They say that some days it doesn’t pay to chew through the straps. I had 24 hours that confirmed it.
It started with the bean bag toss game that I could not assemble that was the boys’ Easter present. The wonderful people who packaged it expected you to somehow fit to two “female” parts together in order to put the legs on it. What works for Ellen DeGeneres does not work for PVC pipes, folks! Of course my husband did that whole manly chuckle with a “I’ll put it together for you.”
An hour later, he had taken it apart, put it back together, and faced the exact same problem.
We had the usual craziness trying to get ready for church. Linus threatened nuclear war if he had to have his top button done on his shirt. He swears his church shoes don’t fit. Since I was wearing ten year old pointy heels from Payless, I wasn’t the picture of sympathy. We were barely on time, and it was standing room only until the ushers scrounged up a few chairs for us.
The day was looking up when I finally tried the cilantro lime pork chop recipe I had been looking forward to. I zested the lime and realized it is one of my top five smells. Maybe it is just the association with margaritas. Best not to analyze that…
After some marinading, I used the reserved liquid for the sauce to go with the chops. It wasn’t thickening well. Then the phone rang. My bank. On Easter Sunday. No good can come from that!
Naturally, the telephone ringing is the surest way to draw children to you (much like trying to sneak a piece of their Easter candy). As the woman explained that some how our credit card was being used in Japan to make one dollar purchases, my children were going all Lord of the Flies around me. I shoo them away and tell her to by all means, cancel that credit card.
I hang up the phone and taste the sauce. It was quite possibly the worst thing I had ever made. Thankfully I hadn’t drowned the pork chops in it yet.
The phone rings again. This time a friend, and I feel like a lifeline has been thrown to me.
Now the children have found my “cutlet” and are running around the house saying “look at my boobie!” I may have mentioned my girls are no longer a matching set after the third round of nursing. I snatched it from them and ushered them out the door to go play.
Ok, I may have nudged them gently and then hurled their shoes out after them.
They began to ring the door bell.
I felt a vein in my forehead begin to throb.
The baby bumped his other eye, and now has a matching set of bruises. I debate on whether or not calling him “Rocky” is funny or a good way to get protective services to pay me a visit.
Today is another day. Surely it cannot be as bad as yesterday. Unless I set the Easter ham on fire!
