You should have been there. It was perhaps some of the very best whinging I've done in a long time. Really well done stuff.
Today? No more whining! Just like THAT, I've adapted to the lot life has cast me. There are no more worries, there is no more angst, there can be no further bitching about my current position, because today I am working at home.
It's an elixir for the crabby-pantsedness, is the working from (at) home.
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Woke up late this morning. It was not my alarm clock's fault. It did its job at 6:something on the dot, just like it was told. The waking up late was completely and operator issue on my part.
I love me some bed time, and on a gray wet morning such as we had here, further snuggling under the covers is what's called for.
So, at 7:22 I found myself in a bit of a pickle. The Things' school starts at 8:15. It's a 15-minute commute. They need at least 5 minutes to get to their lockers and to the band room to drop off their instruments. That meant at there were about 35 minutes to
- make coffee
- wake up the kids
- get them to eat breakfast
- make their lunches
- ensure the Things brushed their teeth and hair and washed their face (thank GOD they'd taken showers the night before)
- police their fashion choices (going to school in your lounge pants? no, but nice try Thing 2)
- get their randomly strewn crap back INTO their backpacks and get them out the door.
That's not a lot of time to get all that done, especially when the 'responsible adult' is still half asleep.
And yet, by 8:10 they were disembarking the rent-a-van (yay! Success!), and by 8:16 I was at the repair shop asking about Tinkerbell's health. After being assured by the nice young man behind the counter that she'd be ready for me in half an hour, I drove the rent-a-can back to the rental place (goodbye, sweet ride!), got picked up by the dealer shuttle, brought back to the shop, where I was told she'd be ready 'in a few minutes."
I can hear you all moan in sympathy, because you KNOW, don't you, about the secrets of repair shop time? For those uninitiated, or simply forgetful folks out there, a hint: Car shop time is not like regular time. "15 minutes" is equivalent to an hour of normal time. When the nice young man behind the counter said "just a few minutes" I should have responded with "just drop me off at home and come get me this afternoon, because I KNOW you're a lying son of a gun and I'm going to have to sit in your gray humorless waiting room reading ad mags and some godawful 'Fashion Rocks' glossy while listening to Dr Phil deconstruct some poor slob who agreed to appear on his show (perhaps in the ope of achieving some kind of bizarre fame), which to me seems like the first circle of hell, so GAH! NO!"
But I did not say that, for I am a hopeful person, and choose to believe that he was telling me the TRUTH about how much time it will take for the shop guy to return from his hookers n' blow run IN MY CAR. Test drive, my left butt cheek. That lil' beetard is out cruising in my baby, probably has her driver's seat all ratcheted back so his head is in the back seat and he's got her stereo-e-o thumping on 1) cracker country or 2) crunk-a-dunk rappage while he's impressing the girls with the awesomeness of my sweet lil' Tink. Oh yea, she might LOOK like a gramma car, but she's got soul, baby, and don't all the chicks jus' KNOW it.
So, after ramming my knees into the dashboard because car guy over-compensated with the seat adjustments once he was done snorting coke off the damp flaccid bosom of whatever ho' he bought his shit from, it's a good thing I'm working from home. I'm sure we all can agree that it's best I'm not on the road with that kind of attitude.
Y'all have a lovely afternoon.
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