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2001-08-14 | 2:36 p.m.

The part I don't like about being a mother is the part where everyone has decided that I'm a crashing bore. I think my own mother might want to get out of the house, so I call her to suggest an outing. She puts me off for a while, then calls back and says, "Are you still going shopping?" I say maybe; but the kids also want to go to the park. "Oh," she says, sounding disappointed, "I don't want to go to the park. You just go ahead and do your thing. I just don't feel like ... the park."

Shopping she loves. Sitting on a park bench talking to me for 40 minutes would be excruciating. She would say it's because of the heat. But it's only 59 degrees outside. She'd rather sit in her darkened one-bedroom apartment and watch old episodes of Murder, She Wrote.

Duff doesn't want anything to do with me unless it's an event. Then everything is swell. Otherwise, forget it. Everyday life with kids is boring. I can't even convince him to come to dinner on time anymore. It's just too boring. But if the kids don't hop to it, he starts yelling.

As if dance recitals weren't boring enough, there are 26 lessons for every recital. All of which require clean tights, bobby pins, and a rush-hour drive. For every future World Cup, there are a million mothers driving to a hundred million practices. Of course, there are Dads who participate in the boredom. I've seen them there.

I wish I had a friend who would be part friend, part secretary. Someone to hang out with who helps keep me on track, goes with me places and keeps me entertained, and helps make sure I do what I'm supposed to do. Maybe a robot, like in A.I. Maybe a sexbot, like Jude Law, except they purposely made those dumb. But I want a smart sexbot who looks like ___________________ (I'll fill in that blank later when I figure it out) and talks like ______________________ (ditto) and reminds me to go to the post office to buy stamps instead of leaving the bank, forgetting about the post office entirely, and following the car with pagan bumper stickers for two miles so my kids can see what a real witch looks like. Or if I do follow the witch, will offer to drop me and the kids off at home so I can finish my article, then buy the stamps and mail the postcards for me and, while he's out, should he pick up a nice nutritious lunch while he's at it? Ooooh, this fantasy is turning out to be much more fun than I anticipated.

I'll have to think about what should go in those blanks but I can already tell you if he talks well and runs my errands, I won't be too picky about what he looks like. I'll adapt. You have to assume that most any sexbot would be reasonably well groomed. No hairy teeth or bursting zits. I'm thinking of all the movie stars but movie stars never do it for me. The handsomest men I've ever seen were in real life, not on the silver screen. I think I'll take the model that looks like my old friend Skip. I never get to see him anymore, and I always thought he looked good enough to eat. The last time I saw him, at his wedding, I was shocked to see he had gone gray. Of course, I hadn't seen him in 15 years. But he was still Skip. Still wonderful.

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