These Are The Days That Try (Wo)men’s Souls

I hit the ground running most days, but there are days that completely try my soul and should be reserved for evil people, not me. I had a day like that yesterday. During the week, I get up at four (I married a rooster who’s usually up at two—earlier now that we’ve pushed the damn clocks back). It’s not by happy choice. I just happen to believe that I should make breakfast (and pack lunch) for my husband who works flexible hours at an aerospace company. And although my daughter is independence personified, I do like to see her whiz by before she leaves for work for the day and to manage that, I’d have to get up super early, so this is killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. While my husband works twenty minutes away by freeway, Jessi travels 75 miles one way to go to her dream job (pays dirt, but she’s happy). Anyway, by 6:20, when most people don’t even know where the snooze button on their clock is located, I’ve already waved husband and daughter good-bye (son lives in a room close to USC during the weekday so all he requires is money, not waves) and am taking my nervous German Shepherd for a walk before exercising (Charlie has turned half the garage into a gym, the other half into a semi greenhouse for his beloved cacti—I have nightmares of  falling into a wagon of upturned spines while clutching barbells).

Halfway into the walk, the cell phone clipped to my belt is rivaling the song on my Ipod (yes, I have both—I need perks). Since the song is Miranda Lambert’s Gunpowder and Lead, I know it’s Jessi. She’s locked her keys in her car (a first for her) while getting a large container of designer coffee. Could I come rescue her (like I’m going to say no)? Luckily, she’s only four miles away, not somewhere half way between the other side of the world and here. So Audrey and I run back to the house. To make up for the abbreviated walk, I have Audrey come with me in the car while I ride to the rescue.

I bring the spare key, Jessi gets into her car, telling me that I rock (it’s amazing how far I’ll go for a compliment). Dog and I are now on our way home and granted, I do have a medical condition that comes out every time I’m in a car behind the wheel. It’s called lead foot-its, but it gets me home faster. When I hear a funny noise, I think that maybe it’s coming from the car, which I’ve switched with my husband to take into our mechanic for rear brakes (after all, I’m a writer, I have time. I don’t work). Well, it wasn’t the brakes, it was the dog. She got nauseous and threw up. Twice.  In my husband-with-the-incredibly-sensitive-nose’s car.  The next half hour is spent cleaning and deodorizing the back seat. 

After that, I dash off to the mechanic. The rear brake job turns into a complete brake job. For some unknown reason, the front brakes are both cracked. So I sigh inwardly and tell him to go ahead (he is honest and I trust him, but I’m still not happy about the extra time I just lost).  And it is while he is removing the front tire to get at the brake that we hit the next dilemma in this mini-soap opera.  I have a nail in my tire—a tire that is three steps away from shredding. This means a trip to the local tire shop (my mechanic doesn’t patch tires). So, when the smoke finally clears, all the work I’d planned to do after I ran my “quickie” errand to the mechanic has to be moved over to today—which turns out to be only a shade better than yesterday. I’m only three hours behind instead of a whole day (don’t get me started).

And how was your day?

Marie