Originally posted 9/8/2009I woke up late today and stumbled my way to the kitchen on a coffee beeline that looked and felt like a yellow brick road, to discover my husband Dennis fully dressed for work and passed out on the couch. I thought it best to gently rouse him and let him know that he was supposed to be at work. As it turned out, he'd aggravated his sprained ankle buzzing around the house yesterday preparing for his return to work and had no plans to get up from the couch any time soon. It was sad and cute at the same time.
Not much later in the day the post-vacation, injured husband clutter got to me and I decided to make short work of it.
First stop on the tidy train: stinky laundry.
Dennis as Lily our one year old: Are those "browns"?
Me: Those are whites. Some of our whites have brown on them.
Dennis to Lily: Mom has little to no bowel control. If she had bowel control she wouldn't use it anyway. What would be the fun in that?
He says this as I tenderly fold his underwear and turn his socks inside themselves to form conveniently paired bundles.
Later yet, after an extended grocery shopping sojourn consisting of peach sniffing, cucumber thumping, and beer procuring, (the ancient checker actually eyed me suspiciously and asked my birth date causing me to choke on my 40 year old tongue wrinkle), I returned home to the news that Dennis' doctor had called in his prescription not five minutes prior.
On the way to the pharmacy I turned on the radio, (yes, the radio... we old bats like old things), and was met with what sounded like static. I flicked the lever on my steering wheel to move it to the next station. The static grew louder. I flicked more vehemently. Flick flick FLICK flickflickflick. Suddenly I'm being blasted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon".
Who knew that that "Bark at the Moon" sounds like "Bazzrrxxxskkkzzxzz" in the lower volume ranges?
I would have happily Barked at the Moon in the first place so I did just that. I kept on barking even after my minivan ground to a halt at a stoplight. I envisioned a giant hair bow in the shape of a bat and checked myself out in the mirror. It wasn't there of course, but I was pleased with the look of it and continued to headbang my way into the hospital parking lot.
After a stop here and a doctor note grab there, I once again found myself approaching the pharmacy. It was packed and offered only two available seats; one next to a kindly senior citizen and another holding an empty water bottle and a worn copy of
Coachella Valley Your Health Monthly. I smiled at the elderly gentleman and said, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"
This man had not one but two lazy eyes, and his face was clearly pointed in my direction, but he afforded me neither acknowledgment of my existence nor any response whatsoever. Upon realizing I couldn't be sure of his ability to hear, or of his sanity, I took a step back and plopped myself right on top of the water bottle.
I'm no fool. It was obvious that the only way to save what I like to think of as my natural aplomb was to snatch that magazine up faster than the speed of light, cross my legs and pretend I'd been sitting there for half an hour. So I did just that.
I flipped to a page about natural skin masks. Do I have dry skin or combination skin? Only one of my many beauty quandaries. I go with dry skin. Bad choice.
In a recipe that is obviously not meant for consumption I take in the words, "(no need to substitute Splenda in this recipe)". I wrote in "OMG", because I said the words out loud, violently flicked the page with my right hand and squinted at the lazy-eyed gentleman in a manner that shrieked, "Can you bah-lieve this?" Mercifully, I spotted Dennis' name on the put-you-out-of-your-misery board and hopped up behind a waiting couple.
After five and a half minutes of, "He said he was going to send down a note"'s, and "He's an idiot, I never liked him"'s it was my turn at bat. Inexplicably, the girl behind the register motions me over to the right. I comply. Again she motions to the right. Again I comply. She says, "You can come to this window too." I hand her my ticket. She heads back off to the left and types into a computer and eyes me nervously. I continue to smile. She goes on about how I could have come to that window, the one she motioned me to before hopping back to the left, until I say, "The 'Pick-up Prescription' sign is over where I was standing." She glares like I'm an idiot and says, "I'm just letting you know. For next time."
I smiled a broader smile. Her lips twitched. I plucked the bag out of her hand and made my way home.
Is it just me?
Image by Jesper Rønn-Jensen via Flickr
Re-posted from 5/28/09. I can't believe this was a year ago!
There's a new picture bookstore in Uptown Dallas! Matthew and Kristine Abramowitz, the good folks who run The Storybook House, aren't even bothering to install adult titles - this store is for the kids, and the kids at heart.
Be sure to check out Alice Pope's Wednesday Tweet Roundup, a bulging bag of goodies for aspiring children's writers. It contains informational links galore, from a virtual treasure trove of quality tweeters. (Be sure to follow them!)
