I often wonder if anyone else's life is like mine and if it is, exactly how so? How different are we really?
Am I the only one who wakes up mad every morning because I didn't set the automatic timer on my coffee pot the night before? While I posses the Wal-Mart technology necessary to have piping hot java waiting for me when my eyes fly open, I choose to just get pissed off at the start of every day instead. Gets the blood pumping.
I eat a handful of shredded wheat for breakfast pretty much every day, but never with milk. I find the addition of milk to my favorite morning treat creates a substance not unlike chunky mucus.
You're welcome for the image of chunky mucus that will now stick in your head like... well, chunky mucus.
Some days I go to work in an office with a desk and a computer and silly desk toys that people who visit me like to play with while we all pretend to be grown ups and say things like "contractual" and "market analysis" and "peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers".
I say some days because I actually do several different jobs and depending on which I am doing, I may or may not wear heels and high hair. Sometimes I wear shorts and a t-shirt and work from the comfort of my own home.
Or someone else's home if they happen to be on vacation and were foolish enough to leave the key under the mat.
Unlike much of America, I actually really like my boss. She is my second husband's wife. She's very funny, very blonde and very smart. I submit the fact that she hired me as evidence of her smartness. Most people who find out I let my ex-wife-in-law boss me around typically repeat the same question again and again for a solid fifteen minutes.
"Now let me get this straight. You were once married to her husband and yet you work for her, right?"
When I'm not working for people who should legally hate me, I frequently play board games while simultaneously listening to my thirteen year old tell me that I couldn't win a game of Blokus if my life depended on it. I don't know where he gets his competitive spirit. Maybe I shouldn't have threatened to give him up for adoption when he was eight if he didn't hand over Boardwalk.
Mr. Man and I like to sit outside around our fire pit thingie on nice Friday & Saturday evenings and listen to blues and/or jazz on NPR. Even though I occasionally lull myself to sleep at night imagining how many male prostitutes I could buy with the spousal support I would certainly blackmail out of my husband, I realize that when you find another person who likes the same nerdy things you do it's often best to stay put.
On a really good mundane day, I get a call, email or text from a friend. More often than not it's the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou reminding me that I'm her rock solid alibi for yet another of her "victimless" crimes. Sometimes she asks me to drop what I'm doing and calculate the amount of lye needed to dispose of a rat in a shallow grave just across the state line.
If I had a nickel for every time I've had to bleach the carpet in my trunk after one of her rat burials, I'd have enough to bribe someone to be my new best friend.
Today Deputy Pretty called as did my friend LT Poet and since I love them both awful, it made my afternoon. While neither of them asked for money or sexual favors, I think the fact that they called within minutes of each other indicates a plot of some sort. Perhaps my two best badge-wearers are finally onto the Evil BL and are trying to get me to turn state's evidence.
(Listen boys, I'd sell her down the road in a minute if I were interrogated correctly. And by correctly, I mean by a firefighter with no shirt and big, manly suspenders.)
At bedtime, I put on Mr. Man's boxers and watch Scrubs until I can fight sleep no more. I hate the idea of being unconscious for hours because my OCD factory second brain has me convinced someone will come in and kill me dead.
(PS: If I do wake up dead one morning please let it be noted that I do not routinely sleep in lye. I believe you know where I'm going with that.)
So that's my typical day. Mundane, boring, not exciting in anyway. Now it's your turn to tell me all about your mundane day. Take me there.
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Listen to "Take Me There" by Rascal Flatts. There is no way a guy wrote this song. This is what every chick wants to hear...therefore impossible for a man to comprehend.
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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