What Lies Beneath

I know what you're thinking. 
"Boy, that Jo.  She's got it so together."
"What a perfect example of strength, integrity, passion, and impeccable comedic timing."
"Man, if ever there was a talented, well-rounded, Polish-American woman with dual citizenship, that Jo sure would take the cake."

Yes you are.
You are too thinking that.
You may not realize that you're thinking that.  But you are.
Trust me..

Well.
There is definately more to it than that.

For instance. 
As we speak, I am going through what some might lovingly refer to as a "nervous breakdown."
"Why?" you may ask.

Well, if you'd hold your freakin horses, maybe I could get a word in edge-wise and tell you.

Center.  Calm.  Reflect.  Respect.  Relax.  This.  Is.  Retarded.

Tomorrow, at approximately 2:30 p.m PST, my husband and my second born will embark on a camping trip. 
Without me.
There.
To Supervise.

The other day, my husband said the words boulder, climbing, us, all in the same sentence and I think I might have brutally attacked him had I not been fighting a losing battle with vertigo. 

You don't understand.
I control EVERYTHING around here.
I was raised by a woman whose mantra was "The man is the head of the household, the woman is the neck.  Neck moves head.  No neck, no head.  Neckless heads worse than headless necks." (I think it loses meaning in translation). Regardless, it means that I'm the boss. 

Now.
I don't go around proclaiming that to anyone in particular (except to myself, in the mirror, each day as I wake, a wicked smile on my face, rubbing my hands together )
But it is a known fact.

I buy the groceries.
I pick out the clothes.
I cook the dinners.
(Wow, I never realized how being the boss was so reminiscent of being the village slave.)
I make generalized decisions about the welfare of my family, most of which do not include, in any way, shape, or form, Boulder Climbing on a weekend camping trip for a bunch of grown children and their offspring.

Oh.
And what if the husband forgets to put on Superman's footsie pajamas at night, and Superman freezes in his tent, gets frostbite, and loses his big right toe, all while his unaware and stupid father snores loudly enough to dislodge some of those gigantic boulders those idiots want to climb?
Oh.
And what if stupid, selfish, immature husband forgets to feed Superman the lovingly prepared health-concious and digestive-friendly (ever been irregular while camping?) meals that I made?  What if my precious son is forced to eat cold hot dogs and Spaghettios straight from the can? 
What if, because someone forgot to remind him,  he doesn't brush his teeth and comes back from this godforsaken trip with a rotting mouth and has to eat applesauce three times a day until his adult teeth come in?????

Now I'm just Pissed Off People.
To think.
I married a man who would let our son freeze, starve, and lose all his teeth.

All in the name of some stupid camping trip that does not include the one person who is, quite frankly, capable of running the freakin show.

It will be a miracle if I let the car leave the driveway tomorrow afternoon.
I'm just sayin.
Someone might dramatically throw themselves in front of a parked white volvo station wagon and make the kind of scene that might embarrass aformentioned someone's significant other and force gently suggest to him that maybe backyard camping isn't such a lame idea after all.



I'll bring the smores.