Yesterday, was my day off. I’d planned to use the gift certificate I received for Mother’s Day to get my nails done and then maybe blog about it because I know how much y’all adore every detail about my nail care routine.
But I also had to buy a birthday present for Sunny’s friend, dishwashing detergent, pumpernickel bread, a specific birthday gift for my husband, balloons for Jane’s science assignment illustrating static electricity. I needed to make dinner for a friend who just had surgery (which is why pumpernickel bread is mentioned in the previous sentence) and deliver it. I then had to pick up the kids from school—because my husband graciously agreed to take them to school that morning—and get them home in time for my husband to take them to their respective music lessons.
Piece of cake.
I perhaps slept in a little more than I wanted to but I did get on the exercise bike without too much whining. Showered, dressed, and sufficiently caffeinated, I set off.
The first store had Sunny’s friend’s gift and the detergent,* but no pumpernickel, specific husband gift, or reasonably priced balloons.
The second store had reasonably priced balloons (plus the gift bags and birthday cards I’d forgotten to add to the list), but didn’t carry bread or gifts my husband would appreciate.
I zipped over to my nail appointment, by which I mean I followed at minimal safe distance a series of other drivers who seemed to be unclear about where they were going and how quickly they needed to get there, but were adamant about leaving their turn signals on to save time. But I did make it with minutes to spare.
Say what you want about the frivolity of manicures, but it’s always lovely to have someone hold your hand for half an hour, add a little color to your life, and then massage pineapple oil into your sore writing muscles. My nails are now a shade called “Imagination”, which might look beige under artificial light, but sparkles gold in the sunshine. I like that.
I only wish I’d remembered my gift certificate . . .
The third store had my husband’s birthday present and every kind of bread I could have wished for, as long as I didn’t wish for pumpernickel.
The fourth store had pumpernickel.
I went home, hid some of my shopping,** and started scraping carrots, de-stringing celery, and denuding spuds for a vat of baked potato soup (this one with smoked sausage bits added to the onions—and yes, the cat still considers himself a key ingredient) to feed my friend’s family, plus enough for my family the next night.
Halfway through, my stomach demanded to know what I was going to do about its state of impending implosion, so I made lunch, ate it, and continued making soup. Once soup had been achieved, I let it cool and called my friend for directions. Her husband, who is a jwonderful man who fully intends to take on his beloved’s work load but had no idea she did quite this much, answered and gave me detailed directions that depended on landmarks that haven’t existed since well before we moved up here, so I secured the street address to their town house complex and dug out the GPS.
I love my GPS but its suction cup mount and I have a non-aggression pact, which it violated by popping free just as I reached the part of town I knew nothing about. Figuring that GPSing from one’s lap was worse than texting, I pulled over and got my own back by licking the suction cup and slamming it onto the surface of my windshield, where it stuck . . . upside down. I pried it free, tried again, and we all went on our way. I don’t believe I was imagining the disapproval in the GPS’s voice, but I didn’t start it, so I didn’t care.
I delivered the soup, bread, a box of Godiva, and hugs to my medication-goofy friend and her exhausted husband, and went to pick up the kids. While waiting in the Parental Line, I checked my e-mail and found that Jane’s Humanities teacher had cc’d me on an e-mail that supplied the four assignments Jane had missed that month, all of which were due the following day at 3:30. To her credit . . . pun woefully unintended . . . she fully acknowledged that she needed to do them and told me she needed my computer.
I agreed, because legitimate excuses for writing avoidance are not to be ignored and I’m not interested in providing her with a scapegoat for her lousy grades, thank you.
When we got home, my husband had put the potato soup in the fridge, which would have been perfect, except he’d inadvertently unearthed the roast I’d bought, which I’d meant to slow-cook Monday but had instead ended up dropping it into the black hole I have where other people keep their memory centers. The date label suggested that I either cook it by the next day or lose it in the black hole we keep where other people have freezers.
So instead of spending the kids’ music lesson time doing a post on my busy day, I prepped the roast for crockpotting (it’s a Real Verb, Downith, I swear), and began gently reheating potato soup.
The kids came home, told me they didn’t like potato soup and would prefer Campbell’s, please, and dispersed to deal with their Humanities backlog and top up their RDA of cartoons, respectively, which may well have saved their lives and the state of Illinois the cost of a trial.
So I opened cans and heated things and kissed my husband good-bye . . . I think . . . and ended up burning the bottom of the potato soup, because of course. But everyone was eventually fed and homeworked (she says) and showered, so I made good use of the dishwashing detergent, and sat down to write a belated post about I don’t even know.
And then my MIL came upstairs to complain that her toilet was bubbling, and the last time it did that, the sewer line outside the house had backed up into her back room.
It did that this time, too.
So that’s why my regular Tuesday post is being posted today and also why there will be no random Thursday post tomorrow.***
Because life is being random enough at the moment.
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*Which was so well-hidden behind a young man examining a bottle of drain cleaner and his full cart that I made three passes down the aisle before I realized he was blocking the shelf I needed. When I finally stopped and said, “Excuse me,” he smirked and said, “Sorry, I have a girlfriend.” I gave him Sunny’s best unimpressed look and said, “I’ll forgive you if you move so I can get that green box right there.” Wait for the pitch before you lob it back, gentlemen.
**Not because my husband doesn’t know exactly what he’s getting, but to prevent the kids from opening the bag if front of him, pulling out the gift and saying, “Mom? Who is this for?” Bother birthdays and parenting often depend on plausible deniability.
***That and Sunny’s Girl Scout bridging ceremony Thursday evening. And I just remembered that I have to iron all her badges on her vest. And that the ironing board is in the back room of my MIL’s apartment . . .
(Not. Powder. They aren’t the same thing)
4. Ask your eleven-year-old to cut the two sticks of margarine into the appropriate number of tablespoons to sneak in a little practical math practice. Discover that there isn’t any margarine to be found in fridge or freezer, but there are two pounds of Real Butter, because your sister-in-law has a Thing about it. Think about having your eleven-year-old smoosh all the margarine bits back together into a stick so you can switch to butter without a lecture from your MIL about wasting food (or food-like products), but suddenly remember that one Good Eats episode where Alton Brown used butter and shortening in biscuits—illustrated by punching nun puppets, because Mr. Brown is the King of Effective Mnemonics—and 
Earful of Cider 