Just this morning, I realized we had missed my son's school physical, which I now need to write in Sharpie somewhere on my person to remind myself to reschedule first thing tomorrow morning. And it wasn't like we had overslept. No, because we were up at the crack of dawn to bring him to this thing called "Gut Camp" (an hour of ungodly exercise for young people who have too much energy) at 6:30. Only problem was, I had not written on the calendar that this was the one week they have off. Got a lovely, unnecessary tour of town in all its early morning sleepiness. It was even too early for Shirtless Running Guy. Stupid. Oh, and I didn't write the doctor's appointment on the calendar either, thus the screw-up. Stupid again. And while I was checking the calendar to see if any of this was written down (if it was, it would have been by some magic calendar fairy, because I am the only one in this house who writes anything down on that thing, and it damn well wasn't me), I noticed three more appointment cards attached to the top of said calendar. Now here's the clincher: Did I write those appointments down, then and there? Absolutely NOT. What the hell is wrong with me? It's like my brain stops working the minute school lets out. And as I write and proofread this, those cards are still sitting at the top of the calendar.
And then there are all these weird things everyone else in this family does that they wouldn't dream of doing any other time of the year. Our son sleeps so late on the days he doesn't have to be up early, that his whole eating schedule gets knocked off course and he ends up usually eating an extra meal. I know what you're thinking: Wouldn't a normal person lose a meal if they slept until noon or later? Yup. That's what I think, too. Key here is the term "normal person." I have still yet to figure it out. I think somehow he eats on his own and then eats with us as a family as well. I'm just irked that he has a metabolism that allows him to do that and stay skinny. Memo: invent miracle drug that gives middle-aged women the metabolism of a teenage boy/become bazillionaire.
Then there is our daughter. When she is not at somebody's house (I apologize to all of her friends' parents who suddenly think they've gained a new child. Apparently our house is not nearly as fun as everyone else's in town), she is wreaking beauty havoc. A couple of weeks ago I was searching through cabinets to find something powerful enough to scrub through bright red nail polish that had seemingly become part of the glaze on the white porcelain sink in the bathroom. What was going on with her and the polish, I have no idea. It looked like a massacre. Or maybe she was trying to emulate Jackson Pollock. And she had cleverly hidden the nail polish remover well enough to push me into a crazed frenzy to find a decent scrubby strong enough to power through NYC Nail Polish Shade 135A.
This afternoon, I went upstairs to put away some laundry. My bedroom door was closed, which should have been an immediate red flag that something was going down. I opened the door to find our resident beautician sitting on the floor in front of the television, shaving her legs. Odd, but kind of creative, and resourceful, to boot. She was totally conserving water by rinsing her razor in a solo cup. She explained that she needed to shave her legs for her softball game, but wanted to watch TV, too. Multitasking. Whatever. I gave her a towel and walked out. I'm careful to pick my battles. The summer is still young.
|Totally normal items...when used in normal circumstances.|