Another Day, Another Dollah

The day was coming along just swimmingly. Yes, this day was filled with rainbows and unicorns…everything was unbelievably, impossibly perfect!

Then, I woke up.

Metronome (the wonderdog) evidently has allergies. So says the veterinarian. So says the $78 check I paid to have him evaluated and (in Metro’s humble opinion) violated with a doggie-thermometer. So, I wake to what sounds like an 85-year-old man who’s been smoking for 60.

"Hack! Hack! Blech! Patoohey!"

"Well. And 'good morning' to you, too….someone needs a breath mint. And a spittoon."

The day progresses. Connor’s (12) recovering from a bad head cold and it’s his first day back at school. The nurse is not calling. This is progress. Connor has a class trip tomorrow to see dead bodies on display in Manhattan. Then, they’re off to Ground Zero. It’s supposed to be rainy, cold and windy. Good times.

Somehow, the hours between 7am and 2:25pm are whisked away with phone calls, spread sheets and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. No-one’s sure where the time has gone. I do not question where the time has gone. What’s the point?? It's gone.

2:34pm: My final moment of sanity for the day. Trust me.

2:45pm: I’m on the phone with someone by the name of Ramon from Fidelity Investments. Ramon wants to know if I am comfortable with the Target Asset Mix of 50% stock funds, divided into equal parts by the ratio of the time continuum broken down into chocolate chips divided by the next 26 years of my life, excluding bathroom breaks. I have already put Ramon off once before….he’d called two weeks ago, just as the boys were getting home from school. After my third "I don't know...." and "I'm sorry....what?" he suggests he call back: “How’s Tuesday, October 27th…at 2:45pm?” This is the same time the boys arrive home.

I say, “Okay.”

I’m a freakin’ idiot.

After ten minutes of "I'm not sure…I really haven't had a chance to consider the ramifications of the exclusion of bathroom breaks for the next 26 years of my life,” we decide to re-schedule this conference call. He’s calling back in a month. I think. Probably at 2:45...

Taylor (17) announces he’s got a project due. He’s supposed to cook something.

“Cool-io”, I say.

“Oh and it has to be from scratch and it has to feature some fresh veggies, as I already announced in my report that my diet is lacking in such,” Taylor pronounces. “And it’s due tomorrow,” he adds.

I have no words at first. I just stare.

“You DO know that I don’t know how to cook, right?” I ask.

“I think you’re an excellent cook,” Taylor mollifies.

“You don’t know any better,” I answer. “This is not fair. We’ll just wing it.”

“Uh-oh,” says Taylor. “We'll also need to take two photographs…one of me preparing the meal and the other holding said meal.”

“You’re freakin’ kidding me, right?” I ask.

He was not.

In the end, “we” wound up making three bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches…using tomatoes from the tomato plants on our deck.

That was about as “scratchy” as we were gonna get. That, and a can of baked beans and I proclaimed us done.

Photos taken? Check. Photos printed? Double-check.

Oh, crap.

Now we’re out of bread.