Our ridiculous day

Yesterday started out with something malfunctioning with G’s alarm, causing him to miss davening. Recall that it was a fast day, and he’s the rabbi. Not good. No one was coming after him with a pink slip or anything, but he was quite disturbed on a number of levels. Oops.

As for me, I started out by helping to herd the girls out to camp, and then removing the soaking Boy from his crib, getting him and myself dressed, and calling Baby Sissie and begging her to come over with the Nephew. So she did. I felt ridiculously sick for a change, and Baby Sissie also wasn’t feeling perfect, what with the miserable weather, the packing stress, and the fact that she woke up with this stupid bad neck pain that she gets every now and then. So the two of us sat there being miserable, while the boys alternately ran around together being cute, and attempted to kill each other over toy phones, kitchen chairs, air molecules, etc. The funny part of this was that every time the Nephew did something the Boy didn’t approve of, the Boy would threaten to put him in time out. “No! Kahm-out!” To which I would say, “You don’t say time-out to the Nephew!” But he mostly ignored me. G, meanwhile, got home from bringing the girls to camp and commenced dying from lack of caffeine (fast day, remember). The saving grace was going to be the fact that Babysitter Allison was going to come whenever she got home from the doctor with her mother (her mother is having surgery tomorrow), and she had promised to stay until bedtime. Phew.

So Baby Sissie and the Nephew left. I had a 1:30 appointment for the big fat ultrasound. I force-fed myself lunch, which I knew would make me feel better but which I did NOT want. Because of the fast, the girls were finishing camp at 2:00, so G couldn’t accompany me to the ultrasound because he had to pick them up. Though with no babysitter, I suppose he couldn’t have come with me anyway.

So G dropped me and my tissues and my garbage bag and my new non-Droid phone off at the doctor (the old old car is at the mechanic being examined, so only one car), and left with the Boy to pick up the girls. I proceeded to sit in the waiting room until after 3:00, attempting to gchat on my new phone with BFFD, with whom I had some absurdly critical catching up to do, and spitting madly in spite of the gum I was chewing. SO annoying. I don’t know what was up with yesterday, but I was spitting twice as much as usual. Feh. Finally they called me in at 3:15, and I lay on the table spitting and watching my kid’s body parts on the screen (hee hee, ten little fingers and ten little toes ) while the friendly tech smeared me to death with ultrasound jelly. While I was lying there a text message arrived from G. Apparently Babysitter Allison had texted him to say that her mother’s doctor’s appointment had taken all day and they now had to go do other stuff (meet with anesthesia, get more blood drawn, blah blah blah), and she had no idea when she’d be available. Oops.

Doc came in, told me that thank God all is good with my baby, told me about being a carrier for whatever, etc. All finished. I called G. He’d gone the wrong way on the way to camp and gotten lost (we haven’t replaced our GPS yet) and was half an hour late to pick up the girls. He was also absolutely miserable from lack of caffeine. I was quite sick, made more so from lying uncomfortably on the table. It was horribly hot outside. Both of us were in nasty moods. There were four kids to take care of and no Allison available yet. “Can you call a cab?” G asked me. He was too unconscious and irritable, apparently, to load all the kids back in the car and come to get me. I was mad, but I said fine, I’ll call a cab. Feh. I called the cab, then had no choice but to stand outside in the heat and wait for it. There was nowhere to sit anywhere where I’d be able to see when it came. The cab didn’t come for more than 15 minutes. I realize this does not sound like a long time, but recall that it was over 90 degrees outside, and I’m pregnant. Luckily I survived. The cab came. Driver was a hyperactive lunatic who yelled and swore at every other car we passed. “I swear to God, some o’ these people musta got their licenses from the Cracker Jack box!” That’s probably the cleanest thing he said. I got home and saw that Allison was back with her mother. Hallelujah! I came inside. G was in a mood from hell. I was in a mood from hell. Allison came over about 20 minutes later, and left with the kids about 5 minutes after that so the girls could swim in her  hot tub. I changed my clothes and sat down to finish off the post I put up yesterday. Apparently, all this time, my dear friend Some Guy was experiencing an emergency with his daughter. His gchat status message supposedly announced this, but I barely glanced at my gmail screen. Oops again (I believe she is fine now).

Suddenly I got a text message from G (I was in the living room and he was in his study; who wants to use vocal cords?). Babysitter Allison had just informed him that she would not, after all, be staying until bedtime, but had to leave at 6:30. Um. This propels both of us into a much, much worse mood, G because he feels like such kaka but will now have to stay out of bed and deal with the children, me because I want to take over for him so badly, but I am much, much too sick. My mood and I sit there finishing up the post when the phone rings. It’s my mother, who already tried to call the night before. I picked it up, not bothering in the least to hide the irritability in my voice.

“Well you don’t sound very happy to hear from me!”

“I’m not happy about anything.”

“You have four beautiful children! Why don’t you be happy about them?”

“Great idea, Ma. Why didn’t I think of that.”

