The Perfect Day

It was going to be the perfect day.

Boy had a full day of nature camp ahead; even better, pre-pubescent-can’t-wait-to-get-on-my-nerves-Girl, by one of those lucky, happy coinky-dinks that NEVER happen to me, was also going to be away: she’d gotten herself invited to a full day of Canobie Lake Hell – I mean Park, with… well, with didn’t matter, actually. What mattered was it wasn't with me, and honestly, for such a happy coinciding circumstance of two children away at the same time, I would have considered sending her off with an axe murderer if need be. (Oh, honey, you’ll be fine – just duck fast.) Dog had already been on a 4-mile run that morning, so my duties to him would include a potty break every 3.5 hours. Nothing much more. Maybe a pat on the head every so often. But only if I felt like it. And I probably wouldn’t. And it would be OK.

I was free, I tell you. FREE!

It was gonna be great. I made hot, steamy plans: a cup of still-piping coffee, (not that lukey crap that's always left after you're done yelling at kids to hurry the hell up and get to school already), turning off that damn A/C Man insists must be at 62 degrees, and getting on that computer to write something Real. Maybe get that pedicure taken care of. And for guilt over non-housewifely compliance, maybe a load of laundry.

It was gonna be awesome.

Yeah.

It wasn’t.

Glitch One: On checking boy in at Camp We Take Ourselves and This Nature Business A Little Too Seriously, Power Hungry Counselor informs me that, due to a newly-discovered peanut allergy in one of their campers, no PB & J allowed.

Did Boy have one in his lunchbox?

Well, duh. I’m lazy, and he’s six. Do the math, lady.

I do not really have the nerve to say this. Instead I nod, resigned, and feeling vaguely guilty.

I’d have to remove it. Bring him a new lunch.

Huh? Well, the reason Boy has PB & J is that I had nothing else in the house. In fact, I had to scrape bottom of jar for what I did get. And it was actually even the last piece of bread. I can’t really tell that to a counselor, though. She already thinks we’re bad people. PB&J trash.

I look into the lunch box. “Hm… that’s a pretty big bunch of Pirate Booty I packed for snack, honey. Think that could just tide you over? You don’t want to make mommy have to come back, right, Sweetie? It's pretty far.” I look to Boy hopefully.

Boy looks at me like I’m a few Pirate Booty’s short of a sack.

Fine.

I drive the 20 minutes home, make a quick grocery list, since I’ll be at the store anyway, I might as well get the other stuff we need, drive 10 minutes to the store, pick up what I need, wait 20 minutes in line, get home, make a turkey sandwich, drive 20 minutes back to camp to drop it. Hike up their big freakin’ hot hill to deliver the damn sandwich because now the registration table is gone. Try really hard to quell the rising tide of cranky with images of sitting with my feet in a pedicure basin at Nails R Us. Because while the writing time is probably definitely shot, I might still be able to get in that feet fix.

After I pee Dog. And make sure Girl is off on her plans.

Glitch Two: Girl is still home. Her ride woke up late, yadda-yadda. Instead of them picking her up, can I drop her at a rendezvous point across town.

Why, I’d be simply delighted.

Off we go again, me wishing that if only the rendezvous point was in the same direction as the nails joint I could get them both done at the same time. But it’s not, so instead I sit and drum my fingers ever harder while ride person has me wait another 20 minutes in my car at rendezvous point.

They come, take Girl, who by now I couldn’t push into their car fast enough.

Done. OK. Deep breath. Think. Still somewhat free. I still have two hours till pick up time. That’s not horrible. I calculate the 10 minutes home, 20 to get to camp, that’s still about 90 minutes of free time once I get back.

I hit the gas.

Dog needs to pee. I haul his butt to the nearest pine. And back in so fast pee’s probably still dribbling out.

Phone’s ringing. I am not close enough to the caller ID to check, but think I should answer anyway: what if Boy fell off cliff at Nature Trail? And Girl – what if it really was an axe murderer’s car she got into?

I answer, slightly panicked, even.

“Hey, Rach!” It’s the chimney guy, or what we will refer to as Glitches 3, 4, and possibly even 5. Not sure why he calls me "Rach," since I met him only once before, when he cleaned our chimneys. Other than that, really, just 18 months of phone tag to get him to turn our covered-over fireplace into a working one. Not so much a "Rach" relationship, yet. “Look, Rach. I’m on your street. You wanted me to look at that chimney?”

I look at my watch. I seriously weigh 18 more months of phone tag and contractor avoidance against losing my last free hour.

I sigh. It is very, very hard to be good. But sometimes you have to try anyway.

“That’s great, Al! C’mon over. I’m here.”

I run down stairs, stash the crazy-ass dog so he won’t bite the guy, clean up a little (not sure why I have to impress the contractor, but whatever, this is so not the point right now, stay focused people!) and then wait.

Half an hour.

My street is not that long. I start heading back upstairs to write. His van pulls in.

“Rach!” Oh, it's my long lost friend. Glitch 3-5 pulls his shirt up his 300-pound stomach to show me his newly installed… I don’t know what exactly, I had fainted, but I caught a glimpse of tubes and plastic before I passed out. “You could have just said you were busy, and that is why you hadn't called," I mumble in my daze.

He strolls over to my blocked over fireplace.

“Oh, yeah! Totally! We can do this!” he says, whacking the wall next to it a couple of times.

I gulp at the sooty pawprints he’s leaving on my newly painted walls and try not to pass out a second time from angst.

“Definitely! Absolutely,” he says.

Well, yes, Glitch 3-5. I know you can do it. We’ve discussed this already over the phone. The question really is WHEN EXACTLY ARE YOU GOING TO FREAKING DO IT? WHEN?”

Yeah. No. I don’t really say that. I just nod politely and smile.

“That’s great, Al.”

He turns to leave. "Oh. Hey, Rach. Did I tell you about Timmy?"

Hmm? Twenty minutes of his son Timmy's successes later follow.

A tear escapes my eye.

Glitch 3-5 thinks it’s because I’m overly maternal or emotional or some such thing, and pats me on the shoulder. "I know – it’s wonderful isn’t it?" he says, getting a little teary himself.

He finally leaves.

I close the door behind him, and sigh in relief.

I look at my watch, and sigh again. Then I head for the car and the camp from hell.

Yup. It’s lucky for me I chose to stay home with my kids instead of working a real job. How else would anything get done around here?