I used to be the kind of person who had her ducks in a row. I always had my homework done--early. I used to lay out my ironed clothes the night before school. Lunches were packed, forms were signed, gas tanks were full.
Most people would be more responsible than their seventeen-year-old selves, but that, alas appears to have been when I peaked.
Counting back just from Tuesday last week. I have:
*Neglected to buy a baby shower gift.
*Neglected to attend the baby shower, because I thought it was on a different day.
*Neglected to call the expectant mother to tell her that I'm sorry I missed her shower, and that I have her gift (which, incidentally, I still don't have).
*Neglected to make it to the gym with enough time to drop off the kids at day care AND "take care of business." Proceeded to go through a "Body Combat" class with the proverbial turtle peeking out of its shell.
*Neglected to understand that it takes time to drive from the northern to the central part of the county, thus coming this close to picking up Owen late from preschool. This, in addition to the apple incident, the beer incident, the masterbation incident, and the tuition incident. I'm surely on the preschool's watch list.
*Arrived late to pictures. Left the boys' clothing at the picture place. Arrived at Wal-Mart to buy birthday gift. Since I decided the day before to
*Arrive late to dinner party on Sunday night.
And now, today's bit of stupidity:
I am a member of a club for mothers, called, cleverly enough, The MOMS Club. We were supposed to go to the pumpkin patch today, and I was charged to meet a woman who had just moved from Spokane at the commuter lot, so we could caravan there.
I left early so I could get money to pay for the pumpkin patch experience (which, of course, I didn't do earlier). I had a few minutes to spare, so I decided to swing by the house to pick up the newspaper. I figured I would read the paper and drink my coffee while waiting for this mother to arrive.
I remember feeling quite smug about finally being on top of things. I sang along to Miley Cyrus (because that "Party in the USA" song is my jam, yo!) as I drove through the roundabout.
A roundabout (or rotary, for you New England types), is a road structure like this:
I pulled into the first turn off. Quite fortuitously, it turned out to be a mechanic. I called various people to take care of the MOMS Club debacle. Since I have yet to program anybody's phone number, I called 411 each time to get these ladies' numbers. I might as well confess that I have known most of these women for over four years. Yet, I never took the five minutes required to program in their digits (My cell phone has the phone number of my grandmother's old apartment--she's been in a nursing home for almost three years--and my brother's number is at least two cell phones old).
I then called Paul, and got the mechanic to put the spare on the car. Paul and I swapped cars, and he got to spend his morning at Mr. Tire, getting new tires. Again.
Our conversation went like this:
Him: How did you get a flat tire this time?
Me: Those rotaries are really bad. I scrapped the wheel on the side of it.
Him: What, was the roundabout lined with razor blades?
Me: Yes, yes it was.
Mechanic: I hope you got a warranty on these tires, I checked, and your kind is really expensive.
Me: (Thinking) Eff you, mechanic.
Him: No, I didn't think I would need the warranty. (He looked at me with great irritation.) I suppose I should have known better. (Sighing the sigh of great martyrdom and anguish).
After all is fixed with the car, and I pay the man for putting on the spare tire, I haul ass to the pumpkin patch, to salvage the morning. We have all sorts of fall fun festivities, until the end, when I have to ask one of my fellow mothers to spot me some cash, because I used all my money to pay the mechanic.
I believe this old horse has lost her wits. Let's take me out to pasture, and put me out of my misery.
At least I make cute children. (Even though they make me stupid):