Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind where everything goes wrong from the minute the alarm goes off until you finally escape your little black cloud by diving into bed and burying your head under a pillow. Today was definitely a day for the books, or the blogs, as the case may be. It actually began the a couple of days ago when I left my cell phone and Bluetooth earpiece in the pocket of my workout pants and then dumped them into the washing machine. They emerged from their dunking clean but useless.
The phone was insured; the Bluetooth was not. I had a choice between a replacement phone or upgrading the whole soggy mess for $200 and walking out of the Sprint store fully functional. I opted for the replacement, which was promised by overnight mail. The only proof that it had arrived was the UPS sticky note on the ground half way down my stairs. I was home all day, waiting for the UPS guy, who apparently knocked on my door with a feather. He didn’t return on Friday or Saturday or Sunday, so I still have no phone.
People couldn’t call me, and I couldn’t call them if I was out and about. Friday evening, I used my landline phone to confirm my dinner date with a friend. “OMG,” she said, “I completely forgot and have made other plans for the evening. I’m so sorry.” This was not really a tragedy because it was too cold outside to want to go anywhere. She felt terrible; I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve done that more than a few times in my life.” We rescheduled.
Saturday disappeared in a flurry of activity — working out, looking at my daughter’s new choice of wedding ring (it looks nothing like the Jared ring, by the way), pursuing our search for the perfect dress, grabbing a bite to eat, grocery shopping, and finally collapsing. It would have been a lovely day except for one little thing: I completely forgot that I had plans to meet another friend for dinner.
I woke up Sunday morning with a sinking feeling that something was amiss. I checked my calendar and there it was — the missed dinner date. I called my friend, overcome with remorse. “What happened to you?” she asked. “OMG,” I said, “I completely forgot. I got all tied up with wedding stuff and just spaced out. I’m so sorry. I feel absolutely terrible.” “Well you should,” she replied. I was devastated.
Still in a cloud of amnesia, I went off to fulfill my greeting duties of the Ethical Society, only to find I was there on the wrong week. I’m a greeter next Sunday, not this one. Eventually, the day ended. Thinking myself safe from further catastrophe, I pulled down the bedspread, and there was an open pen, sitting in the middle of a spreading blue circle of ink. The bedspread, of course, is white. I did a lot of screaming — “Out, out damn spot!” — but to no avail. All attempts to purge it made it ten times worse. I think this is the end of my beautiful bedspread. The ink, of course, soaked through to the duvet cover and the comforter. I went to bed with the washing machine chugging fitfully and the bathtub full of water and bleach.
When I was a little girl, I read all the Mary Poppins books. In every book there was a chapter called Bad Tuesday or Bad Wednesday, in which Jane or Michael had a very bad day where things went wrong left and right. In the end, of course, everything worked out fine, thanks to magical Mary Poppins. Some never-to-be-forgotten lesson was learned by the remorseful culprit, and Mary Poppins put everyone to bed. End of chapter.
Well, this was my bad Sunday — or more accurately Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. As it finally came to a close, I couldn’t help wishing I had a Mary Poppins to set things right, put me to bed, and end this particular chapter.
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