Wednesday, 29 December 2010

A Letter to Husband

While scrolling through my emails from the past year (because I have an apartment to clean, dinner to fix, two kids to bathe, and a husband I need to primp for before he gets home from work [*cough* golfing *cough]), I came across this little missive I wrote to him.  Mind you, I was 7 months pregnant, possibly a touch hormonal, and sleep deprived.  It was probably moments like this that made him very glad that we had 5,600 miles separating us.  Most people would not want to be within arm's reach of me when I'm riding the progesterone/estrogen wave.

♫ Goood morning, Husband!! ♪ ♫
Or afternoon, whenever you'll get this.

I'd like to start off by saying that my morning started off pretty damn good. After my shower, I had perfect fucking hair. Herbal Essences should be beating down my door. In fact, I was so pleased with my shiny flippy hair and glossy lips today, I was actually singing a little tune as I herded a remarkably well-behaved Vlad out the door.

So my first stop was the atm I usually go to, so I could extricate some more of your hard-earned casharoonie and pay the rest of the bills. I'd totaled it to just over $300, so I decided to take out $310 -- a sum that should easily be handled by any respectable atm, right? Well, after hanging halfway out the truck window so I could complete my transaction (this usually entails me holding my breath every time I have to punch the buttons 'cause my belly's jammed against the door), the screen reads "transaction cannot be processed at this time" and shoots the card back out at me. Naturally, I thought to myself "What the fuck?" So, this time getting up on my knees to hang out the window ('cause Little V was protesting the invasion on his kicking space), I put the card back in and asked for an inquiry (thinking maybe there was a hold, maybe Korea had exploded in a rain of Communist fire and the bank was a bit behind on transactions as a result)...and once again, it said "transaction cannot be processed" and practically SPAT my card back at me.

At this point, I stopped singing my happy tune and got a little concerned. I drove Big V to the sitter's and paid her out of the rent money, which hadn't yet been converted into a money order (I thought I'd save that for my lunch break, thank goodness) and decided to see if the card would work at CVS (because I admit, I have been thinking about honey roasted whole cashews for the past few days). So I go in, pausing to admire my still-shiny flippy hair in my reflection in the glass door, and get my cashews and a Sprite (because, like any drug addiction, I tend to want my pseudo-caffeine when I'm becoming a bit stressed). At any rate, CVS was happy to complete my transaction, so I thought I'd try another atm. So I get in the truck and rip open my delicious honey roasted whole cashews. Which proceeded to fucking FLY out of the can and explode all over the front seat. All of them. There was like ONE left in the can. At this point, I started to get a little pissed. Not even looking in the mirror at my pretty hair was making me feel better. However, I was not yet in tears.

So I scoop up all my cashews, put them back in the Miraculously Exploding Can-o-Fun, and start out of the parking lot to Main Street in search of another atm. I glanced at the clock, saw I still had 20 minutes til class, and figured all would be well. In fact, just to try to ease myself back into my original happy mode, I decided to have a sip of my Sprite. After judiciously using my turn signal to turn onto main, I twisted the cap on my Sprite. And it wouldn't turn. So, I'm thinking "I'll use my other hand." Still nothing. At this point, I started to get that tingly feeling in my nose that usually foretells a ridiculously out-of-proportion bout of hormonal weeping. So I pulled to the side and went to work on the stupid Sprite cap. I twisted, yanked, put the top in my mouth and tried twisting, banged it on the console, and burned the first layer of skin off of BOTH palms trying to get that goddamn bottle open. Seven minutes later, I'm sweaty, teary, my nose is running, and yes, my hair is starting to get disheveled, and the Sprite cap hasn't even budged. So I threw it into the floorboard and drove to Main street to find out whether all our funds had magically disappeared overnight or there was just a stupid glitch in that original atm that was fucking up my day.

Well, OF COURSE, I happened to get behind grandma Ethel, who only drives her car to church on Sunday and the market on Monday, and apparently, due to her Alzheimer's, can't remember which goddamned street she wants to turn down, so she keeps her goddamned blinker on and comes to a COMPLETE FUCKING STOP at every single side street so she can read the goddamned signs. However, husband, I resisted laying on the horn, because she probably would've thought she was near a goddamned train track with a goddamned train coming and sat there til a goddamned train actually appeared in front of her. So, an excruciating eight minutes later, I finally got to TrustBank, which, true to its name, was able to dispense the cash I required with no trouble. So after checking both ways before making my left out of the drive, I pulled out and started to make my way down Butler and head to school. After eyeing the clock once again, I figured if I didn't get behind any ri-tards, I could maybe make it to class on time.

Well, wouldn't you know who had finally figured out which goddamned street she wanted to turn down, made a left, got to Butler, and just before I passed the street she was idling on, decided to stomp on her gas and PULL RIGHT OUT IN FRONT OF ME!!!!!!!!!! Yep, it was Fucking Ethel, swear to Baby Jesus. So instead of hauling ass down Butler at a respectable 35, once again she kept her pace near what I imagine an arthritic turtle would consider slow, turned on HER OTHER BLINKER, and proceeded to once again stop and peer at every goddamned cross road between there and the highway. So, since I could do nothing else, I screamed at the absolute top of my lungs, I was so frustrated. My nose was running, my eyes were tearing, and at this point, Little V decided to practice his calisthenics right on my bladder. And by the way, what was Fucking Ethel looking for all this time, you may be wondering? The goddamned chiropracter she could've easily driven to by ANY NUMBER of side streets this side of Whittle.

So now, Husband, here I sit. I hope you have a lovely day.

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