I keep saying or doing things that make ME wonder about me. First, my day today? I went to the post office in need of postal assistance. I went today. TODAY. April 15. INCOME TAX DEADLINE DAY. I CHOSE INCOME TAX DEADLINE DAY TO STAND IN LINE AT THE POST OFFICE! WITH MY BABY!
Dear God. To get the stroller out of storage and walk to the post office it takes five minutes. Ditto on the way home. So, I’m thinking it’s a 15 minute trip. No biggie. I grab cute baby (mine, lol), and plop her in the stroller and take off. No bottle, no toys. We’ll be right back! No problem!
We arrive at the post office and are 16th in line. SIXTEENTH. Also? One window is open. ONE. The gods of customer service do not smile upon post offices, banks or the DMV. Well, ANY government related office really….
So we wait. And we wait. And we wait. And we watch people come and go. And wait. And watch. And wait. When we got to 6th in line the baby had had enough of sitting still, not having anything to do and being told how wonderfully gorgeous she is by her many anonymous admirers. *rolling my eyes* She began her demon howl. Being the quick-thinking mommy that I am, I handed her my house keys. Jingly. Shiny. Not her usual toy. Ewww, germ-wise, but okay. She was quiet, happy, and adorable once again.
I get to the window only to be told he can’t help me I need to talk to THAT WOMAN OVER THERE (head jerking to his left where a woman from the bowels of the US Postal Service has just emerged apparently just for my benefit).
I push stroller to THAT WOMAN. My mission was to hand in my post office box keys, pick up my mail and have a forwarding order cancelled. I gave her the keys, didn’t get my key deposit back or my mail because she was frazzled…or at least frazzled at the thought of possibly becoming frazzled. (Did I mention it’s INCOME TAX DEADLINE DAY?) She takes my keys, writes down on paper what box number they’re for, and promises to cancel the forward “as soon as I get back there after I’m done helping out here”. (So, basically…never.)
Then, as I turn to leave, an old old old old OLD man standing in line (I wonder how old he was what he started standing in line?) yelled, “WATCH OUT! THE BABY!” I thought she was taking a header onto the cement floor or had just burst into flames or something that would warrant a YELL in a very echo-y building. Old man points to baby and YELLS AGAIN, “SHE’S GOT -” and was apparently SO upset he couldn’t finish. I look at the adorable, safe, happy baby playing with my keys. I patted her on the head, told the old man, “Yeah, she’s okay.” and we left.
So me today? No mail, no money back, and yelled at by an ancient pedestrian. ARGH. Then the meat for dinner that had been sitting out all day is still frozen, so now I’m rushing. 😦
(Um…yeah. I’m sitting here talking to YOU, but I’m rushing.)
I’m ready to resign. I was also spent some time pondering me and my life and decided I’m not right. So, below please find actual conversations between me and my sister-in-law as proof of my insanity.
L: I gotta make dinner.
Me: Cool. Whatcha havin’?
L: I’m making lasagne.
Me: I HATE making lasagne!
L: I know it’s a pain, but it’s sooooooooooo good!
Me: Yeah, but I still hate it. 🙂
L: I’m just making a little one.
Me: Well…make a big one too. Then, when the little one burns you’ll know the big one is done.
L: ROFL! Where do you come up with this stuff?
Me: *blinking innocently* What? That’s how I make meatloaf.
L (stunned): You aren’t right.
Me: Hey! There’s a farmer outside with a flatbed!
L: Uh huh.
Me: No, really! There is!
(long pause while I go take a pic and send it to her cell phone)
L: OMG! There is! How do you know he’s a farmer?
Me: Cause he’s wearing overalls. DUH.
My Gramma was a farmer.
She could grow anything.
She could grow things from PIECES of things.
She was amazing.
She didn’t have overalls though.
She must have been part-time.
L: You aren’t right.