. Grateful for all of the squat exercises I’ve been doing lately, I remain quietly perched on the stool. My quads are burning but they are strong.

In the mirror’s reflection, I see her hair dragging on the floor as she peers underneath my door. I. DON”T. MOVE.

“Oooh, Pooper Stinkybutt”

When I don’t respond to the crude nickname she has given me, she gets up and moves on to the next door. I have escaped detection! I am dizzy from the adrenaline and my own cleverness. And then…as if in slow motion, a lone Lego piece tumbles from my purse…it bounces, once…twice…three times, and settles at her feet. I hold my breath…

Sorry, you’ll have to buy the book to see how it ends.