Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Nothing's Wrong, Unless You Count Ice Cream Cake as an Emergency

2:30 Saturday afternoon.
~Down in the dumps after receiving some disappointing news but decided I was going to rally myself and not get the waterworks on. 

 ~Loaded the Kiddo into the car, intending to purchase necessary groceries for the week, possibly picking up something fun/yummy/not entirely healthy for dinner.  Ice cream cake for dinner sounded really appealing.

$50 at the pump last night didn't fill the tank.  Anyone care to trade for a horse?
~Decided to make a stop at the post office to retrieve mail that had been stacking up for several days.  Pretty sure I'd have three different charities asking for money (I use to donate before I went broke), a bank statement reminding me of how little I have, a reminder that my car payment is going to suck another $312 away from me (didn't realize that I could have re-financed two years ago; not so much now that I'm kinda/sorta unemployed because some people don't believe writing is a job), and a catalog showcasing darling clothes obviously made of hand-spun gold.  Because who in their right mind would pay $53 for an undershirt?

~Hand the mailbox keys to the Kiddo and realize that I have dialed 9-1-1 on speakerphone when I hear the nasally operator, "911, what's your emergency?"
Shrieking "OH CRAP!" I frantically paw at buttons to turn off the phone.
"Crap is a BAD WORD!" the voice from the back scolds.  "You get a bad mark!"  Elated that his Momma will have more bad marks on the bad word/bad temper chart than he does, the Kiddo scampers out of the car.

~30 seconds later, the treacherous phone rings.  "Ma'am, this is the police.  We received a call from this phone indicating an emergency.  Are you alright?"
"Yes.  I am so sorry!  I didn't mean to call you!"
"Ma'am operating procedures state that we must make contact with you.  What is your location?"

At this point, my brain shuts off and I develop a Tourette-like babble.  "I'm not at my phone.  I mean, I'm not home, not phone.  I'm talking to you on my phone.  I'm over at the Post Office because I wanted to get my mail."

"Alright Ma'am.  We need you to stay there.  What type of car are you driving?"
"I'm in a small SUV by the Post Office, not my house!"
"Ma'am, what color is your car?"  At this point Officer McFriendly was probably expecting to find me all drunky-drunky.
"Blue!  It's a blue Honda. . ."
~The Kiddo returns, mail in hand, sighing as he re-buckles his car seat.  "Momma, we have a Hyundai."
"It's a Hyundai," I yell into the phone, only to realize that Office McFriendly has hung up and is parked alongside me.

Now here's the thing.  I haven't been on a date in over four years.  I would hope at some point in the (nearer rather than later) future to go on a date/find Mr. Right/get married/live happily ever after until one of us forgets to put the cap on the toothpaste.  And seeing as I work from home(!!!) I don't get my mingle on that often.  Meeting Officer McFriendly as awkward as it is seeing as I've stammered like an idiot might just be the start of a beautiful thing.

Except I'm wearing a stained shirt.  And my hair is clipped up in a manner only described as water-logged rats nest.  And my bottom lip is swollen because I bit a nickle sized crater into my mouth while I was ravenously chowing down on cold seafood salad. 

I tell myself that batting my eyes and a wonderful smile will go a long way to make up for the stammering and train-wreck that I must look like.
"Hi, I'm so sorry."
"That's okay Ma'am.  Just wanted to make sure that you were well."
"I'm fine.  Well, okay I guess.  Actually, I'm having a crappy day."

My life.  It rocks indeed.