I Think God Hates Me

and that's fine, I'm not exactly in the mood to put him in my T-Mobile myFaves right now either.

Tom is sick. Terribly, horribly sick. Not man-baby sick, it's totally legitimate. I think he has the (swine?) flu. Fever, chills, sweats, coughing, aches, dizziness -- the works. It started Thursday night and by late yesterday, he looked scary-sick.

Natalie is warm and droopy now after getting over whatever she had late last week. This afternoon she coughed so hard that she threw up.

In my hands.

TWICE.

Bonnie has a runny nose and a cough. Jack woke up this morning with a nose that looked like it was crusted with mustard.

I alone remain healthy and have been tending to them all this weekend.

I am so fucking tired.

Earlier today, after the first puke catch, I promised myself that if I made it through the rest of the day without screaming at anyone or throwing all of the stemware in the china closet against the wall, then I would treat myself to Moe's, my favorite Mexican place. Woohoo.

So, I fed, washed, rocked, cuddled, read to and tucked in the three amigos. I couldn't avoid a supply run because we had nothing -- NOTHING -- in this house after the last two Tom-less weekends left me unable to get to the store so I raced through Target at top speed, barely registering how pleasant it was to be out all by myself for the first time in far too long.

As the cashier rang me up, I realized that I forgot to grab formula for Bon but didn't go back for it because I wanted to place my order with Moe's well before they closed at night.

Only, as I found out when I called from the Target parking lot, the fuckers now close at 8:00.

I was 16 minutes too late.

At that moment, I hated Delaware more than I have ever hated Delaware and that is saying something. I hated it so much that I thought I was going to have a seizure.

All I wanted was a fucking burrito. At 8:16 p.m. Why is that too much to ask?

When we were first married, Tom had to fly to Utah for a meeting. He called me from the hotel, lamenting that all of the local eateries closed at 9:00. We snickered about how awful it must be to live in such a backward place.

And now we do.

Seriously, the fucking Mormons party later than Delawareans. They have to have sex with their clothes on but they can still have tacos at 8:45 if they so choose.

Unbelievable.

Instead of a gorgeous tofu burrito, I'm eating a salad. Calling it a salad is overly generous. I'm eating the bag of lettuce that I bought at Target, too tired and pissed off to go to the effort of washing and cutting anything that could be added to the lettuce to earn it salad classification.

I take such good care of everyone else. It leaves me with very little energy to take care of myself.

MORMONS CAN GET NACHOS LATER THAN I CAN. How fucked up is that?

When you drive out of the glory of Pennsylvania into the darkness that is Delaware, you will see a sign that says "Welcome to Delaware -- Small Wonder."

Yeah, small wonder that anyone actually chooses to live here.

Small wonder I haven't gone insane and drown myself in the creek outback.

Small wonder my kids aren't complete dorks from spending most of their young lives here.

Small wonder I didn't break into Moe's and fry myself up a tofu burrito.

Some women fantasize about movie stars. Others covet jewels. Me, I close my eyes and imagine my little family in a rowhome on a block with streetlights, sidewalks as far as the eye can see and a corner store down the block where I can walk to get milk and bread. And oh yeah, in this daydream, we're ordering pizza. At 10:30 p.m. On a Tuesday.

Dream on, sister, dream on.