I am not a patient person. Apparently God thinks I ought to be because He keeps trying to make me into one. Recovering from abdominal surgery takes patience. It takes ignoring dirty dishes. It takes forgetting about laundry. It requires immobility, tranquility, a peaceful attitude. Because if you do not forge this attitude, you will pay for it. In buckets.

Yelling, “Hey you kids! Knock it off!!” hurts. Eating eggs for breakfast, fajitas for lunch and bbq for dinner cripples. Wearing jeans is suicide.

And yet, I am learning from this experience:

– More than eight hours of TV per day makes your mind so mushy that you can’t even remember the name of the actor you’re watching. “Hey look, that guy with the mustache did something funny.”

– The clutter on the dining room table is invisible to everyone in this house but me. And it grows organically.

– Wearing regular clothes signals to everyone that you’re up and at ‘em, so unless you feel like fixing mac-and-cheese for lunch, best to stay in a duster, muumuu or jammies.

I haven’t eaten anything in 26 hours. I take that back. I’ve had broth and jello. Jello and broth. And one popsicle but I couldn’t finish it, so not sure if it counts. Everything I ate today came from Walgreens. Why am doing this? I’ll get to that in a minute.

But first, what does it feel like to go without food for more than a day? It feels like being hopped up on caffeine. Antsy. Edgy. Plus I want to wallow in a vat of mashed potatoes.

I’m having some surgery tomorrow. When the doctor told me yesterday that I’d have to fast for 48 hours, I almost said “Are you sh*tting me?” but this is not my regular OB/GYN, it’s a new guy, even though cursing in front of him should be no big deal at this point, given all we’ve been through together already. The first thing that flashed in my mind was a Beck’s Prime burger and a milkshake — would that last 48 hours?

Another really cool thing about surgery, other than starvation, is my new wardrobe. On my mom’s advice I bought a supply of dusters. I come from a long line of duster-wearing women. For those of you who think a duster is something you wipe on furniture, it’s actually a loose-fitting garment with a zipper or snaps down the front. Plus two enormous pockets. With rick-rack on them. Don’t ask me what rick-rack is. My old aunts used the pockets for cigarettes and heavy silver lighters, tubes of red lipstick, compacts and wadded-up money. They also accessorized with hair nets and men’s socks. Don’t know that I’ll take the look that far.

Anyhow, I probably won’t be back on Motherguilt until this weekend. I’ll give you a full report.

The other night we were watching TV on the couch, switching channels between America’s Funniest Home Videos and Jeff Foxworthy on Comedy Central.

“Mommy, what’s a redneck?” Girl asks me, after Jeff Foxworthy has used the term for the 20th time.

“Uh, I guess, uh, it’s a not nice word for poor people. Don’t call anybody that,” I say lamely.

Tonight, I have a better explanation for her, delivered in Foxworthy style:

- You might be a redneck if you sneak out to the fireworks stand when your wife and children are out shopping and come home with this:

- You might be a redneck if you buy this just because of its name: The Junior Redneck Party Pack

- You might be a redneck if you shoot it off the day after the Fourth of July, just for the hell of it

- You might be a redneck if you can’t even wait til it’s dark to shoot it off on the Fifth of July, just for the hell of it

- And, you might be a redneck if your very favorite rocket in the whole Junior Redneck Party Pack is named “Butt Ugly.”

It was a rare down day today, so Girl and I went to the Vietnamese nail place to have our toes done. They always insist on painting dainty white flowers on Girl’s tiny lavender toenails, and I oblige them since it’s about the only thing they say in English. They talk to each other the whole time in their language, probably laughing at how much I am willing to spend on Girl’s toes. Really, I take Girl along just because I want the company of someone who will speak to me in English.

We are home exactly 2 seconds when our dog comes and sits on my big toe and messes up my paint job. Luckily I have some gloppy pink nail polish with which to fix it, giving my toe the homemade appearance I was attempting to avoid by going to the Vietnamese nail place in the first place.

Girl’s dainty white toe flowers last about 20 minutes longer. She decides to put on sneakers to go outside and play because she doesn’t want fire ants biting her feet.

Of course the sneakers rub off the upper-most petals of the dainty flowers. Of course I have nothing resembling white nail polish with which to fix them. Except Rust-o-leum appliance touch-up paint, which comes in a little bottle resembling white-out. That touch-up paint has lasted about three years on my stove. Not sure Girl will want her dainty white toe flowers to last quite that long.