It’s all true.
I used to be a girl with a blog, and then I turned into a girl with a broken video card inside of my great big Apple computer, and things went South rapidly, because I didn’t have the strength or fortitude to blog from my phone. Hubs threw out all kinds of terminology at me, like REPLACE THE VIDEO CARD and BUY A NEW LAPTOP and BUY A NEW DESK COMPUTER and THAT COMES WITH A GIANT SCREEN NOW, FOR YOUR AGING EYEBALLS TO EASILY SEE, but all I heard was DOLLARS, DOLLARS, DOLLARS.
Everyone wants my dollars.
Apparently even the IRS does, because I got a phone call today telling me that I was being sued by the IRS, but if I just stayed on the line and had my social security number ready, an agent could tell me exactly what the claims against me were. I suspect, had I stayed on the line and waited to speak with a real person, I would have traded my social security number for the conversation that ended with, “We’re so sorry to interrupt your day, ma’am. We had your number tagged to the wrong person, and you’re not being sued after all,” and then boom! My checking account would have echoed all the way down to the empty bottom.
Hubs has brought home a laptop from his office for me to use, because they are, after all, a computer company. If they can’t get a CEO back to work at her blogging empire, no one can. This laptop is a bit elderly and a bit slow, and I find myself drumming my fingers on the desk as I somewhat patiently wait for things to load, but then I think to myself, “It’s pretty much just like me.”
Because I actually had a birthday yesterday and became a touch older, which now qualifies me as both elderly and slow. I told all the kids in my PE classes yesterday that I was twenty-eight, and everyone bought it. To a six-year-old, twenty-eight seems like an age that Medicare would kick in at. I’m fairly certain that they all believe their grandmothers are twenty-eight. One of my first graders gasped when I told her that I was twenty-eight. She said, “Oh, man! I had no idea that you were so old! I thought you were… like… SIXTEEN!” She earned herself an A+ in PE for the rest of her stay at our private school, even though she talks nonstop, can’t throw a ball further than four feet, and tells me that PE would be a lot more fun if it was actually called ART. On the flip side of that, one of my pre-kindergarten boys thought that I was wrinkled enough to be 115 years old. HE just flunked PE forever.
In honor of my birthday, my lesson plans simply said, DODGEBALL. Dodgeball for everyone! You get dodgeball, and you get dodgeball, and we all get dodgeball. Naturally, this meant that I spent the afternoon listening to, “I hit Timmy, and he’s not going out,” and “I hit Susie, and she told me that I didn’t,” and “Johnny just hit me in the face with the ball,” and “Jane just went back into the game, and nobody on her team even caught the ball so she COULD go back in.” Listen, people. Dodgeball brings out the tattletale in every child.
It also brings out the cheating like nobody’s business. Children are all sin-filled creatures who will shake off a direct hit to the chest and deny that it ever happened in a game of dodgeball. It all made for a very pleasant day, as we had tears in every single class. By my fourth class of the day, I was ready to release bees in the gym, just to encourage the kids to scream about something other than dodgeball cheaters.
Anyway, my birthday panned out brilliantly, regardless of sobbing, fighting victims of dodgeball abuse. What I learned is that you can tell someone you love them with words, or you can show someone you love them with cake and Starbucks.
My birthday was full of cake and good coffee, so I’m going to write it down as a solid win. Plus, Thing 2 woke us all up early enough to enjoy the sunrise as a family on my birthday.
They were tears of joy that Hubs and I cried.
And now, it’s the day after my birthday, which has got to be the saddest day of the year. Nobody wants to drop Starbucks gift cards and chunks of rainbow cake in your lap the day after your birthday. All the fun is over and the birthday train is simply sitting at the station, with no plans of anyone firing up the engine and taking it out for a spin. Thankfully, Sister kept my birthday rolling just a touch, as she planned an enormous coffee date with a pack of close friends this morning, since I was arguing over whether children had been hit with a ball or not all day long yesterday. Thing 2 was in preschool and the boy was tucked away in geometry and biology, so I got to sit at a table in a posh little coffee house and have ADULT CONVERSATIONS all morning. Never once did I have to say, “Stop hanging upside down in your chair,” or “Put your phone away and visit with the people at our table.” The girls and I all laughed our way through mochas and chai teas and lattes and cranberry-orange scones, and my soul was refreshed.
Afterward, I picked Thing 2 up from preschool and the two of us came home to a house that looks like a frat party took place here.
And THAT, people, is where we’re still sitting. I know that I HAVE kitchen counters, but I cannot SEE them. I know that I HAVE a floor in my walk-in closet, but the dirty laundry denies it. So… I am off to see what I can do about digging us out of the pit that would red flag us for a DFS welfare check.
Y’all have a very happy weekend. I’ll be scraping dried food off plates and running my washing machine faster than the speed of rocket launches for a couple of days.
Think of me.