I’m sure a lot of other women out there had a more glamorous day than I did today.
I’m looking at you, Jane Jetson, and all of your trips to Mooning Dales, and your membership in the Galaxy Women Historical Society. Plus… your earrings, Jane? Well, my outfit today didn’t even involve jewelry, because jewelry doesn’t really coordinate well with pajamas.
We woke up to rain. Throughout the day, the rain evolved into MORE RAIN, and then it turned to STILL MORE RAIN. And here’s the deal. What is it that people want early in the mornings when the weather looks like Seattle’s? They want coffee. I’m glowing like a nuclear waste facility with all the medicinal effects of the world’s most potent antibiotics AGAIN, because STAPH INFECTION (which is healing nicely, thank you for your concern). The one I’m on right now clearly states on the bottle, DO NOT TAKE WITH DAIRY. Seeing as how my morning coffee is 10% beans, while the other 90% is attributed to being a delicious milk and sugar mixture, I haven’t been able to have my coffee this week. I have never missed it more than I did this morning, but in the name of I’D REALLY PREFER TO FINISH FIRING SOME STAPH BACTERIA AND LAYING OFF THE REST OF THE STAPH, I decided not to risk mixing my morning horse-sized pill with a cup of hot beverage.
The alternative, of course, would be for me to enjoy slurping my coffee black, but listen. I didn’t grow up in the Great Depression, when milk and sugar were scarce, so I haven’t learned to like coffee plain. The honest fact is, I don’t even really LIKE coffee — I like the milk and sugar that’s IN the coffee. And I like the white-paper cup with the green mermaid on it that costs upwards of $10.
I realize that this is another one of my dramatic first-world problems, and I apologize.
I packed a lunch today for the boy, which involved leftover soup from last night’s dinner, and he was horrified to find it in his thermos. It involved potatoes and diced tomatoes, which he only eats NEVER. He wasn’t pleased with our crockpot dinner last night, and he wasn’t happy to see it on rerun in his lunchbox at noon today. And then, after the boy was pushed out the door to ride to school with Enzo at 8 AM, Thing 2 and I sort of cut loose.
And by cut loose, I mean that we loafed around on the sofa and watched every Baby Einstein video that is currently on You Tube.
That took us to 10:00, at which point Thing 2 asked, “Milk? Rock? Milk? Rock?” This is code for, “I’m ready for a nap.” I made the baby a bottle, and we rocked and rocked. He passed out cold at 10:10.
If Hubs and I employed Rosie like George and Jane did, some housework probably would have gotten itself done around here today. Unfortunately, we don’t have an out-dated robot housekeeper, so I cleaned up the dinner dishes from last night by myself and tidied up the kitchen. I texted Carrie before I went to bed yesterday. I let her know that I was living like a rebel would, because I totally wasn’t loading the dishwasher or cleaning the kitchen counters before I retired for the night. I told her that I’d live to regret that choice in the morning.
And I did.
Carrie’s suggestion that Hubs, who was riding high on the Colorado Avalanche’s game-opening, six-points-to-just-one win should have channeled all his Happy Hyper into Manly Kitchen Maid. Hubs’ spirits were so buoyed after last night’s win, he kept replaying the taped game on the DVR to me this morning, and exclaiming, “Watch Roy! Watch Coach Roy! He is going to hit the glass… RIGHT HERE!!!!” And then Hubs would cackle in merriment and say, “Roy just makes me happy. I’m so glad he’s back with us.”
Watching the game, and then watching the game again on the DVR, and then watching the day’s sporting news with the game’s highlights, and then watching the game fights off the DVR for a third time consumed so much of Hubs’ time last night, he never did get around to doing the dishes.
In case you’re wondering, I had seen Patrick Roy’s angry outburst against the glass one hundred and nineteen times before Hubs left for work this morning.
(Obviously I didn’t take that snapshot, because its level of blurriness is not quite up to my art form. Plus, I was IN BED when this happened. I don’t know how legalities work with smacking some other person’s photo onto your blog without permission, but I imagine the fine is somewhere near the $10,000 that Patrick Roy was penalized for his outburst. So I’ll just say, this photograph is on the Fox News website. I couldn’t even find the name of a photographer to associate with it. I’m not sure how a college writing professor would want me to reference it.)
With the kitchen somewhat cleaned up this morning, I sat down on our sofa again, because I had to rest from all the Baby Einstein videos the toddler and I watched together earlier. I finished reading Nicholas Sparks’ new book while Thing 2 napped, and I bawled like an Anaheim Duck, except with real emotion. I don’t know why Nick can’t write a book that doesn’t make me sob.
When Thing 2 woke up, he and I shared a microwaved burrito.
Food critics everywhere just cringed. The final jab is that this was a $1 frozen burrito from Walmart.
One American dollar, people. It’s almost like there really IS a free lunch, except it’s a buck.
Of course I checked Facebook a couple of times today, stubbed my toe on a John Deere tractor that was idling on our kitchen floor and chipped my pedicure, and fished the majority of a Q-Tip out of Thing 2’s mouth, that he took out of our bathroom garbage and ate. The kid won’t eat bananas or strawberries or peaches, but he’ll eat dirty Q-Tips covered in someone else’s ear wax, gravel, dirt, dead plant leaves, chunks of sidewalk chalk, bread bag ties and cat food. I can’t figure him out, but I’m beginning to think he has an iron deficiency that makes him crave weird things.
That brought us into the afternoon, so we played a little game of Chase around the kitchen island, until Mama said, “Okay! We’re not training for a marathon here, so we can stop for a rest now. We don’t want anyone to blow a knee out with all this running!”
(Artificial knees are so expensive these days.)
After that, I decided that perhaps getting out of my pajamas and adding makeup might be a good thing to do, before I picked the boy up from school. While I was applying a second coat of mascara, Thing 2 was hopping around in my bathtub, crawling in and out.
And then he said the words that ALWAYS make me cringe:
You know the stopper thingy in a jetted tub? Or any tub, for that matter? The stopper thing that you press DOWN to keep the water IN the tub, while you’re bathing? The stopper that you press a second time to pop back up, so that all the water drains OUT OF your tub when you’re finished? The stopper that is a PERMANENT FIXTURE IN YOUR BATHTUB???
Yes, THAT stopper. Ours is no longer a permanent fixture in our tub. Ours is a free-range stopper, regardless of the fact that it shouldn’t be. In its place is an orange, plastic golf ball, which is stuck in the drain. Filling the tub will not be a problem, but draining it is going to be one heck of a chore, with that ball in the way.
Yep. My eighteen-month-old son figured out how to remove some plumbing pieces, but what he couldn’t figure out was how to extract the golf ball when he was done. His mama couldn’t figure that one out, either.
By the time I picked the boy up from school this afternoon, I was ready to make a stop downtown for a box of wine, but we settled for a trip through Starbucks’ drive-thru.
The rest of today was just a blur of PLEASE GET YOUR HOMEWORK DONE and CHICKEN FOR DINNER and DON’T SPLASH IN THE BATHTUB (the bathtub in the other bathroom, of course, which still has a stopper permanently in place) and IF YOU’RE NOT IN BED IN THE NEXT THIRTY SECONDS, I WILL DRIVE YOU TO SCHOOL TOMORROW IN MY PAJAMAS AND HOT ROLLERS.
Jane Jetson never had it this rough, y’all.