How not to go away (in 10 easy steps)
(Or, “How am I Stupid? Let Me Count the Ways.”)
1) Get up at 5:30 in the morning so as to be at work nice and early, and therefore able to leave a little early. Still forget a bunch of stuff.
2) Arrive at work and realize you’re about to leave town with $11 in your wallet.
3) Run out and get money before lunch (later, notice gigantic installation of your bank a block before the airport).
4) Leave work in plenty of time to get to airport. Pat self on back, mentally, as you drive past the turn for long-term parking. Ack.
5) Loop back to long-term parking, noting which lots are open. Head to an open lot. Discover they lied, and it’s closed.
6) Try another lot. Drive around in circles looking for a spot. Check watch. Start to panic.
7) Park! Write down car location because you know you’ll forget it, otherwise. Leave that piece of paper in the car.
8) Hop shuttle to terminal. Discover your airline offers little ATM-like machines for automatic check-in. Gleefully swipe card, only to be told you cannot check in yet. But… it’s less than an hour til flight time. Huh?
9) Get the attention of an attendant behind the counter. Explain your problem. Have her look up your flight info.
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How to go away
(A handy guide for the travel-challenged single working mother.)
So! You say you’d like to take a brief recreational trip? How lovely! What a wonderful idea! You deserve a little getaway. That’s right; go have some fun! Just a few minor things before you go….
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Buying stock in Poland Spring
So today started off in the following manner:
5:30 BEEP BEEP BEEP *smack* I open one eye, peer towards the bizarre octagonal window which no window treatments will fit but was nonetheless someone’s idea of a decorative touch in the master bedroom, and see bare branches. Bare. As in, not coated in snow. That nor’easter they were screaming about yesterday? M.I.A. No need to get up early and shovel! I reset my alarm.
6:00 BEEP BEEP BEEP *smack* Okay, guess what… I still don’t feel like getting out of bed. I’m thirsty. But I don’t care. My head hurts. I feel like crap. Maybe I can rest just a few… more… minutes….
6:10 “Maaaaaaaaamaaaaaaa! Remember how you went to the little boy store, and I was the very last one, so you bought me, and took me home, and now you have a little boy?” *blink* “What? No…?” “Mama! Pretend!”
6:27 I actually said “NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED!” to clear the area.
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Poisoned
Is free lunch still a bargain if it makes you sick enough that you have to leave work early?
Even I (the bargain queen) don’t think so.
The kids are eating cereal directly out of the boxes in front of the television. If you must call CPS, could you ask them to bring some ginger ale? Thanks.
Back to boring
Yes yes… I know… for you, dear readers, there was never a departure from boring. Ever since I started working again, a huge percentage of my life has become Off Limits as blog fodder; hence my entries have become rarer, less interesting, and decidedly more cheerful, which–as we all know–results in way less of The Funny. But it turns out that for me this weekend’s visit from my father and stepmom was a welcome departure from boring, and as they have now headed home, it’s back to Regular Life here at Casa Mir.
[Except for this brief non-sequitor: I had a most entertaining IM conversation this afternoon which turned to the topic of breasts (of course). As my discussion partner is male and I love to get the Y chromosome view of things, I asked him if he subscribed to the “more than a handful’s wasted” theory of boobage, to which he responded that “they’re sort of like saran wrap… once you have enough for the task at hand, figuring out how to deal with the extra is sort of tricky.” I laughed so hard my children thought I was having a seizure. And I may be paraphrasing badly and he can correct me if he so wishes.]
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Moving right along
Hey, the kids are still alive, I still have a job, AND I got to have Chinese food last night.
In addition, I made it in to work for half a day, Monkey is somewhat better (must have been that single ounce of juice working its curative power), and my parents are here visiting and buying Chinese food and entertaining my children and having actual mealtime conversations with me that do not involve 1) burping, 2) discussing the relative merits of the different skills of the Teen Titans, or 3) declaring that they will not go to sleep and I can’t make them, so there.
So life is pretty good.
Soon we will head down to Trader Joe’s to buy yet more food, because lord knows we haven’t had enough to eat yet, plus you can buy so many wondrous things there. I may experience an avocado overdose, and I may not even care. Woo!
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Me so responsible. Want a juice box?
Excuse me while I curl up into a little ball of stress and explode. Ahhhh… that’s better. In the sense that discorporeal is better, at this point.
Now would be a good time for the New York Times or Newsweek or some other news organization eager to let you know that “THIS JUST IN: Being a Mom Means You Are Conflicted” to come talk to me.
Let’s review the numbers, shall we?
How long I’ve been at my new job: 3 weeks
Number of hours left before the person I’m going to cover for leaves on vacation: 7
Time I showed up at work yesterday with a sick child in tow: 7:40
Number of videos I’d brought to entertain child: 6
Time my boss ordered us to go home: 8:10
Time I returned to work after transferring sick kid to his father: 1:20
Time it became apparent this morning that said kid was still unwell: 6:12
Number of hours school was delayed this morning: 2
Number of times I yelled during those 2 hours: *this number censored*
Number of times I have so far today hyperventilated over the thought of not making it in to the office: 2
Number of work emails I’ve received so far this morning: 19
Number of times I have offered a juice box to the sick child, because fluid! is good! and makes you better!: 5
Ounces of juice he has consumed: 1
Number of schemes I have so far devised to get in to the office today: 6
Number of those schemes which are feasible: 1. Maybe.
Number of times I’ve wondered how the heck single parents work full time: eleventy billion
Dad, I can’t believe you missed this
(I’ll try to get them to do it again when you’re here tomorrow, but who knows.)
My children, my darling, sweet, adorable, totally WEIRD children, are wearing footie sleepers in preparation for an early bedtime. They just came walking in here, single-file, with their sleepers unzipped and pooled around their ankles. They shuffled and bounced like penguins on methamphetamines as they took turns declaring “WALK THIS WAY!” and waggling their character-underwear-clad derrieres.
Casa Mir, home to the half-naked parade of cartoon hero butts and overused but still funny jokes.
(Yes, I think Monkey’s feeling better. That Motrin I gave him seemed to help. Also I let him smoke some crack.)
(Chickadee would like me add–“Since Grandpa likes funny jokes!”–this joke: Q. How do you clean a tuba? A. With a tuba toothpaste!)
Lumpboy
I ask you, is there anything more pitiful than a mild-mannered child whose reaction to the sickies is a gravitational pull to the couch and PBS?
It almost makes me forget that everything about George Shrinks drives me completely insane. (Why is he so small? How did he get that way? Does he ever actually shrink? What a COINCIDENCE that their last name is “Shrinks” and he JUST HAPPENS to be so small! Excuse me while I vomit! Why does everyone on that show have such weird hair? What is it about this insipid premise that hypnotizes my children??)
So THAT’S the problem
Monkey shuffled into my room this morning and scaled my body in a single fluid movement, parking himself on my hip and tucking his head into the crook of my neck.
“How’s my baby?” I asked him, while brushing my lips across his (still warm) forehead.
“Well, I’m sort of okay, but there’s something wrong with the lid to my mouth,” he informed me.
“Ummmm… the what of your mouth?”
“The lid. I was thirsty and I tried to drink some water but the lid of my mouth sort of hurts and wouldn’t let the water down,” he clarified.
“Oh, I see. Does your throat hurt?”
“No, just the lid is sort of spikey.”
Well then. It’s not a sore throat, it’s a spikey lid. Monkey Fever is a complicated ailment.