Like a mother

Monday: I might have dodged the bullet, red-light-camera-wise. And then I nearly ran another red light on my way home today, but "nearly" isn't close enough for Montgomery County to nail me for 75 big ones.

Apparently, I live in a 1940s gangster movie, and this is how we talk, see?

Why do I keep running red lights, and dropping things, and forgetting things, and waking up in a panic (and pretty much remaining there, all day every day?) This is the question that I've been asking myself, and I wonder if I maybe need to change something, or do something, or not do something, so that I can remember what it's like to have a normal breathing rate and a normal resting pulse.

It occurred to me just a little while ago, for example, as I ran the vacuum cleaner over the nearly spotless floor, that cleaning could actually be simply a response to the presence of dirt, rather than a compulsion-driven daily routine. Maybe the house only needs cleaning when it's not already clean, right?

Oh, sure. And maybe I could stop converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, too.

*****

Tuesday: Last night of class. Weeknight drinking is very rare for me, but spend a year teaching eighth graders about the Holy Spirit, and see if you don't need a drink. I have few problems that margaritas and guacamole and chips can't solve.

*****

Wednesday: Why, Washington Capitals? WHY? Why do you break my heart every year? Pittsburgh. Crosby. Phil Kessel. Evgeni Fucking Malkin. Damn it.

*****
Thursday: Apparently, I'm the type of person who goes to wine and cheese school fundraisers, meaning weeknight drinking twice, in the same week. That's a walk on the wild side for me, suburban PTA lady venue notwithstanding. I probably say "fuck" more often than most suburban mothers (well, I also say it more often than a lot of sailors and coal miners), but other than that, I'm probably about as conventional and middle-class as they come.

*****

Friday: Three nights in one week! This is borderline rehab territory for me. Meanwhile, let's say that a large national florist delivers your mother's expensive potted gardenia plant in a broken container. Would you say that their offer to replace it with a slightly less expensive item, for delivery on May 31 (weeks after Mother's Day) is

A). Excellent customer service OR
B). Total bullshit

I'm going to assume that the dozens of people reading this agree unanimously that the answer is B. And I managed to persuade the florist that their offer was entirely inadequate and unacceptable, too. Righteous indignation combined with relentless persistence combined with two glasses of wine make me an unstoppable force.  A few more glasses of wine and a few more outraged phone calls, and I'll have Trump impeached by Labor Day. You're welcome.

*****

Saturday: My first post-Cazalet book is Shana Alexander's Happy Days: My Mother, My Father, My Sister & Me. It reads a little bit like Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone: Brilliant journalist recalls an unusual New York childhood with a self-absorbed mother and equally self-absorbed though much more kindly remembered father.

While the books are actually quite different, both authors (like all women, myself included) impose a long statute of limitations for maternal crimes. But my mom, just like most of the rest of us, did the best she could. So Happy Mother's Day.