We’ve had so much rain and gloom lately — and hello? the heat is still kicking on and it’s June — that I wonder how I can be so irritable on a day that offers sunshine.
Yet, there it is. It begins as a day with much to do; all is laid out in a tidy plan. Then, like thunderheads overwhelm the horizon, so appears my grand-scale crabbiness. It begins this way:
The gas company has been on my back for a while now to move our meter from the basement to the outside of our house. Fine. We play some phone tag and finally agree on a time and date. I block off two hours Wednesday afternoon.
Except the gas company contractors don’t show up at 1 p.m. Wednesday, as per the agreement, and made with the idea that Girl from the East and I would be fed, showered, dressed and happily in the back yard, away from the pounding and drilling and stomping about of heavy-booted workers.
Instead, the door bell chimes at 8:50 a.m. while I am still in my NSFW nightie, Girl from the East is in her Hello Kitty undies and tank top, and I have not yet moved all the boxes out of the way for the men to work.
So I abandon the waffle iron bubbling with batter, run to the coat closet to slip on a jacket, grab Girl from the East and drag her to her room to put on some pants and then run to answer the door.
Except Girl from the East doesn’t appreciate this sudden panic and refuses to get dressed. Now the guys are knocking forcefully on the door. I smell overcooked batter. I leave Girl in her room, pants-less and wailing and open the door to four young burly guys in hard hats bearing boxes of big tools.
The burly worker guys apologize for being four hours early. I don’t want to stand still long enough for them to realize I’m basically only wearing a coat, so I let them in and shoo them down the steps. I attempt to salvage our breakfast (kind of ruined due to cookus interruptus) and partake in it while simultaneously ignoring hard-hatted, steel-toe-booted, tool-belt-wearing guys tromping from door to basement. Repeatedly.
I try not to pay too much attention to the muddy footprints trailing on the carpet and hardwoods.The ongoing wailing of Girl in the bedroom nearly covers the sound of drilling through concrete and brick, the pounding of sledgehammers.
We get a brief reprieve. Girl summons enough courage to creep down the hallway during a quiet moment. Then the guys burst into the house again. One of their cell phones bleats a country-music song that bounces off the walls like a stick of dynamite exploding in a canyon, sending Girl into a fresh round of tears and wails.
When it’s all over, in less than two hours, I need to rewash the hardwoods and stain-spray the carpets, and my energy for the day is depleted. At 11 a.m.
Voice of reason: But MomZombie, you knew they were coming, why did you clean all your floors the night before?
MomZombie: All I had in mind is that our in-laws are visiting this weekend.
Voice of reason: They’ve done their work; they’re gone. Turn your day around.
MomZombie: I smell gas.