Monday, Monday

I’ve never really had a problem with Mondays—in fact, I’ve always sort of thought they get a bad reputation for no reason at all.  Until yesterday.
Enter Monday, July 26, 2010.  We’ll call it Black Monday.  Or Day of Doom.  Or maybe even Dark-Clouds-Shooting-Lightning-At-My-Head Day.
I started the day off by reaching the absolute pinnacle of my disorganization skills.  It seems I might have inadvertently and ever-so-innocently forgotten that Marissa’s art class at the Art Institute was starting this week.  Here’s how I found out:
Phone rings.
Me:  Hi, Honey.  (Love that Caller I.D.)
Jason:  Um, hi.  Is this the week that Marissa is supposed to have art class?
Me: Pffttt…nooooo.  (Long and drawn-out as I do some sort of dismissive flip of my wrist while driving down the road.)
Jason:  You sure?
Me:  Wait a minute.  (Rustling papers as I pull the car to the side of the road to check my planner.)
Me:  Oh, crap.
So, once we had agreed on the fact that I do, indeed, suck at planning and event coordination, we decided on a game plan, whereby Jason would deliver Marissa to her art class promptly at 9:00.  Which would have been great, if that were the correct time.
The class started at 9:30.  And this actually turned out to be a good thing, because by the time I made it to work and checked out the website for the class, I also realized that Marissa needed to have a lunch with her.  Which she did not have.
So I had to call Jason.  Again.  And let me just say, by this point, he was very, very excited to hear from me.  I could almost hear the excitement in his voice…or maybe that was the sound of him gurgling while he had a heart attack.  I don’t know.
Anyway, Marissa was finally delivered to the correct location at the correct time, and I spent the rest of my day trying to puzzle-piece together transportation for her for the rest of the week.  That done, I shut my computer down and headed home.  I was thinking to myself, “Whew, glad that awful day is done.”
Right.  Not quite.
On the way home, the light shone into the car window at just the right angle to effectively highlight the streak of gray that was beginning to show in my hair, so I had to make an emergency stop at Target for the appropriate product to make my hair look youthful and vibrant—or at the very least, not gray.  The only box they had in the color I needed was fairly crunched but seemed to be in tact, so I paid and ran home…because I still had to get dinner on the stove.
Everyone had pretty much agreed on a healthy dose of beanie weenies for dinner, and I couldn’t complain, because, hey, how much easier does it get?  Right?  I dumped my glorious culinary concoction into a pot on the top of the stove because I really didn’t feel like getting the crock pot out.  Then I ran upstairs to quickly run some color over the gray trough that was running down the center of my head.
Tearing into the box, I was immediately greeted with the knowledge that my product was not entirely there.  Oh, the important parts were there.  Yes, indeed.  The magic black goop that would transform my gray was there, which was the important part.  The thing that was missing was the folded-up instruction packet that typically contains the little plastic gloves that keep your hands from turning black and looking like you are a full-time coal miner.
Dilemma.  Should I move forward with the color transformation without the gloves?  (I mean, really, how bad could it be if it got on my hands?)
Or should I do the sensible thing and return the package to the store the next day in exchange for a complete product?  Sensible is the key word here, however my focus was more on the immediate need to ‘Wash the Flippin’ Gray Right Outta My Hair.’  Unfortunately, I did not go with the sensible choice.
I very carefully used as little of my hand as possible while applying the goop, and I rinsed and washed my hands thoroughly immediately after applying—which is probably what kept me from looking like a coal miner.  Instead, I just looked like I had been digging in the dirt for an hour or so and then forgot to wash my hands.  Fabulous.  But my gray was gone, and that was the important thing.  I could spend the next couple of days with my left hand tucked in a pocket or something so that no one would notice.
As I was finishing up with my hair, I heard Micaela yell from downstairs, “Mom!  Like, are these beans supposed to be boiling all over the stove?  Because they totally are!”
My first instinct was something sarcastic, sort of like, “Why, yes, Pumpkin.  That’s the special recipe I’m using today.”
But instead I answered with something more like, “Are you @#$#$ KIDDING me?!  Of course the @#$#@%^^% beans are not supposed to be boiling all over the place!”  (I know, I know…I am once again going to take home the Mother of the Year award.)
I finished the evening with burnt beanie weenies and a black hand—but I was remarkably and miraculously free of gray hair, which was the ultimate goal.
And one more thing, how the heck does one manage to burn beanie weenies??!  My culinary ability knows no bounds.

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