Munchkins, Walkers And A Mother Hangover  Before I was
somebody’s mother, I used to cover up the gray.  I used to get
my hair blown out.   My make-up saw the light of day.  Happy
hour wasn’t my daughter’s nightly nap.  Putting on lotion wasn’t
a luxury.  My heels and skirts weren’t considered vintage.
Saturday, my single-for-a-day alter ego, Dirty Martini, came out
to play.  She only makes rare appearances, once every six months
to a year.  She knows when I really need her to appear.   She
slept in, while “the other people in the house” (those that
Dirty Martini doesn’t know by name) watched football.  She went
downstairs with horse blinders on, made some espresso and
grabbed a chocolate muffin.  Some people tried to say, “hi,” but
they had weird hair and reeked of morning breath and meat farts,
so she ignored them and ran upstairs.  Dirty Martini sometimes
calls them The People Under the Stairs, because they remind her
of a real, horror story.   She sat in bed and watched an episode
of Dateline, sipping on