So today was supposed to be a nice blog post about socks. But sadly, today has turned out to be ONE OF THOSE DAYS. You know, a day from Hell.
I should have known the minute I woke up to the sound of my phone letting me know I had a text message. At 6:30 AM. Nobody texts me at 6:30 AM except one of my sisters, who apparently has no fear of my threats and death messages, which is how I have scared off anyone else who dares to text me before I’ve properly woken and had at least 1.5 cups of coffee.
Anyway, after that I get up, and start the usual morning stuff, which lately consists mainly of yelling up the stairs, “Brush your teeth and get your butt moving” at Junior. By now, my sister has called because in all the morning chaos, I haven’t had a chance to text her back.
And then the dog peed on my side of the bed. Specifically, she peed on my pillow and part of the comforter. Shockingly, it was not No-no Lulu who wet the bed. Instead, it was Kirby who appears to be harboring some deep issues about me and my pillow.
So then, because my day didn’t suck enough and because I am on a permanent quest to be the cool mom, I spent most of the afternoon driving all over town searching for something called Muscle Milk. Junior cannot live without it because all of a sudden he has decided to take up body building in the hope that if he is muscular, girls might overlook the fact that he cannot speak to them at all without turning beet red and mumbling.
He figures if he looks good, he won’t have to talk. Hey, I‘m not discouraging this. It works well for many men, including Tom Cruise—who was much better looking before he started jumping on couches and arguing with Matt Lauer.
And that explains my quest for Muscle Milk. As it turns out Muscle Milk isn’t really milk, which is why I couldn’t find it in the dairy section of the million or so stores I have visited today. On the plus side, I did remember to pick up non-dairy creamer, which, ironically, is in the dairy aisle.
Then I got home to find a message from FedEx saying that they had left a package at my neighbor’s house. I don’t actually know them, but they have always made me uncomfortable. I always feel like they are sizing me up and frankly, I think I come up a little bit short and not just because I am height challenged. Possibly it has to do with the time we all received a nice note which I think was from them suggesting that we form a wine club and it used the word oenophile.
I swear to you, I had to look the word up. In case you were wondering, it means “a person who enjoys wine.”
Anyway, after that, they may have overheard me say to my husband that I believed the word meant “a person who drinks wine that doesn’t come from a box and uses the word oenophile to let the neighborhood know they are a) wine snobs; and b) have time to read the dictionary so they can use big words that I have to look up before I can properly make fun of them.”
Yeah. Needless to say, I avoid them, because I am totally embarrassed that I was snotty about them being snotty.
So they had my FedEx, which meant I had to toss on my big girl panties and go over there to get my package. And that’s when I realized that despite the fact that I have lived next door to them for three years, and that we have mutual friends (who are so not oenophiles, by the way), I do not remember their names.
You know, truly, there is nothing like a day when you’ve had your pillow peed on, discovered you are stupid and then had your snootiness tossed back in your face.
And that’s why none of you are reading about socks today. Hopefully your day went better than mine.Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!