Hello, and welcome to the new week! This week’s motto is “Can’t possibly be as bad as last week,” and so far it’s really living up to expectations!
Here’s a few ways you might be able to tell if it’s time to rejoin civilization:
1) The hampers are overflowing and the closets and dressers are empty;
2) The tree is half-trimmed and surrounded by boxes;
3) An earnest woman calls to ask if your child will be coming to her child’s birthday party, and you have to confess that you have a week’s worth of unopened mail and so you didn’t even realize there was an invitation;
4) The dishwasher is full of clean dishes and the sink is overflowing with dirty ones;
5) All of the above are true and you’re starting to even scare yourself a little.
So, uh, I was busy today. And almost sort of normal!
Yep. I did all kinds of things that needed doing. I was a whirling dervish of activity, if that dervish was fairly determined but had a stiff neck, still. Just like that.
Pay no attention to the enormous mound of sheets and towels on the floor of my bedroom, or the basket overflowing with socks. It’s all clean. I’m sort of hoping it’ll all fold itself. You know, I’ll just wake up in the morning and it’ll all be taken care of. It could happen. Shut up.
I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone today. My favorite, by far, was the phone call where I tried to track down the title to my car. I suspect that the bank never sent it to me when I paid off my loan, and I made the foolish mistake of trying to clarify this with the bank. Hahaha! Silly me. In the year and a half since I paid off the loan, the bank that held the lien has been swallowed by another, larger bank.
GOSH I love big financial institutions. Don’t you? They’re swell. Particularly when they phase out the toll-free number the smaller bank had, and utilize those delightful off-shore customer services. I spent half an hour on the phone with a nice woman in India who spoke almost no English and knew nothing. After putting me on hold four times to “check my information” she came back and took my phone number so that someone else could call me back. I’m still waiting.
Of course, WHY I need the title to the car that’s going to be crushed for scrap is a little bit confusing to me, anyway, but whatever. I’ll be ordering a duplicate from the DMV, I guess.
It took me most of the morning to psych myself up to go clean out my car. The poor guy who took me to the back of the holding area to find it… he probably thought I was a complete whackjob. I could NOT. STOP. TALKING. He looked at my new car with the temporary plates and said, “Oh, you got another one!” which I of course took as an invitation to tell him the entire story of my car-haggling odyssey from last week. Then he was treated to a running commentary on every piece of detritus I found on the floor of the car. I KNEW I was being completely annoying, and yet I couldn’t seem to STOP.
Sometimes, if I keep talking, I don’t really have time to freak out.
There’s a fair amount of blood inside the car where Chickadee hit her head. Plus I hadn’t really LOOKED at the damage to the car before. Facing these things didn’t exactly fill me with joy. (No, they filled me with yappityyapitis.) I tried to focus on the task at hand. Get the car seats. Grab the cargo tray and jumper cables. Empty the glovebox and other compartments. Shove everything else into a garbage bag to deal with later.
Except, we had these ducks that sat on the dashboard. A mother duck, and her two baby ducks. It’s a long and somewhat boring story of where they came from and why, but they are the hallmark of our car. They were one of the first things Monkey asked about after the crash. (“Will the ducks be okay?”) And hey, the ducks are rubber, so I knew they’d be fine… and I knew the kids would be excited to see them sitting on the dash of the new car; the final sign that everything was okay.
Right there on the dash was the mama duck and one of her ducklings. Just one. I had to hunt for the other one. I finally found it bottoms-up, underneath a pile of papers on the floor. “Oh, my kids just LOVE these ducks, they always say that’s how they know it’s our car,” I yammered to the hapless attendant waiting for me to finish up and SHUT UP ALREADY. And then I righted the duckling in my hand and saw that it had a single droplet of dried blood right in the middle of its forehead.
I blinked at it. The circle remained, and no question about what it was. I checked the mother duck and the other duckling. They were unmarred.
I stopped babbling and cleared out the rest in record time. Driving away, I thanked the man for his patience, and then licked my thumb and rubbed the duckling’s head. It came clean with just a couple of quick swipes. At the first red light, I carefully wedged the mother back into her perch on the corner of the dash and set her babies on her belly in their customary position–facing forward, watching the road.
When I picked the kids up after school, I waited to see who would notice first. Monkey was about 10 feet from the car when he shouted, “THE DUCKS!” You could see that all was now right in his world. Chickadee was not as easily impressed. She quizzed me: Were those the same ducks? Had I gone and emptied out the car? Would they smush up our old car into a little cube, now?
And finally: The ducks were right up front… they hadn’t been hurt in the accident?
I told them about finding the one duckling with the blood on it. As she buckled herself in, Chickadee suggested I grab a black Sharpie at home and draw stitches on that one’s head. This caused great hilarity in the back seat.
Yep. Everything’s back to normal.