The Isolation From Starbucks Makes The Brain Crazy

In the interest of full disclosure and entirely too much information, I will just tell you this one thing.

It is Day Five of living in the trenches with Influenza A in this house.  It has been five full days since I last set foot outside of our home, with the exception of that small stretch of time on Friday when I hauled my barking seal to the pediatrician for raw fish Tamiflu.

And THAT isn’t the too much information for polite society bit.  What is entirely more than should be discussed on a blog where the CEO tries to keep everything rated PG is this small fact:  I used the ladies room here at the Jedi Manor this morning, and I was genuinely SHOCKED when my pants wouldn’t just slide right down.  It’s because Mama got dressed today in JEANS, people!  Real live jeans, with a button and a zipper!  And, after hearing what I just disclosed to y’all on the World Wide Web, I think you’ll agree that it’s a clear indication that the pajama pants have been a staple in my five-days-in-the-house wardrobe.  Such a staple, in fact, I completely failed to realize that I had on real clothes today, to make me look like I was a productive member of society.

The boy is better.  He exchanged his own pajama bottoms for real clothes today, too, and he piled himself, along with all of the things that a 6th grade boy carries around in his backpack, into Enzo’s car this morning, and off he went to school.

(And really?  It was Enzo’s mama’s car.  It would be illegal for Enzo to drive at his age.  I just thought I should be clear.)

(But then, it’s also illegal to discharge firearms in the city limits, and Hubs has thrown that city ordinance to the dogs, in his war on the pterodactyls that are living in the trees beside our driveway.)

(The pterodactyls are still there, by the way.  They’re laying their basketball-sized eggs in their nest that is roughly the size of a VW van, and they are mocking Hubs with their prehistoric cawing.)

Thing 2 is also better, in the sense that YES!  He was up and moving today.  He found the roll of toilet paper in my bathroom, and he had himself a field day unrolling it all.  He was so surprised to realize that he had somehow missed the greatest form of entertainment this house has to offer until just this morning.  But, regardless of the fact that Thing 2 is MOVING and SHAKING, he is still producing enough snot for the three little pigs to use as mortar on their brick house.  His cheeks are chapped from it all, and he looks like a sick bag of pathetic, which is why I had grace and mercy on him when I discovered his little self sitting in a mound of Charmin today.

And then I had Ramen noodles for lunch, which didn’t turn out to be in my best interest.

(Do you love how I can switch topics like a squirrel on espresso?  We just went from Charmin to Ramen in half of a nanosecond, without a single word of transition typed.)

(It’s why I switched my major away from English after two years; I could never have taught the American children in public schools to write properly.)

I haven’t eaten a big bowl of the Ramen noodles in a sweet, long forever, but they suddenly sounded good this afternoon.  So I made some, and apparently my palette and digestive system are no longer functioning like they did when I was twenty years old and stocking the kitchen cupboards in our college apartment with every flavor of Ramen noodle ever invented.

(Well, except for the shrimp flavor, because GROSS!  Artificial shrimp flavoring + noodles sounds like a double dose of NOT FOR ME.)

After the Ramen noodles today, I honestly felt like I’d just inhaled a salt lick off of a cattle ranch, and then my gut got all queasy.  I’m pretty sure that I’m not twenty any more, simply because I apparently can’t handle the dirt-cheap, Oriental noodles.  After coming to terms with this obvious fact, I remembered a little sign that one of my friends had posted to Facebook last week:

Do you know what I was doing when I was twenty?  Other than rewinding my Bon Jovi cassette to JUST THE RIGHT SPOT, so that I could hear “Blaze of Glory” over and over?  I was eating Ramen and greasy pizza and watching Beverly Hills, 90210 and playing Frisbee in the park and riding my bike on mountainous trails and trying to differentiate between meiosis and mitosis for some science exam that I’ve tried to put a lifetime mental block on.  Now days, I’m stirring Metamucil into my orange juice, reading labels on jars of vitamins, and falling asleep before 9:00 every night.  And I’m pretty sure if I played a REAL game of Frisbee in the park, MeMaw would need a hip replacement.

Being a grownup is so much fun.

And the honest truth is YES.  This blog post makes about as much sense as squirting bright yellow mustard on your pizza, which is exactly how Hubs eats it.  I’ve never understood that, because mustard is the pooping pterodactyl of condiments.

But sometimes, after being quarantined for five days and missing TWO COFFEE DATES WITH REAL, LIVE GIRLS, I’m going a little stir-crazy.

Here’s to hoping that Thing 2 will be blessed, that his territory will be enlarged, and that all of his snot will just dry up like the skin on my hands have done after all the Cloroxing.

Y’all have a very merry Monday night.

1 thought on “The Isolation From Starbucks Makes The Brain Crazy

  1. Good choice on the major change…. We need another english teacher like we need gun control. Gun control is cappin a mugger Denny Crane style. “Knee (BAM), Left Foot (BAM), Right Foot (BAM)…

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