Tuesday, July 16, 2019

The Mondayist Monday

I always get to work at 7:00am on Mondays because I help with payroll and attendance and all the other things that have to happen in the beginning of the week to make the rest of the week go smoothly.

This past Monday, though, was different. Well, wait. Not different in that I went in at 7. No. That happened. But I was only there for an hour and forty minutes before I had to leave with some co-workers to go to an Excel class. That was great fun.

Only too bad for me, because while I was off having excellent great fun learning the basics of Excel (which, honestly, I kind of already knew…shhhh, don’t tell.) the work I’d normally have been doing during my three and a half hours away from my desk…well, that work was not being done in my absence.

Where the hell is my assistant?

So I worked ever so hard for the rest of the day to try and catch up on the work that didn’t get done from 8:40am to 12:30pm.

Only guess what? I didn’t even get to work until my usual 4:30pm that day because too bad for me, I had to leave at exactly 3:00pm for a 3:15pm physical therapy appointment.

The appointment was fine. I’m fine. My arm, according to my therapist, is feeling less full of fluid, so that’s good. She also said something about the tissue moving better, whatever the hell that means. I’m guessing it’s good since she smiled as she said it.

I have two more PT sessions, just so you know.

I had to go to The Walmarts after work because on Saturday, the VERY SAME WALMART did not have cucumbers. RED ALERT – They did not have any freaking cucumbers. Did you know that I eat a cucumber every single day at work? It’s the main part of my lunch. Why the hell am I still so fat when a fucking cucumber is the main part of my stupid lunch? Please let me take a moment to point out that the rest of my lunch is not pecan pie (blech!) or anything else that would be considered high in calories and delectable. No. The rest of my lunch consists of a half a cup of blueberries, a single, lonely string cheese and if I’m REALLY lucky, Tom will have left a half a tomato on the counter the night before after dinner and I’ll toss that into my lunch container the next morning. Lovely.

Anyway, I was at Walmart on a Monday afternoon. I not only needed (NEEDED!) cucumbers, but Olivia, the poor dear, was down to her last Klondike ice cream sandwich. WHATEVER WOULD SHE DO FOR A 9PM SNACK!?! Cue the fucking violins.

Woah there. I’m getting ahead of myself with the pissy tone of this post. I wasn’t even pissy while I was at Walmart. I don’t mind that place much. Just on Saturday afternoons when I’m trying to get through droves of people who should have had the sense to leave at least one of the seven adults in their party home to care for the twelve children they brought with them.

Monday afternoons aren’t that bad, even now, in the middle of laker season. Ahh, lakers, don’t even get me started.

So yes, there I was, bag of cucumbers in my cart, off to the ice cream section then back to the bread because Alyssa had band camp all week and needs to pack her turkey and mustard sandwich. I also wanted to get an assorted bag of individual bags of chips for her to pack to. I’m a great freaking mother, don’t let my children tell you any different.

After grabbing a Payday in the checkout line (and I was wondering up there why the hell I’m so fat…yeah.) I made my way to the car through the sweltering heat. OMG you guys, it’s so hot tgus week. It’s like living on the surface of the sun, if the sun had a surface, you know, since it’s actually just a giant ball of flaming gas.

I went home, still in a perfectly delightful mood, since my car is equipped with this wonderful invention called air conditioning.

I walked in the door and Olivia wanted to know if we were going to go swimming.

I declared that to be a lovely idea and we both changed into swimsuits and gathered towels and snacks. I didn’t realize until I got home that both Tom and I put two bottles of water in my snack/towel bag. No wonder that damned bag was so fucking heavy.

Before Liv and I left, Tom asked me what time Alyssa said she’d be home. I informed him that I had no idea since I wasn’t the one who’d been home when she’d left. He informed me that he’d assumed we (Alyssa and I) had discussed this the night before.

I told him we hadn’t. I also suggested that since HE was the parent who was home when she left, he might have considered, you know, talking to her and ASKING her or, hey, here’s a suggestion, TELLING her when to be home.

