You ever notice nobody ever says, “One of these days I’m going to have one of those days?”
I got a call last night from my son’s teacher, more evidence that we no longer live in the big city. She wanted to find out if it was okay for her to personally deliver, on her winter break, the gift she’d guided the children into making for their parents for Christmas. Awww…!
I did some quick calculations: appointment with Toyota to get a new tire at 11am meant I’d need to leave the house at 10:30am. Assuming I had my usual poor night’s sleep (snoring hub, cat on and off the bed all night and/or playing the drums in the catbox, nightmare/bathroom/thirsty son) followed by the rare opportunity to sleep in until an incredible 8am, I would have about two hours to tackle the mound of dishes in the sink that I swear breed like bunnies and vacuum the dog and cat fur embedded in the carpets and blowing in the corners like wispy white tumbleweeds.
Morning comes. At 9:38am I’m wearing sweatpants, a stained shirt with no bra, hair unclean and uncombed, and nothing on my face but a layer of sweat as I frantically vacuum so I can get into the shower before my son’s teacher arrives. Just as a memory of the previous night’s conversation poinks into my mind (“Okay, great! I’ll be there around 10:15 OR A LITTLE EARLIER), the dog begins to go nuts in his crate, a sure sign the doorbell rang and I didn’t hear it.
With a resigned look on my face, I open the door. She’s standing there in her holiday finery, cheeks rosy from the cold, holding a wrapped gift with a photo of my son wearing a red Rudolph’s nose on top. Just as it occurs to me that maybe she won’t want to actually intrude on my obvious domestic dishevelment, my son, still wearing his Wall-e pajamas, arrives at the door. It’s an affectionate reunion, a pleasant surprise for my boy, who proudly takes the gift and presents it to me. In comes teacher.
“Oh, dear,” I splutter. “As you can see, I’m running a bit behind this morning.” (I may have actually said something more along the lines of, “I’m so mortified. I’m simply gross and as you can see from the half that I was unable to get to, my home is usually a disgusting pigsty,” but my state of extreme fluster wiped the conversation from my mind.)
Mrs. Teacher assures me that my home is lovely and commiserates with me that she, too, barely managed to get out of the house on time this morning (or EARLY you mean? -I probably thought uncharitably as I got a whiff of yesterday’s failed deodorant).
Once she’d gone (up the street to my son’s classmate Anna’s house, where I’m utterly certain the floors were spotless and the smell of pungent dog didn’t permeate the air), I could only shrug and smile that wry “Murphy’s Law” smile.
Fast-forward to the end of my day. I’ve just endured the following:
a.) Cold coffee from McDonalds. Clearly someone forgot to turn the burner on. This may not seem like a huge deal, but when you’re looking forward to a hot cuppa joe and you’ve driven too far to make another trip through the drive-through to complain, it sours you.
b.) Tire ordered by Toyota staff is not only the wrong tire, but I can’t even have both front tires replaced with stock on hand because the height of my tires isn’t “standard” and only a few tires exist in the whole world that can be used without disrupting the four-wheel drive, should I engage it. Plus, replacement of the malfunctioning heater motor is going to really cost us.
c.) The Geek Squad at BestBuy still hasn’t diagnosed my husband’s computer, even though they’ve had it for eight long days in which my hub has gone into severe video game withdrawal. I am not looking forward to telling him that he’s in for another few days at least of enforced “family time.”
d.) The clerk at Big Five can’t demonstrate the treadmill I’m thinking of buying for Christmas (for my hub to give me) because she can’t find the safety key. I assure her it isn’t her fault. Clearly my Karma is paying me back for some past indiscretion(s).
The good news is: we are all relatively healthy and reasonably happy. Christmas will come despite this one poopy day, and my son’s face as he tears into the gifts “Santa” brought him (we got one extra year of “you better watch out” out of him) will brighten the whole house.