Is it Monday, or is it Me?


I woke up with a horrible headache and nausea, only to find that we had one, lonely generic ibuprofen in the cabinet.  I took it, along with a lot of coffee,  so I only had half a rotten headache when I headed out with the kids to school.

The kids took it easy on me—only three squabbles about people who kept looking at other people without permission—but the traffic didn’t.  We have a flood on,* and everyone who usually merges onto the bridge on the final exit, which is built for it, is now crowding through the next-to-the-last exit, which provides staggered blind spots for the established traffic and the mergees.

The adrenaline rush did clear out a couple of cobwebs the caffeine didn’t, so there’s a silver lining to match the paint of the Accura that tried—unsuccessfully, or this would be a very different post—to hitch a ride by merging into my trunk.  Thank heavens Rocinante doesn’t have much torque.

I myself, as of this morning, am 0-1-2 on remembering that my usual path between the school and work is covered by  a couple feet of riverwater.  It would be 0-3, except I remembered as I was turning left that I should be turning right and made it so via a panicked wheel-wrenching maneuver that any passing police officers, Honda representatives, or chiropractors would have neither approved nor recommended.

Which is when I felt one of my underwires snap.

Considering that I’m working until eight tonight and my loathing of foundation garment shopping is equal to the despair of a thousand shoppers encountering bikini displays in January, I’d almost wish it had been an axel—at least my insurance company might have helped, if only to supply the bullet to put my poor Rocinante down.

I’m wearing my favorite bulky cardigan against the schizophrenia of the current weather systems, so I decided against going home—though I may make an emergency call to my husband later, depending—and drove the long, dry way to the library.  The first thing I did was check my e-mail . . .

. . . and realize that I’d completely forgotten the birthday of one of my favorite people.  Even thought I’d written it down in my planner and had made mental notes about it since last Wednesday.

My headache redoubled its efforts and I don’t blame it.

But I did have more generic ibuprofen in my desk.  And bottled water left over from Sunny’s birthday party yesterday.**  And a highly developed talent for groveling via e-mail which I’m hoping won’t fail me.

Only eight hours more to go before I can go home, finish off the remaining birthday cake,*** and collapse in the hopes of a gentler Tuesday.

How is YOUR Monday going?


*Just a small one, only five or so feet above the official flood level, which only puts it in the thirteenth-worst flood in our area’s history as of this posting. We’re not particularly impressed at the moment, though if there’s a second crest, we might need to look sharp.

**This was the one for her friends.  It was a blast, but I was on my feet in questionable shoes for three hours and am now wearing a chic pair of black Reeboks in the hopes that patrons will think I’m hobbling because of a sports injury instead of something I did to myself standing still and chatting to other parents while the kids swarmed all over the family museum.

***Though the way the day is going, I’ll end up swiping a handful or two of leftover Easter candy from the kids’ stash—and get caught.