Yesterday it was over 70 degrees here. Balmy! (Which is not the same as BLAMY, which is what I typed the first time, because I need more coffee.) I found myself fairly skipping through the daffodils (oh, yes—we have daffodils, dozens of them) and weaving ribbons in my hair with the help of cartoon bluebirds. Because THIS, this is what WEATHER SHOULD BE! It was warm and breezy and sunny and gorgeous, and I was totally willing to pretend that it wasn’t happening on the hind end of February when I have friends digging out of the snow up north.
I also opted to conveniently ignore the fact that apparently this will be a very small window of Perfect Weather; soon Pollen Season will be here, and after that, Insufferable Heat Season, which really doesn’t bother me as much as everyone says it should, because I prefer to think of it as Pool And Popsicle Season.
But when I put all of that together with the fact that I regularly have hot flashes, I have to concede that I’m sort of a weirdo.
(Don’t hate me because of the weather. There are plenty of other reasons to dislike me, I swear. Also, the forecast today is for severe thunderstorms and HAIL. And possibly houses landing on witches.)
So I think I may have mentioned (three or four times) that in addition to singing in the church choir, I somehow agreed to be in this special “ladies quartet” (which only makes me feel about 96 years old, every time someone says that) that does “special music” once a month. And by “special music” we mean “the butt-crack of dawn early service.” The one Sunday a month we sing is a very special time where I get up before seven ON A SUNDAY and remember to put on mascara and go sing and then come home and make sure that the children have gotten dressed and then go sing again at the later service, culminating in spending entirely too many hours at church and—usually—complaining to my husband that our ladies’ quartet sort of sucks.
Oh, we COULD be good. Occasionally we are. But most of the time we haven’t rehearsed enough with each other, and we’ve almost NEVER rehearsed with the actual accompaniment. The woman who plays piano and organ for the church is already required to be there for too much and is paid too little, so usually all we can manage is 5 minutes of rehearsal with her that morning, and you know, THAT’S NICE. Especially when we already sort of suck. SO. As you can see, I have slightly mixed feelings about this arrangement.
On Sunday I was racing up the front steps of the church at o’dark thirty and I stumbled. I caught myself, merely dragging the top of one shoe along the concrete, briefly, and was very pleased that 1) no one saw me and 2) I didn’t hurt myself.
Then I got inside and realized that I had completely ruined my shoe. Scraped the leather clean off the delicious pointy toe, I did. I think I’ve worn that pair three times. I didn’t shed a tear—I had to go sing, after all—but it’s a bad way to start your morning when JESUS WRECKS YOUR SHOES. I’m just sayin’.
I called the school cafeteria yesterday because they keep sending home a bill in Monkey’s name for $.85. My kids don’t buy lunch. They have never bought lunch. I can tell you for certain that Monkey would rather pluck out and eat his own eyeballs than have to go stand in a loud, jostling line to pick up food which he’d then be unwilling to eat. The kids have PINs they key in at the cashier’s station, and clearly someone input Monkey’s number by mistake. I’ve called on this a couple of times already.
Me: So, um, I think this is the same charge from before, that hasn’t been removed. But I can assure you, he’s never purchased anything in the cafeteria.
Her: Let me look and see what it’s for. Oh, here we are. It’s from a breakfast in September.
Me: Right. Well. That’s easy, then, because my kids aren’t even THERE at breakfast time.
Her: But perhaps he was hungry.
Me: He… what? He’s not THERE.
Her: Sometimes, at the beginning of the year? The children get confused? And then maybe they’re hungry, and so they come to the cafeteria and purchase breakfast.
Me: I’m pretty sure that my kid has never been so confused that he accidentally time-warped into your cafeteria and purchased himself a second breakfast, while he was at home eating with us, ma’am.
*crickets chirp in the background*
Her: Well maybe it is an error, then.
Me: Yes. Maybe it is.
Seriously? I mean, I could send the woman a damn dollar if she wants, but are there so many people trying to scam hash browns that this is a conversation we even need to have?
We have a Netflix account for people who really shouldn’t have Netflix. That is to say, we pay a few bucks a month and we’re allowed to have one movie at a time. I think we’re limited to 3 a month or something, too. We’ve yet to hit the cap, because the first month we lived here, Otto ordered Ocean’s 13 and it sat on top of the television for approximately three months before I noticed it and asked him if he was ever planning on watching it.
Now, Otto—and you know that I love Otto with every fiber of my being, right?—likes old movies. I am not so much a fan of old movies, for various reasons. (See: Dead on the inside, prefer movies in color, find old movie acting to be over-the-top, enjoy realistic special effects.) But I have been leaving the Netflix queuing to Otto because I cannot be bothered, and thanks to him we’ve seen some… ummmm… INTERESTING movies.
Last night, we watched this because it’s generally considered a classic amongst photographers and Otto is a photographer and he said, “I saw this once a long time ago, but I’d like to watch it again.”
So, during the movie—which is chock-full of women throwing themselves at the photographer and ending up naked—Otto commented several times, “That never happened when I was shooting,” in a slightly indignant voice, whether because he felt he was missing out or that I might misunderstand his former career, I’m not certain. Regardless, I was working on my laptop during the film, partly because I had work to do, and partly because THE MOVIE MADE NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.
Me: You’d seen this before?
Otto: Years ago, yeah.
Me: And you watched it AGAIN? On PURPOSE?
Otto: Well… yeah. I thought maybe I’d get it this time.
Me: And did you?
Otto: … no.
Me: That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
Otto: Everyone says it’s a classic! I should be able to understand it! I’m just not post-modern enough!
Me: Yes, this is a real crisis. You can’t understand a plot-less movie about a sweaty man surrounded by braless bimboes.
Otto: It’s a CLASSIC!
Me: I think it’s time for me to take over the Netflix queue.
Chickadee pulled a wad of papers out of her backpack this morning while trying to stuff her lunch bag in there. Some of it was completed work which she told me I was “welcome to have” in the same tone one might use to suggest that it’s time to kiss the ring.
One of the papers was a list of similes she’d invented. The entire thing is comedy gold, but my two favorites are:
The clouds were as still as a paralyzed lion.
The unhappy girl was as pleasant as a zoo full of pooping monkeys.
That’s my kid. The genius. She makes me so proud.