Last night…what a scene. The girlie was in bed, the laundry was almost done (it had to be, I was out of quarters). I was alone and I felt restless, but good. One of those nights where your kid is bed and you feel like you have endless possibilities.

Possibilities: you could have a drink. You could sneak out back and set the Dumpster on fire. You realize you owe about forty people thank-you notes. You could masturbate for three hours.

Ten-thirty hits. I was doodling around, tired, about to do the dishes, when I heard it�the wet�cough? Then little feet hitting the floor. Then little hands scrabbling at the bedroom doorknob. Miss Frannie had puked yet again, while lying on her back, so it exploded out of her like a fountain. It was all over her face, in her eyes, and in her long hair. She smelled horrible and she was very unhappy.

I had her in the shower, and it was at that moment that my phone rang. It was her dad, of course, when I was at the week�s nadir.

“How are you?�” he said.

“She puked again…all over…I just realized I only own one blanket.”

I had been meaning to buy at least one extra for the couch, and hadn’t yet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. He spoke slow and sounded like he’d been drinking. “I’m coming down that way. I can bring you some extra blankets.”

Frannie passed out on the couch, clean but damp. About a half-hour later he brought blankets and was very friendly. I expected I would want to snap him in half out of jealousy, because I thought there would be nothing more irritating than seeing him ready to go out for the evening while I was stuck with the tiny puker, with no possibility of tag-teaming like we did in the old days.

But I didn’t. I was really grateful for the blankets and really glad when he left. I was kind of sad that he didn’t call me the other night when Frannie was puking, but I realized that I didn’t want to call him when she was sick last night.

I was tired as hell and frustrated with my situation, but I knew I would feel better in the morning. I knew I would be glad that I was alone, and I knew I could deal with it. I am feeling more and more like I can deal with it.

HOWEVER, I also realized that I should get a chip implanted in my head in case I ever decide to reproduce again, so that when the urge strikes me to spawn, the chip will cause me to grab the nearest sharp object and stab myself in the eye. I just have to keep visualizing the coast of Spain and frosty drinks, and not getting any more stretchmarks, and I think I will keep my eyes on the prize. You childless geniuses have been warned, repeatedly.

As soon as I’m done throwing more quarters away tonight, attempting to eradicate the smell of sour oatmeal with raisins from my bedclothes, I am going to the damn pub to smoke, drink a beer, and look at all the admissions applications for library school next year. Yeah, remember all that overworking I was doing at school last year to avoid my situation at home? Well, I am still tied into half of those clubs and student committees. At least I will have a very sexy CV when this is over.