CAUTION: Objects on the television are 10 pounds lighter than they appear. At least.

Tonight is Dateline night.

Part of me is hoping to be on for more than one minute.

But part of me isn’t.

Punctuality has never been a strength of mine. I’m never ready ahead of time.  When people come over for a playdate, or a party, or a holiday, I am usually in the shower.

If I’m really prepared, I may be showered and dressed, but my hair is guaranteed to be soaking wet.

And to be honest, I’m not sure why I even bother with the shower anyway.

I mean, less than 5 minutes after I step out of the bathroom, I am already a sweaty disaster.

So the whole thing is pretty much negated.

Like it was when Liz, the producer, arrived at the house.

Ten minutes early.

Um, that’s a serious no-no in my book.

You don’t show up ten minutes early to anything.

Ever.

And if the place you are showing up to has kids living there?  Well, I think we all know that it’s just proper form to allow at least 5 extra minutes.

Per child.

So I didn’t make an exception for the Dateline crew, and when the phone was ringing at 8:50 on the Sunday morning they arrived, I ignored it.

I thought it was a telemarketer.

I was too busy yelling at the kids to pick their crap up and go brush their teeth and trying to find a matching pair of socks for myself.

But the phone kept ringing.

So my husband finally answered it, and it was Liz.

The producer.

Standing outside our front door.

For like, a long time.

Wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into.

Because we live in a really old house.

It was built in 1787, and when we moved into it, it was completely abandoned.

And it was a total shithole.

I’m not kidding.  Or exaggerating.

So we spent every cent we had making the inside liveable…

We still haven’t finished.

Because we ran out of money.

We never even got to the outside.  It’s a mess.

So anyway, our front porch looks like it’s about to fall off the house.

And Liz, the producer, was standing on it.

Probably fearing for her life.

Listening to the unanswered phone ringing and me yelling and kids crying inside…

For who knows how long…

… Where was I…

Oh yeah, so my husband answers the phone, gulps, and looks at me.

“Um, she’s here.  She’s waiting outside the door.”

Awesome.

So sweating and out of breath, I opened the door.

Number 5, 6, and 7 were still in their pajamas.

It wasn’t exactly how I had hoped to start off the day.

Eventually I did manage to dry my hair and throw on some mascara, concealer and blush.

But there’s not enough concealer in existence to cover up all the things I need to hide.

And I forgot to take the nail polish off from the “manicure” Number 4 had given me earlier in the week.  On one hand.

On four fingers of one hand.

So that will look good.

And I took off my wedding band about a month ago, and I can’t find it.

And since I was about 5 months pregnant with Number 3, I’ve been too fat to fit my engagement ring on my finger.

In case you were wondering why I’m not wearing those either.

Um, yeah.

I’m not exactly psyched about what I’m gonna look like.

So if you decide to watch, consider yourself warned.

And be nice

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