Monday started out just like every other Monday
– cursing my way through the first action of the day, the sound
of shattered glass.
Monday started out just like every other Monday – cursing my way through the first action of the day, the sound of shattered glass. “That frick and fracking &!#!!%@# sonof@!%#! Who put that there?!?” Then, blindly, looking for something to mop and pick the mess on the floor before my first cup of coffee.
My man-to-the-rescue came running in to find me on the floor scrambling to clean up broken glass before the cats decided to play a game of 52 Pick-up with the pieces.
“Honey what’s wrong?” he blurted, concerned that the outburst was for a severed artery.
“How will I know if it’s something important the next time?”
Calmly, I said, “Believe me, you would know the difference.”
Finally, I had a hot cup of coffee in my hands, but it was apparent by my loved one’s eyes he could not let it go.
“Listen to you! You’d think somebody died!” he said. “Clean drinking water on the floor will set you off? So if I die, you’ll be calm, but in the meantime you’ll go off like a valve?”
Now he gets it.
“That’s right,” I said. “It releases the pressure.”
For awhile I thought the conversation was over until my daughter Nicole called and asked what I’m doing. I brought her up to speed, right up to my “outbursts.”
“It’s the little things you can’t handle,” she laughed, remembering that her childhood was filled with plenty of “colorful outbursts.”
It’s true my mouth belongs to a sailor at sea. As for a crisis, my kids knew it was “Beware of the calm” – the unwavering calm, which meant a very serious issue was looming.
An hour later my guy still couldn’t let it go, referring to my outbursts as similar to those of Gonzo, the muppet on Sesame Street. My responses to everything that occurs would be the same lesson as the boy who cried wolf.
“But there was no wolf,” I said. “It was a rabbit… ah-choo!”
Indeed, it was Monday again. The week started out with shattered glass, and an encore performance of my last influenza was another blow to the nose. And me without a tissue, and a flight to catch. Where, you might ask? Pennsylvania – more specifically, the edge of the Poconos. And have you seen the Weather Channel lately? Baby, it’s cold outside.
My daughters selects Dec. 27, two days after Christmas, to get married. Oh, woe is me pocketbook. Oh, woe is me.
A head cold – that’s what I woke up to, which has moved to my throat, now threatening my ears and glands. It hurts to swallow so I guess I’ll be losing another of the extra few pounds people pick up over the holidays before I have a chance to gain the weight. Hmm… works for me, if not for that liquid diet. I can do without that.
Imagine the incredible, ugly stares I’ll get from the passengers, all vulnerable to my sneeze attacks. My intention is to go unnoticed when I board the plane, wearing a scarf around my neck to muffle the sound of a sneeze, though a few nearby passengers may have other uses for my scarf.
Despite these horrendous odds against me, I am the mother of the bride and will be at my daughter’s wedding, cold or no cold, dragging my significant other along to meet the rest of the family.
Fair is fair. I did it last year and now it’s his turn – and what a good mate he is. Guaranteed, you will experience the “calm.”
