Code Yellow, You Are The Weakest Link

No, really, I'm a total silliot. You should vote me off the island.

Yes, this is a pity party post, but don't feel obligated to leave a pep talk. As Mr. Bennett says, "It will pass soon enough. And probably sooner than it should." (Or something like that - I can't even bring myself to go search P&P for the appropriate quote. But you get the idea.) I've just had about 48 hours of idiocy that I need to give myself credit for.

I went into IKEA day before yesterday and came out two hours later, despondent because both things I went in to get were unavailable or just not right for what I needed them for, only to find that the door of my car was hanging wide open. No - no-one had broken in. No one (meaning me) had shut it. I had clicked the clicker to lock the sucker up, but failed to notice that the back door was still open. Seriously. Shoot me now.

As if the door of the car thing wasn't enough I went downstairs this morning to discover that I had neither locked nor deadbolted the front door before bed. We don't live in a particularly scarey hood or anything, but the thought of it creeped me out. I'm the overactive imagination type when I am at home alone, and I can't phathom how I failed to lock up last night. On a cold, dark, windy night...

Also yesterday only three red shirts helped me out at Target when Calvin left my side while I was filling out the one hour photo envelope for the disposable camera (the other current sob story of my life). In the two envelope-occupied minutes I took, he walked around the display area of the front entrance, lost sight of me, and started calling, "Moooooooom! Where are you?!!!" in a tragically alarmed voice.

And then, despite the fact that I was not far from where he had left me, and was walking toward him, calling back to him, "Cal! I'm right here!" He decided that I was maybe not in the store anymore? And he bolted out the front door, still calling mournfully for me (I was maybe 10 yards away!). That's when the redshirts followed him and he told one of them that I probably was out at the car, and he could go by himself. What?!?!?!?!?! I have never...But I don't think the redshirts believed me. So now I'm not the Code Yellow Mom - I'm the Mom Who Leaves Her Kids And Expects Them To Remember Where The Car Is So That They Can Go Home With Her If They Want A Ride. (I leave the car door open in case they get there before me.)

And of course there was the camel incident, which I have debated whether to leave as is because your imaginations were filling it in better than I can, or to go ahead and tell the rest of the story. The short story is that the little girl had climbed up onto the bench in between Calvin and Henry, then came the camels to maraude our ride. They were chomping their lips and wanted the feed that people were holding out in cups and their hands. And the little girl stuck her finger in the camel's nose up to her middle knuckle.

I instinctively, and almost not realizing that it wasn't Henry's hand, grabbed her hand and pulled it out, saying, "Oh, be careful!" Then I turned to see where her parent(s) were, only to hear her dad say, "It's really OK" in a very put out kind of voice. Turns out he wasn't within arm's reach of his girl (who was leaning over a rail that dropped about six feet below, surrounded by camels, ostriches and random horned African cow-like things) because he was trying to capture the exciting suburban safari shot on camera. And my big mama hand had ruined it. What was I thinking?

Tonight Calvin pulled one huge deed of destruction too many, less than ten minutes after a very clear discussion of a rule. Even the fact that he came up from hiding under the bed wearing goggles cannot make me feel chipper about it. I'm mad at him and I'm mad at myself for being mad, and it all adds up to a crummy, crummy attitude.

I've lived my whole adult life (at least on the days that I realize I'm in my adult life) trying to internalize the Eleanor Roosevelt principle that no one can make you feel inferior without your permission. But between my own stupidity, other people's different priorities (photo opp over wee daughter's appendages), and the three-year-old's blatant provocations that seem to highlight my inadequacy, I can't help but give them permission to make me feel inferior, can I?

So to drown my troubles I walked into B&B Works on a whim and discovered they were having a hecka sale. I stocked up on creamy antibacterial hand soap in "Kitchen Lemon" and "Pink Grapefruit" and hunted around for something snifferific for myself. It's tough, since they discontinued plumeria, my once signature scent, and since I know my husband would prefer that I bake an apple pie instead of smell like one.

I happened to find a fabulous deal on "Pomegranate Martini." Truth be told, it makes me smell like a pixie stick, which is humor in itself, because there is nothing pixie or stickish about me. But what really made me smile is the thought of reading these kind of things while I shower:

"Drench yourself with a perfect mix of juicy pomegranate, sweet orange, and ruby red grapefruit. Cheers!"

"Tart and Tangy! Perfectly potent."

"Apply this magnificent cocktail to wet hair or body, work into a frenzied lather and rinse. Or pour two capfuls under warm, running bath water for an indulgent happy hour." (That's got to make someone laugh - thinking of me making a mixed...er, drink.)

"Smooth over skin to moisturize and frangrance. A second round couldn't hurt."

"Intoxicating."

I don't know why this kind of stuff cheers me up, but it does. I think because I imagine someone somewhere saying, "What do you do for a living?" And someone answering, "I'm the bottle-back description writer for B&B Works."

Of course there are some days that I would like to switch jobs with that someone, just to get paid for thinking up puns about mixed drinks that you work into frenzied lathers instead of actually drinking.

Mostly there are just days that I wish I could take a shower long enough to read about a second round and picture myself flirtily ordering a virgin pomegranate martini at some hip bar.

Do they slide martinis down the bar for you to catch, or is that only foamy beer mugs? And would they put an olive in a pomegranate martini?

You see? Mind meanderings don't get any weaker than this.