My friend Melissa has a blog. I looked at the headline where she wrote she feared she had nothing to write because nothing happens in her life. Funny, I had clicked "new post" and was staring at the empty box...title and text almost blindingly white. I was thinking exactly the same thing. What the hell, besides nothing, happened last week?
Plus, I hate Sundays. There. I said it. I shouldn't hate them. I seems really stupid to say you hate Sundays. It is like saying you hate Santa Claus. How can you hate them? They are usually lazy days, filled with lots of warm coffee and warm kids with sticky maple syrup hands that want hugs all day long. But I suffer from PTSSPTTWW. That is pre-traumatic-stress-syndrome-prior-to-the-work-week. I have always had it. I even diagnosed myself. Of course my PTSSPTTWW is at it's worst when I have had jobs and bosses I have strongly not liked - even very, very very much disliked (we are trying to not say the word HATE in this house, so I am practicing) but even when I have had jobs I have loved or a business trip I was looking forward to, it is there. The whole day has this kind of cloud over it - summer or winter, hot or freezing, the cloud is there. The "work tomorrow" cloud makes fries taste not so great, wine slightly sour, the beach just too damn sandy....it is just - there. Take today for example. The day is just - off. The kids are sitting in a kind of Blair Witchcraft trance in front of the TV show Full House. John Stamos has an epic mullet with tall feathered bangs complete with a 3/4" sleeve blazer and a button down underneath with the collar up so far it looks like it is affecting the way he moves his head. The middle kid - you know, the one who became the meth addict later in life? She looks all sweetness and light, sunshiny blond curls and cute-as-button little face. How did that cute kid land on the cover of People talking about her severe drug addiction? I stare at my kids angelic faces and get a little shiver of fear for them. On a good day that show gives me the heebies - hurtling me back to when I was the pudgy kid with frizzy hair embroiled in the psychological vortex of my 12-year-old youth. On top of the Sunday weirdness, when woke up I googled my dad - for no apparent reason. I woke with a pit in my stomach, back was that little ache of pain that seems to grow and then wane, and then when it returns it hurts extra bad. I don't know what I'd expect to find on google. Would his face pop up under a bolded blue underlined descriptor? When I clicked on it would a note say: "You finally found me! I have been stuck in google! Release me and I will come back to you and your mom and David and the kids and everything will be back to normal!!" But instead, I saw all these pictures of some 40-year-old-ish English chap that wrote all kinds of articles about creepy religious/emotional freedom crap. It put me in a funk. At least I stopped calling his cell phone. It would just ring. No out of service message. Just endless ringing. CJ, on the other hand, spent the better part of the week checking out a new ambulance in Ohio. That, and a bad burrito in the Denver airport, put him in a funk. Shit, that'd put anyone in a funk.
But thankfully, today, CJ came in the house, covered in grease and grinning ear to ear. "The car runs SO great!" He announced. "Can I drive it??" I said. Minutes later, I was buzzing up our street in the Red Bird. A respite from the rain, and a soft, sunny wind made it a perfect ride. Aside from the two front seats, it was basically interior-less. But it smelled more like a car, and less like a grease trap. It drove more like a car, and less like a go cart. And most importantly, it took my serious, extra-bad case of PTSSPPTTWW and left it at the curb for a whole five minutes.
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