One of Those Days

You know the kind I mean. I should have stayed in bed. It started at 6:00 am. Or it would have, if I hadn't overslept until 6:17. Those of you who have to get up in the morning for work or school or kids know exactly what I'm talking about. Nowhere is that 17 minutes as important as when you're trying frantically to get out the door. This morning I was treated to, "Why'd you wake me up so laaaaaaate?!" and "Moooooommmmm! I've told you I want to get up at six! Weren't you listening?!" before I even had my coffee. Nothing like grumpy kids to start off the day.

The only thing that would make it better is if they both had mild colds--not enough to stay home, but enough that they didn't at all want to go to school. (They stayed home yesterday. They'd have to have had the plague to make me let them stay home again today.)

Why did I oversleep? Well, I'm sure it had nothing to do with the dog digging at her ear at 2:00 this morning, or the other dog licking her butt all bloody night long.

This morning I decided to paint the ceiling in my new craft room. Fun, right? I was totally looking forward to it. But things quickly took a turn for the worse. I couldn't find my edger, so I figured I'd just freehand it. Umm. Yeah. That didn't work out so well. But it gets better. On one of my thousand trips up and down the ladder for a paper towel to wipe off the "oops," I stepped backward and knocked something over with my foot. Something that was right on the edge of the drop cloth. Something that, naturally, tipped over onto the carpet, not the drop cloth. Something--and I'm sure you won't be surprised--that turned out to be a full gallon of paint!

My cry of dismay brought my husband running (it was a loud cry, and very dismayed), and I will be grateful until the day that I die that the wonderful man hung up on his biggest client with a hurried, "I have an emergency; I'll call you back," to come to my rescue. I'm usually pretty good in a crisis, but this had me completely flummoxed. I remember standing there, staring at the spreading pool of paint, and saying, "I don't even know where to start!" Fortunately, my darling husband, who gets ultimate husband points, didn't even blink. 15 minutes and a lot of paper towels later, we had it cleaned up, thanks to our trusty carpet shampooer.

Fifteen minutes after that, I moved the drop cloth over and discovered some of the paint had soaked through. Lather, rinse, repeat.

You'd think I would give it up at that point, but apparently I have a masochistic streak. Despite the fact that the painting was not going well, I pressed on. I now have paint on my Birkenstocks, my socks, my pants, my shirt, and several of my towels. At least the paint job sucks.

Oh, and did I mention my washer is broken again? If you don't hear from me for a few days, send help. I'll be under the massive pile of unwashed laundry, including the pee soaked towels from the on-going pissing contest between Heidi and Sam. Oh, and I'll be naked, because I'm out of clean clothes. Brace yourselves.

Since my scooter is also in need of repairs (sniff!), I walked Heidi down to the school to pick up Younger Son. I suppose he might have been more ticked off if I'd thrown out his favorite toy, but not by much. He kept up a steady commentary all the way home: "I told you I wanted you to drive! Tomorrow you'd better bring the car! I feel like there's an arrow in my side. I'm starving. I'm hot. I can't breathe. I'm going to die in two more steps! No, one! And then you'll have to carry my body all the way home. My legs hurt! My lungs hurt! I can't walk any more. I'm staying right here. You can't make me walk home. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm dying!" Did I mention it's less than half a mile from the school to our house? It took us 20 minutes to get home. It felt like three hours.

Hubby announced we were having company for dinner. Older Son had a one-hour class this afternoon, so I ran him up and hurried home to get dinner started. I sent hubby to pick up Older Son at 5:00. He came back without Older Son. I forgot his class was two hours today.

I have a big glass of wine and some Godiva chocolates. I won't be getting out of bed tomorrow. If I can actually make it up the stairs to bed.

Bad Hair Day

Today I added a new entry to my all-time Top Five List of Things I Never Want to Hear:

"Oh my God! What was I thinking? I must have completely spaced on your style while I was cutting your hair!"

I'll just give you a moment to let that soak in.

I had my hair cut the day before yesterday. When I left the salon, it looked a little...different. But it wasn't until I got home and took a good look in the mirror that I realized my stylist had been channeling Carol Brady, circa 1975. Do you remember that little bob with the mullet sticking out the bottom? I didn't, either, until I saw it on my head.

We went to Disneyland yesterday for my husband's birthday, and I spent the whole day trying to shake my too-long side bangs out of my eyes. My husband finally threatened me with a Hello Kitty barrette. After that, I walked behind him.

Today I went back to my stylist and mentioned, ever so courteously (because she really is thebeststylistever and has always done a great job in the past), that my bangs were a bit too long and could we possibly do something about them.

I suppose I should have stopped her when she sat me in the chair and asked me, a little vaguely, whether I was sure I usually had short bangs. Um. Yeah. Pretty sure.

I know I should have stopped her when she started grabbing big hunks of hair from the top of my head and chopping them off, commenting the whole time, "I just don't see how this is going to work." Which, by the way, is a close runner-up for my Top Five list.

It wasn't until she stopped chopping and glared at my head for a while that she finally asked me how she usually cuts my hair. Maybe it's just me, but I kind of think that's the sort of question that should come before the scissors, not after. Especially when the answer is "much longer on the top and not feathered." And it was at this point that she let loose with the above exclamation, which pretty much stunned me into silence for the remainder of the visit.

On the plus side, I no longer look like Carol Brady, circa 1975. On the minus side, I now look a whole lot like Pat Benatar, circa 1985. In fact, I look a whole lot like me, circa 1985, except without the parachute pants and the jacket with all the zippers. Which I suppose is some small consolation.

But since my hair is now roughly four inches too short on top, there's really not much I can do about it until it grows out. In a few months, I'm going to shoot for Meg Ryan, circa 1995. Eventually I should make it back to this millennium.

Anyone know any good hat patterns?