Why do I listen to other people?
I left the house today disgruntled about settling for an outing to the local grocery store. Today was supposed to be Monday, the day I succumb to sweatpants and ignore the world. The day I saunter off to Costco, meander the "Fantasy Aisles", maybe pick up a Patio Set, and then toodle around downtown SLO until I feel like picking up some take out and heading home. BUT NO, it's NOT Monday. But, I didn't realize that until noon, until it was too late to undo what I'd done. The baby was already halfway finished with her morning nap, we were on our last roll of toilet paper, and the baby sitter text messaged to confirm her arrival in two hours so I could work from home(teach piano lessons)-as I do EVERY Tuesday. TWO HOURS!!! That's when I decided that Costco was no longer in the cards and we were off to the nasty "Grocerie Locale"...when I ran into my neighbor. She listened to me rant about Tuesdays (as though I was making any sense at this point) and proceeded to assure me I could make it to Costco and back, quote unquote, No Problem(shoulder shrug). Against my better judgement I believed in her, and more assenine was that I believed in me. Stupid. Murphy's Law applied the minute we hit the freeway. "What Could Go Wrong Will"-Mr. Murphy.
The empty fuel light went on as soon as I'd committed to my itinerary. When we arrived at Costco's gas station the entire planet was waiting to fill 'er up. Twenty minutes of stop and go waiting worked up Shelby's appetite so we fueled up and beelined straight to the Costco Lunch Line and waited...and waited...When we finally got our nutritious, vitamin packed, totally organic hotdog she set it aside, sucked down her lemonade before we had made it halfway through the store and yes, you guessed it, insisted we find a restroom before she "peepeed everywhere!!!!". The baby had a blowout on aisle 14. I smeared Shelby's hotdog wrapper all over my white blouse-eau de parfume de mustard et ketchup. The baby was screaming in the front pack (if you spoke her language it would sound something like this, "Can't somebody get me outta this crappy diaper????? MY ASS IS ON FIRE!!!!") When you leave Costco they have that stupid receipt checking policy. Today, Woody Allen and Ray Charles were the receipt checkers and the exit looked to be at least a quarter mile from where we stood. I checked my watch-we had 15 minutes to drive 24 miles, unpack the $400 of perishable items, greet my mother-in-law and compose myself to teach classes. We finally made our exit and I realized the final fatality too late to avoid. The bagger had positioned the watermelons on the bottom and the beer on top and when I bounced into the parking lot they both crashed onto the pavement. PERFECT.
"Do you need some help?" asked a woman dressed in heels and a silk business suit, clutching her Prada purse and pinching her lips as though wondering how those words had just slipped out of her mouth.
"EVERY DAY!" I sputtered, turning my back towards her.
Why DO I listen to other people?
Why do I listen to other people?
May I just say that my last post was written before I actually considered my job requirements the following day? I slept all of 3 hours that night and not for lack of trying! I laid in bed for nearly 5 hours obsessing over the redesign of my bathroom and conspiring how to spin straw into gold. I kept arriving at the same conclusion-we are broke, Rumpelstiltskin is busy, and your first born child is going to be awake any minute. GO TO SLEEP!
Today, not only am I a member of The Living Dead, but I'm coming down with a cold, my breastfeeding days have come to a close therefore spurring the arrival of Aunt Flo (and the swelling of my butt), Shelby has a fever and, big surprise, John is at work-again. Pour me a cup of caffeine, (teeth chattering) P-P-PLEEEAASSSE!
I just want to say that caffeine and alcohol rock. Especially when mixed. After a full cup of caffeine followed by multiple glasses of red wine I feel like Zena Princess Warrior. I'm in full control of my destiny. I just booked a family vacation to Disneyland, an Anniversary night in San Francisco, folded three loads of laundry and rearranged the furniture in my living room. I'm pouring myself a blend of Dark Roast Cabernet. Whoah, are those my eyeballs twitching? It's only 11 p.m., a perfect time for an evening run, and then maybe I'll paint the bathroom. (In a pitch only dogs can hear) Aiyyyyay YAI! (Karate chop.)
Life as I know it is over. It's been one week since John's side business has required attention and I am alone. A LOT. The darned thing isn't even up and running yet and I am already lamenting the imbalance it has created in MY life. It started with the morning coffee. There isn't any, because my barista now silently slips out in the wee hours of the dark morning, leaving not so much as a sound, or a friggin drip of freshly brewed coffee. Judging by the mop of lawn in my yard, the barista ran off with my gardener, too. So each morning I drag myself out of bed to the sound of my alarm clock, "MoMMMMMMEEEEEEE!", pour myself a mug of cold tap water, change a dirty diaper, answer the inevitable question, "But where did daddy go?", and stare out at my overgrown lawn. This new business should be called Chronic Solitude. More complaints to come.