I don’t care if Monday’s blue

Last night my two youngest kids did this annoying thing they sometimes do where they both outgrow all of their clothing while they sleep.  I promised I’d take them shopping right after school, but in my haste to send them out the door in short and snug pants I didn’t check that they had everything they needed.  Halfway to school my daughter announced she was going to need me to bring her gym bag later.

I got home and set out to clean the house from the weekend of birthday partying and Fakesgiving feasting.  I washed down the cabinets while the iRobots battled it out on the hardwoods.  While I was mopping, one of my slippery ribs, well, slipped.  It’s not dangerous but rates a solid, “ermph” on my vocalized pain scale; above an, “uh…” but well below a sound that you’d just have to hear because I can’t spell it.  It’s usually due to some randomly generated inflammation, so I took a couple of Aleve and called it a day as far as cleaning was concerned.

I left the house to grab a smoothie for lunch and dropped off the gym bag at school.  As of this writing, these are the only two tasks at which I have succeeded today.

I came home and inventoried the pantry and refrigerator, deciding I’d make meat loaf for dinner.  Except for a green pepper I had everything I needed, so I drove to Target because Starbucks.  It’s not my favorite coffee, but counting the one inside Target, I live in the greater tri-Starbucks area, so it is the most convenient.  One green pepper and a box of Good & Plenty later (It’s technically my wedding anniversary, and even though we don’t celebrate it until the day after Thanksgiving, I’m acknowledging it with his favorite candy, which I realized I had not given him in a really long time), I am standing in the checkout line dumping my finally-cool-enough-to-drink venti Christmas Blend all over the floor.  Because Monday.

I seriously cannot account for the rest of my afternoon.  Maybe I was abducted by aliens, but they beamed me back home after I fucked up some expensive space shit.  I don’t know; I really can’t remember.  But, I was home in time to drive carpool, so that’s what I did.  I arrived first and as I waited for the kids my sister-in-law texted to tell me that Kohl’s was having an online-only sale.  Thank.  The.  Lord.  If there’s anything I hate more than sticking my hand into a mystery hole at a Halloween carnival, it’s shopping.  Once we were home, I sat down with each child individually and filled our online cart with everything they’ll need to last them through another night’s sleep, then I proceeded to spend the next forty five minutes trying to check out because Kohl’s will neither recognize that I have an account, nor let me check out as a guest because I have an account.  They’re having a difficult day, too, and I should be more understanding.  But I’m not because I end up having to empty my cart, close my browsers, delete my cookies and re-select 27 items (in the correct colors and sizes).  But I still didn’t get my damn Rewards points.  And until every last item shows up on my door step, I’m not ready to declare this a triumph.

By this time, it’s 5:30 and I am ready to start that meat loaf I was going to make for dinner.  Except guess what?  What I thought was an onion in the fridge was actually a turnip.  Turnips couldn’t possibly be any good inside a meat loaf.  I call Mike and ask if he’s near home yet.  He is.  I ask him if he will pick up the onion I need.  After a pause, he says he will.  Then he asks how long the meat loaf will take.  I tell him an hour, at least.  His silence tells me he doesn’t want to wait that long to eat.  I forgot; he’s 50 now.  He’s an early bird.  Or, I suggest, he could pick up Chinese.  He thinks that’s a great idea, even after I tell him I’m still going to need that onion so we can have meat loaf tomorrow night.

Sarcastic asshole smiley faces.

We have a pleasant meal, though the beef and broccoli had a strange cinnamon-y taste I wasn’t expecting.  I give Mike the box of Good & Plenty and suddenly remember why I haven’t gotten him any in a really long time; black licorice causes him to have heart palpitations.  I guess on this, our third anniversary, my subconscious just wants his heart to skip a beat for me the way it used to. You know, back when he still ate licorice.

Between the cleaning, the shopping, the cooking – hell, even the coffee – I feel like I’ve failed at basic womaning today.  I’m going to go soak this Monday off with an oatmeal stout in a bubble bath.  If the aliens don’t drop toasters into the tub as retribution for whatever damage I caused up there in their UFO, tomorrow’s going to be much better.

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