“See, there you go!” She starts (apparently I have just switched to present tense instead of past) asking me things about the girls and camp. I’m barely listening. Suddenly I see the time — 5:50 PM — and something hits me like a ton of bricks. I am supposed to be somewhere with YS at 6:00. It’s a 20 minute drive. Holy freaking s. I gasp, cut my mother off, and say, swearing only a little, “I forgot, I have to be somewhere. Bye.” I call to G. He has the same reaction I do. We get YS back from Allison’s. She gets dressed very quickly and she and I pile back into the car. I’m so sick but I’m able to drive. The box of tissues I brought with me was new when I went to the doctor; it’s now almost finished. What gives??

We make the turn to get onto the Hutch. Oh no. Bumper to bumper cars. Barely moving at all. I make some phone calls. “If you aren’t going to be here before about 6:45, forget it.” At 6:35 we are approximately one third of the way there. Guess we’re forgetting it. I call G and tell him what happened. “I’m right at exit 17. Should I pick up something for dinner?” We decide I should pick up sushi. He tells me which combo platter to order. We get there and I order it. YS and I sit and wait for it to be ready while she reads the menu, tells me what her favorites are, and adds up and compares the costs of various combinations. Finally the sushi is ready. On the drive home, YS constructs an elaborate scenario wherein a person moves to New York from Paris and brings his all-glass car with him. His favorite food is pizza and the car is so full of pizza boxes that it’s all anybody can see when he drives by. We discuss this for a while until it’s determined that the man is named Pierre Picasso (YS insisted on Picasso because pizza is Italian), and he becomes famous for his pizza car, and a movie is made about him. YS describes the movie trailer in great detail. I am totally going to see it when it comes out. We get home at about 7:20. G is now in a worse mood. I am in a worse mood. G has already reminded me several times that he has to be at shul at 8:00 for mincha. Given what happened this morning, he is particularly preoccupied with this. The sushi is removed from the bag and it quickly becomes clear that G and I had a lack of communication. When he told me which combo platter to order, he was only thinking of the girls, and assuming I would order whatever I wanted for myself. I, for some reason, had assumed the combo platter would have enough for the girls and for me.

Oops.

I sit in the kitchen and attempt not to melt down. I’m pregnant, see, and I thought I was having sushi. This means I have to have sushi or I might die. I already feel sick enough without trying to eat something that isn’t what I thought I was having. Nevertheless, there is nothing to do about it. I’m a wreck. I try to hide my wreckness behind my already foul mood. It’s 7:30. G, knowing how it is to be pregnant (this is because he’s a very empathetic soul, and because I tend to, um, share my feelings a lot), and being a prince among men, tells me I should go back and get sushi for myself. The place is about a 7–10 minute drive. If I call it in and leave now, I’ll be back in time for G to go to mincha.

“But G, the Hutch north is bumper to bumper. It was still awful when we were coming home.”

“That’s no problem, you can take the streets. I’ll tell you how to get there. It’s very simple.”

“Ok, thank you….”

*** WARNING WARNING WARNING ***

Miriam has no sense of direction

Miriam always manages to get lost

Miriam is operating on about one-quarter capacity, on account of the pregnancy, the very bad mood, and all the running around she has already done

This is a bad idea

G gives me directions. It is indeed very simple; a left, a right, another left, another right (I think). I leave, still sick and miserable but knowing I’ll soon have sushi.

You already know what happened, of course. But I didn’t just get lost. I got lost about five or six different times. At every single point when I was supposed to do something, I somehow — and I still have NO idea how this happened, any of the times — managed to do something completely different. This was on the way to a restaurant that is about 7 minutes from my house, a restaurant I have been to several million times. The streets I was attempting to take — even the streets I got lost on — are streets I have used many times. The problem is, I’ve always used them for other things. I know how to get to those places using those streets. I just do not know how to get to the Chinese restaurant using those streets. We call people like me visual thinkers. We also call people like me people with zero sense of direction.

We also call people like me morons.

I got to the stupid restaurant. I got my stupid sushi. I brought it home and ate it, and it was very good. G did not make it to mincha. I got home after 8:30. One of the times he called me to see what was happening, I was downtown in a completely different town/neighborhood/whatever than the one I was supposed to be in, having no idea how I got there or how I was going to get out, and I was crying. “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I thought I did what I was supposed to do.”  I had asked someone for directions, and I still think I followed them precisely. I still have no idea how any of this happened. The prince among men was sweet, supportive, and sympathetic. I have no idea why. He stayed on the phone and directed me, better than any GPS. After I got home and ate my sushi, I actually felt well enough to get some towels into the laundry, which saved G from doing it, so that made me feel 1% better.

So, that was my bad stupid day. Maybe the written version doesn’t seem as crazy as it did when I was living it, but at the time, it was bad. And there was aftermath. Presumably because of the sharp uptick in physical activity — I can’t think of any other reason this would have happened — I was still drugged out the wazoo when I woke up this morning, which was especially strange since I took my sleeping pill earlier than usual last night. I couldn’t wake up, and G had to take the Boy along for the ride to camp. I was still quite out of it when they got back at 10:00, but I got up and took care of the Boy while G went to a meeting and some other places. Bizarre. At least my spitting is back to “normal” today. Ha.

Hey, look at that, it’s 3:34 PM and I haven’t yet made a pest of myself to the Board of Ed. Today, I mean. Better go do that. This time, we use the phone. Cackle.

Tags: Husband, Pregnancy, The Boy