Mondays, who needs them, right? Of course if we didn’t have Monday then by default Tuesday would the scourge of the week. If we could just find a way for the first day of the work week not to suck then there would be unicorns and cotton candy and all would be right with the world, right?
And then the alarm goes off. 5 am, time to rally the troops. The tweenager, the toddler and the man. All three leave me with the impression that I will have to repeat the great cowbell incident of 2018. (I’ll share that story with you all another time.) I head down the stairs to tend to Puppy McFurrybutt and get today’s fashion ensemble out of the dryer. Head back upstairs. Maaaaaan this family must love punishment because not one of these jokers are out of bed yet. I make the rounds again, this time sounding less like Mary Poppins and more like Freddy. Back downstairs I go, to pull the toddler’s clothes out and get dressed myself. 15 min later and I still do not hear footsteps. I yell for the tweenager to get the toddler and get both butts downstairs now before there are CONSEQUENCES. They comply. In the meantime, McFurrybutt has waited until I have put on my mostly white ensemble to drop THE MOTHERLOAD in her cage. Loverly. Cage and dog go outside and are subjected to the hose. I am late for work now, and kids are doing their best impression of pure molasses going up a Canadian hill in January. And the man has yet to make an appearance.
Back upstairs I go. This man is cocooned inside the comforter sounding like a forest full of lumberjacks. “Hey, I assume this means you are not going to work today?” The response is a grunt that sounded like it was distantly related to the word No. Ok, I’m gone.
I pile the girls in the car. We head out of the subdivision. And then I realize I am wearing flip flips to a business casual workplace. I turn around, and tweenager runs in the house to get more appropriate foot attire for me.
This really should be the end of my story, but that bastard Murphy was bored this morning.
Dropping of the toddler at daycare was uneventful. I take tweenager to the before school program, and we are stopped at the door. Apparently she has an overdue balance and they will not let her stay. Tweenager’s dad is supposed to handle this, and he did not. Nor did he give me a heads up. And he will not answer his phone. I am standing there, late for work, with no recourse. And they do not take plastic. Now I am fuming. They do take cash. Of course I don’t have the full balance on me, but they will take what I have, and let her stay.
That was 15 min of my life that I will never get back. But I still have to get to work. So, hop in the car, move on down the road. I stop at the local Gas ‘n’ Snacks spot, get some iced coffee, and start to head on my way. Then I was flagged down. Through some improvised sign language I was told that my tire was going flat. Grateful that I was not on the expressway, I moved the car to the air pump and attempted to pump some air in the tire. Notice the word “attempted”. Tire won’t inflate. I think I heard Loki give Murphy a high five (bastards). I call the man, who tells me to call AAA. Yeah, that will take forever. Let’s see if I can get someone to change the tire for me. Nope, everyone is too busy being lazy to help. No, that is not fair, there were a few who were on their way to work too. So eff it, I’ll change my own tire (in the mostly white ensemble that I was dressed in for work). I take picture of the flat tire, text my boss the picture and an explanation of why I will be late, and get down to business.
So there I was, moving the mound of uselessness that always clutters my trunk to get to the spare tire. And then I had a Della Reese moment.* There is a young man walking toward me with a smile that would make the Cheshire cat retire. First words out of his mouth were “I saw you coming out of the store and I like your shape.” Internally I said “NOPE!” However what came out of my mouth was “Oh, ok.” as I go back to attempting to get the tire out of the car.
Him: “Do you have a flat tire?”
Me: “Nope, I was thinking this is a great place to put up a tire swing.” (Here’s your sign.)
Him: “Would you like some help with that?”
Me: “That would be fantastic!”
You know how things you need often come with a catch? I spent 30 minutes listening to him tell me how to change a tire, and how long I can ride on the donut, and all other manner of mansplaining. Meantime he spent 3 minutes tightening the nut on the car before I was able to control my laughter long enough to tell him he had to turn it counter clockwise if he wanted to get the tire off. And that since I have a VW, he needed this adapter that I am holding in my hand to take off the 5th nut. Dear Gods…
Tire changed, tools put away, and I want to tip him for helping me. But no, he is back to his original scheme – Operation Get Them Digits.
First I played one of my favorite games: Place That Accent. And I was spot on in guessing he is from Nigeria. Then I told him it’s not gonna happen. With a mix of confusion and indignation he asks me why. I hold up my left hand. To his credit, he moved along without the normal “But I bet he can’t do it like me” nonsense that young men seem to think is a valid argument.
I’m back on my way, and I call the boss to tell him I’m back on the road. He is completely confused. And I am tired and on a short fuse. I am wondering if this is going to be a lecture that I am going to have to (im)politely correct him about. But before I acted ridiculous I checked my phone and realized my mistake. Apparently I did not send the text to him, I sent it to a landline number. I get the feeling that he wanted to chew my head off before he realized what happened. He told me to go home and work remotely for the day. And the man is going to handle replacing the tire.
I think I just need to add some special creamer to this coffee and call it a day. Roughest 4 hours I’ve had in a while.
*(For those who are unfamiliar, Della drove a delivery trunk before she became the phenomenal actress she was. She said she was a much less “wonderful” woman back then, and the big trays of bread were really too heavy for her to move by herself. So she would reach in the truck – bend over – and make a show of trying to lift he tray. The sight of her perfectly round bottom would make many men “spring” into action and thus kept her from having to do all that heavy lifting.)
Chaotically Controlled 