Stomp yer feet, clap yer hands
1) I wrote two different posts this morning, and then threw them both away. Arrrghhh…stupid writer’s indecision.
2) I got to work at 6 a.m., and in the last few hours, my belly has made a general, albeit growing, statement that it is NOT HAPPY with me. Herbal tea didn’t help…nor did deep breathing exercises…and I can’t go home because my work schedule is such that I HAVE (HAVEHAVEHAVE) to work until 3 today. So I did what I normally do in desperate situations…I found a handful of change and made my way to the break room, specifically, to the snack machine. There’s never anything really good in there…like an omelet…or a martini…but my eyes caught sight of strawberry Pop-tarts. I can’t eat Pop-tarts. Well, I CAN, but I shouldn’t, as I’m trying to be a good girl in the eating/working out department. But. Dammit. My stomach threatened mutiny, and my hands fed 90 cents into the odious machine, and there I stood, with Pop-tarts. Goddamn Pop-tarts. I ate the disgusting (tasty) nasty (delicious) bars of sugary, lard-y goodness (I know, I know), and y’know what? They made me burp. Which, in turn, made my stomach feel not quite so bad. So now I feel guilty and a bit sugar-sick, but at least the feeling of impending wretching is subsiding.
3) My car is in the shop. Now, I love my car. It’s the same age as my Boy-child. It’s served me well. However, in the last 2 months, it’s been in the shop 4 times. Of course, in the last 2 months, I’ve been at a doctor’s office 11 times…ELEVEN. So really, who’s sicker? Anyhow, got the car in the shop, Enterprise Picked Me Up (late), and since they leased out the cheap compact car I had reserved, they gave me the only thing on the lot…a Chevy Impala…for the same rate (plus 10% off for having a car in the shop). Now this car, this Impala…well…it’s luxurious. I spent five whole minutes at the Enterprise lot just figuring out how to move the seat forward and turn the lights on. The seats are plush (with movable lumbar support!), every function is motorized, and it doesn’t smell like 10 years worth of kid snacks and barf. I picked the kids up from school and on the way home, they begged me to turn on the radio (because my car’s radio is merely a very expensive dashboard paperweight). We cranked UP the jams, baby, and riding down the street with good shocks and velvety interior, OK Go’s “Here it Goes Again” (aka, the Treadmill song) came on, and Girl-child squealed, “I feel like I’m someone famous!” I asked, “Why? Because you’re in a nice car with the music turned up real loud?” “YEAH!” she yelled back and resumed car-seat dancing. It’s a nice car. I’m taking notes as to what I like about it (and don’t like) for when we actually bite the bullet and start making monthly payments on some other vehicle that will last me ten years. But I’m still counting the minutes when the garage calls, when they tell me how nicely my old car is running, when I pick my car up, stained and reeking and still half-broken because I’m too cheap, and rest safe, like a mom who knows all her kids are home safe. I’m just sentimental that way.