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April 29, 2005

"How would you like to be me?"

That's what my Aunt Eleanor used to say. It was her stock response to anybody else's tale of woe. Naturally nobody had it as tough as she did. God, she was miserable. She was an alcoholic. She's dead now.

Moo has strep throat. I brought him a bowl of homemade chicken soup and some asiago cheese bread for dinner. "Eat it while it's hot," I said. "It will feel good on your throat." He sighed. He had wanted macaroni and cheese. I came downstairs after about 15 minutes; the bowl was empty. "Do you want some more soup?" "No." Another sigh. He didn't even turn his head to look at me, he was so disappointed. Yeah, tortured by being forced to eat decent food. Tough luck.

Herself is at a Brownie function. I got home after struggling through the usual Friday gridlock just in time to load her into the car and get her there. When I dropped her off at the high school parking lot she said to the troop leader, "Are there going to be snacks? Because my mom didn't make me anything to eat and I'm starving." I had to put my hands behind my back to keep them from wrapping around her neck and squeezing.

Shit, it's been a lousy week. Every day held some new and mostly unpleasant surprise.

The plants my neighbor asked me to water that I killed instead. The Other One's phone call on Monday night. The burned-up clutch on The Husband's car that cost $800 to fix. The crack in the windshield that appeared yesterday morning, shaped like a fish hook and now inching its way inexorably from one side to the other. The note from the school asking me if I am "aware" that Herself has missed 15 days of school this year and to please keep in mind that absences could affect her grades. The third-grade luncheon that I couldn't go to, earning me disdain from the teacher and wrath from Herself. Moo's strep throat. George Bush on the television last night instead of The OC. The letter from the homeowner's association telling me that I have until June 27 to get a new roof and put some "large numbers" on my house "that can be seen from the street." (This is a mystery. There are "large numbers" on the mailbox, which is on the street directly in front of the house, which is about 15 feet back. Listen, if you can't make the connection, you're too much of a dope for me to want you to come over anyway.)

I tell myself to look on the bright side--it's Friday, at least I have a home, at least I have a job, at least I'm healthy (but how do I know that?)--but the rah-rah's are listless and right now optimism just seems like way too much effort. Maybe the ghost of Aunt Eleanor and I should just go upstairs now, have a martini, give in. We can compare sad stories about our sad lives.

Posted by JudyLa at 07:10 PM | Comments (0)