Or, Things I did wrong recently.
Or, Life is hard because I am dumb.
Or, Allow me to make you feel better about your life choices.
I keep telling myself that I should just come over here and post some dog pictures and call it a day—after all, who needs content when you have furballs, right?—but it hasn’t happened and now all of that procrastination has paid off, because it turns out that while no one day has been blog-worthy, lately, taken in sum total I have a veritable epic of life-and-how-to-do-it-wrong to share.
Every day is a new opportunity to do something else stupid, as I always say. (I never say that. I should, though.) Without further ado, various illustrations of my suitability (or lack thereof) as a functional adult:
Saving money, or not. Otto and I love to play a fun little game called Let’s Do Meal Planning For This Week where nothing ever gets planned and by mid-week the kids are begging for hole-in-the-wall Mexican takeout. It’s no one’s fault; well, mostly it’s my fault, because I say “let me go see what’s on sale at the supermarket before we plan!” and then I wander out on Sunday and around our local store and come home with 50 cups of yogurt (“They were on sale!”) and no meal plan. Whoops. Last week I bought a pound of ground turkey because it was ZOMGONSALE and vowed to cook something with it “tomorrow night” until finally at the end of the week I pulled it out and decided it was not a color that it should be. Then I threw it away. Pro: No one got food poisoning. Con: Not actually saving money if I buy something on sale and then throw it into the trash, turns out.
No, really, totally saving money. SO SMART. So, remember how we bought new furniture finally? And the new stuff is, like, grown-up and whatever? There’s a cascade effect that happens whenever we finally commit to a house purchase, every single time, and yet I’m always still surprised. The new sectional meant we reorganized the room, and in doing so, we got rid of a media stand kind of thing and wanted to replace it with a cabinet where we could stash DVDs and board games and such. (Don’t ask. It makes sense because of the shape of the room, I swear.) This meant I had just about finished breathing into a paper bag over the money we’d spent on the new couches when we went looking for a cabinet and promptly fell in love with one that was about twice what we wanted to spend. Hey, I could make this work! I bought a coupon off of eBay and I cashed in some credit card bonus dollars for gift cards, and after they arrived, that made it about half price (out of pocket). BOOYAH. Otto went to fetch it this weekend and we got it into the family room after much maneuvering and cut open the carton it was in and unwrapped seventeen layers of foam and such and got it wiggled into the designated spot. Then we discovered that it had a small but very obvious chip in the wood along the bottom.
This was a not-inexpensive piece of furniture. “I can package it back up and take it back,” said Otto, looking at my face and probably fearing for his safety.
He’s a good egg, my Otto. I’m sure he would’ve taken it back without complaint if I’d wanted him to. But after some consideration, I decided a cabinet in hand was worth two at the store, or something, and I told him it was okay. Then I dug around until I found a box of crayons, and I scribbled in the chip until you couldn’t see it anymore unless you really looked for it. Because I spent all that money and then Crayola-ed myself a solution because I was just tired of dealing with it.
My body is a temple. Remember a few years ago when I committed to living a healthier lifestyle and exercising regularly? No? Me neither; I mean, it’s a distant memory at this point. But once again I’ve arrived at the point where I just feel soft and weak and tired and gross, so I’m forcing myself to do things like ride the elliptical and take walks and such. I know that it will help, eventually, but right now I am still waiting for the magical transformation part where I feel GREAT and STRONG and ENERGETIC! It’s progress, though, right? So last week I was feeling very proud of my new routine and telling myself that if nothing else, I’m improving my balance and coordination and stamina and stuff, and then… I promptly walked into the corner of our dining room table and saw stars. No biggie, I have another thigh on the other side.
Planning is my strong suit. Duncan has to be bathed every week or two with medicated shampoo, on account of his skin issues and his general delicate flower-ness. For some reason—I don’t know why—this weekend I gave him a bath, got drenched in the process (I always do), spent half an hour brushing and drying him, and then thought that it would be a FANTASTIC idea to give Licorice a bath, too. I got drenched a second time, then had to coerce her into being blow-dried, and finally when all was said and done, both dogs were clean and fluffy and smelled wonderful. Today we are having torrential rain and both dogs have already been out in the mud twice. Perfect.
And speaking of planning…. I am ramping up the work I’m doing over at Happier, which is all kinds of fun and “good stress” and whatnot, and as part of a new project there was supposed to be a Kind Of Big Meeting Thing today which I thought I could squeeze in before another meeting I had this afternoon for something else. Upon relaying this information about the second meeting, the decision was made to reschedule the first meeting to make sure there was ample time, and I felt terrible about it because I am still new and felt like I was inconveniencing others (also I am neurotic), but this other meeting is important and had been on my schedule first. I was still marinating in guilt about the postponing of the Happier meeting when the other person I was supposed to meet with today called to cancel, I think because… it’s raining. (Pffft, tornado warnings are a dime a dozen here.)
I may have muttered, “I canceled another meeting for this.” Ooooookay, stuff happens. (Especially to me!) All meetings have now been rescheduled. I’m now free to screw them up in a new way later this week.
Shoes. How do they work? I did a guest lecture at the university last week, and while I don’t need to get dressed to the nines for these things, my usual jeans-and-t-shirt outfit seems like not the most professional choice. Generally when I speak I try to wear something a little nicer. In fact, I often go ahead and wear heels when I do a campus thing—when else am I going to wear them?—and inevitably I end up walking somewhere with Otto afterward for lunch and wishing I’d worn more practical shoes. SO! This time I would be SMART! I wore flats, because I can learn from my mistakes. I spotted a cute pair in my closet that I haven’t worn in forever, and did that whole, “Oh these are ADORABLE, why haven’t I worn these?” thing before stuffing my feet into them and running out the door.
I feel certain that I’ve worn these shoes before. Not for a long time, sure, but I have worn them. AND YET, when I put them on last week, they ripped my feet up so completely that I drove home barefoot. I have blisters and cuts and I put those stupid shoes in the Goodwill bag as soon as I got home. GOOD THING I DIDN’T WEAR HEELS.
Hey, it’s a new week! I’m going to get back to work, and also maybe try to make dinner later without burning the house down. Hope springs eternal.