He, in turn, suggested I sent her a Snap and ask her what time she planned to be home. He said, all pompous-like, that as a responsible person, she should know that nothing later than 9pm was acceptable since she has band camp all week and has to be up by 7am at the latest each day.

Basically, he was attempting to trap her by giving her the option to be right or wrong in when she thought she should be home.

Ugh. I sent her a message, she said she’d be home by 8. I told her that since Liv and I were going swimming and wouldn’t be home until after 8, she could make it 8:30 if she wanted.

Then I grabbed that heavy-ass snack/towel bag and Livie and I were off.

For snacks I took cookies (Olivia at ten, I had three – oh, look at that, reason number 7426 why I’m a Fatty McBitcherson), blueberries, and Doritos, regular and Cool Ranch.

We swam from 6:00pm until almost 7:30, at which point, Liv asked me if I’d be mad if she needed to get out of the pool and use the bathroom.

I told her that of course I wasn’t mad that she didn’t take a giant dump in the pool. I was freaking proud of her for realizing she needed to shit and did the responsible thing (ie, GOT OUT OF THE POOL) and made her way to a toilet.

After she made use of the toilet, we went home, where Tom was sound asleep on the couch. Olivia woke him up by touching his face with her icy cold hands.

I heated up dinner for Liv and gave Tom the rundown of the messages that Lyss and I had sent back and forth.

At first he thought she’d been the one to push the time back from 8 to 8:30. I had to backtrack and tell him that I was the one who suggested 8:30 and then, I went on to remind him that he’d originally said 9, so, DUDE, she was still getting home earlier than he’s originally suggested, so give it freaking rest.

But then…THEN… she texted me about how she and N had gone swimming and could they run to Dairy Treat and then come straight home?

You know what?

I’m sick of being the go-between. I don’t actually care if she’s home at 8, 8:30 or hell, even 10 on a week night. She’s a smart girl.

Alyssa, if you’re reading this, you’re an amazing person. You’re smart, you’re responsible, you’re kind. You’re a wonderful friend, a delightful daughter, and even a great sister (I mean, you’re no Norah Porch but then again, Olivia isn’t exactly like Delaney Porch so you get a pass. I love you bunches and forever.)

Alyssa KNOWS how much sleep she needs each night. Going out and having fun with friends after band camp isn’t going to make her suddenly think she can come home at 3am and get back up at 7 for the day.

So.

When she asked about Dairy Treat, Tom huffed, “8:45, then, right?”

I texted back that she could be out until 8:45 but by then I was annoyed with the entire freaking world.

I was annoyed with Alyssa for proving her dad right and pushing the limits, even if the limits DID NOT EVEN MATTER.

I was annoyed with Tom for making ME be the one who communicated our annoyance with her.

I hate being in the middle. I HATE conflict and time management. Let her grow up!

Damn it.

After Alyssa finally got home (at 8:44, for anyone keeping track…TOM)I was upstairs remaking Olivia bed because…Olivia.

Lyss came in to say hi. I was short with her. I feel bad about that. I was just so done with that day.

I did apologize later and told her I wasn’t trying to be passive aggressive. I don’t want to be THAT mom.

I ended up going outside and petting our gross cat for a while on the swing in the backyard.

When I finally went back in I was still annoyed but not as bad at earlier. Tom asked me where I’d been. I told him. He asked if there’d been mosquitoes out there.

I shrugged. I don’t get bothered by mosquitoes; haven’t for years. Who knows why?

He acted all pissy that I didn’t get bitten. So freaking weird.

I can’t wait for his shoulder to heal and for him to feel better so he can get off the couch and stop watching Court TV and murder shows. He needs to get outside, get back to listing, get back to feeling productive because the way things are right now, he’s getting on my very last nerve.

And for what it’s worth, 99% of the time, I like the guy. And even when I’m annoyed with him, I still like him, I just want him to leave me alone while I stew in my frustration for a bit then I’ll be fine.

In the end, I’m always fine.

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