My name is Mama.
And it has been eight days since my last Starbucks.
I think this is where everyone says, “Welcome, Mama. We’re glad you’re here.”
And also, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to hear some clapping. In fact, just go ahead and clap first, and then welcome me with the kind words.
And then I think I get to sit in a little metal folding chair and say something like this: “The world has been a little darker, my moods have bordered on a severe case of PMS, I can actually tell you how many days are left until Easter, and could probably do a quick calculation to tell you how many hours are left until Easter, I feel like I’m on the verge of a full-court-press meltdown that will win me the Drama Queen ’10 Award, but my checkbook seems heavier.”
(You know how you’re supposed to counter-balance every negative comment with a positive one? Yeah, that’s not going to happen tonight, m’kay? The checkbook is heavier. There it is. That’s the lone positive. Starbucks has not grabbed a single, red cent from me this week-plus-one-day.)
And then, after that little speech (which I probably needed a good, sound dose of Benadryl to give, because I do hate public speaking), someone can offer me a little Styrofoam cup filled with black, overly-strong coffee, and I’ll have to pass, because listen, people. I don’t go to Starbucks for the coffee! Oh, the irony! I go there for the chai tea lattes and the steamers! I don’t even like coffee! It tastes like dirt. Dirt with caterpillar footprints in it.
But, ohmylands! The chai tea lattes and the steamers are precious — just precious. If I close my eyes, I can smell them, just slightly, in my imagination, where the sky might not be the same color as yours is.
It has been eight days…
Eight very long, very dark, very PMS-y days…
But the checkbook is heavier.
And also? On a complete 180 degree turn (because I roll like that, and my mind jumps from topic to topic like a crazed grasshopper on caffeinated beverages), my checkbook is $68.55 off. Off, I say. I’m one of those who balances my checkbook to the penny, each and every single month, and right now, the checkbook and the register and the bank statements are thrown all over my kitchen table, looking like a hurricane has hit, because I can’t find $68.55. That’s sixty-eight dollars and fifty-five-cents that I say that I have, which the bank has the gall to say I don’t have!
I’m pretty sure that it’s Hubs’ fault, because Hubs has a tendency to record only check numbers ending in 3’s in the check register. Usually, I can play Sherlock Marie Holmes pretty well and find Hubs’ expenses, but not this time, people. I threw all the paperwork down on the kitchen table, because I couldn’t take the insanity of it all any longer, especially without my best friend, Starbucks, sitting beside me, offering me silent support. Being off during a reconciliation by more than eighteen cents has never happened to me before — ever. And low! Sixty-eight dollars and fifty-five cents is a substantial chunk of change. It’s not like you’re going to find that in the sofa cushions and make up the difference.
Maybe my checkbook isn’t heavier at all.
Which completely shoots down my one positive.