Last night a new blog-friend of mine and I were talking about the purpose of a blog. I confess that my blog has no actual purpose. A bit like the lavender bunny that hangs from my rearview mirror in my car. It’s cute and I like it, but it has no discernible purpose. Frank (my new friend) suggested that I should use my blog to tell people about my day-to-day life.
While struggling not to laugh, I explained to him that my life was really not interesting enough for that. On a good day, tales of my ultra-boring life could be substituted for Ambien, Lunesta, or any other prescription sleep medication. On a slow day, it could be used as anesthesia for major surgery. Trust me on this because I have certainly bored myself into unconsciousness on more than one occasion.
Not being one to militantly defend a position without first testing the validity of it, I agreed to give it a try as often as I could find time. Actually, if the truth were known, Frank tricked me into it. The force is strong with him and his logic-fu verbally decimated mine. :P
So without further ado, but with many apologies to Steve Burns for the thinly veiled, yet skewed reference to his great music, I present What I Do On Sunday.
I briefly open my eyes about 7am and curse the fact that it is still dark outside then realize it is Sunday and curse the fact that I'm awake when I could be sleeping in. With determination I roll over and attempt to return to dreamland on an express ticket. Two hours later, I wake for the second time today, squint at the clock, do the daylight savings math since I forgot to change the clock the night before, and crawl out of bed.
Knowing I need to do laundry, I slip into “Woman with a Mission” mode and begin gathering dirty clothes before I’ve even gotten dressed. In record time I have clean clothes on my body, dirty clothes in the hamper, and all of them loaded into my car. With a quick stop for breakfast, I head to the laundry mat.
Once my clothes are sloshing in their chosen machine, I make myself as comfortable as possible on the plastic chairs that could double as implements of torture and pull out the book I’m currently reading. While reading I begin getting more supporting evidence for a recently devised hypothesis. Apparently I am like crack to the Pre-K set. During my two plus hours there, I am the focus of no less than three little ones. Lots of sweet smiles, gibberish ramblings that I couldn’t even begin to decipher, and shy, young mothers apologizing as they retrieve their offspring for the tenth time.
Leaving my diminutive entourage behind, I head out to my next errand. On my way there I am convinced that I am no longer going to hell in a hand basket as I previously thought, but I am in fact on the express train to that terminally tropical destination. Standing on the corner at a stoplight is a man wearing a bright yellow sandwich board. You know the kind that would normally say something like “Eat at Joe’s”. This one had an entirely different message to impart. In big blue letters on the above-mentioned bright yellow sign are these words. “Believe on Jesus. Read the King James Bible. Repent or Burn.” My first reaction is to pull over and correct the man’s grammar. Luckily I read further and recognize him for the zealot that he is.
Thus convinced that my afterlife plan includes a fiery location, I pull into Wal-Mart’s parking lot and head to their automotive entrance. I round the corner and am confronted with proof that I somehow missed the announcement that today is "National Have Your Oil Changed at Wal-Mart Day". I quickly do the math and realize that waiting for nearly three hours inside Wal-Mart will either drive me to bankruptcy or the brink of insanity. I consult my list of errands and head to the next place.
Office Depot is also a dangerous place for me. It’s like giving a drug addict the keys to the pharmacy. Office supplies are my crack. But I have a mission and a determination to stick my list. I enter ready to do battle like Captain Kirk stepping onto the bridge of the Enterprise. Except I am pretty sure I will not be having sex with blue alien at the end of the show nor will I lose the sixth man on my beam down crew.
With the quickness of a shopping ninja, I gather up my spoils of war and head to the register. Feeling victorious, I survey the contents of my basket while I wait my turn. I’ve scored 100 CD’s for $12.99 and I’m so stoked that I may break into a happy dance at any moment. Hey, life is short and you have to find joy where you can. In fact the joy inspired me to buy three spindles of CD’s. One for me, one for Dave (a.k.a. Cleggy), and one for Dave’s sisters & Mom. I considered buying one for my sister, but realized that shipping them would completely suck the joy out of the bargain price.
With a spring in my step, I practically skip out to my car and head over to a local restaurant that is selling shamrocks for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. So this stop is work related. With my new camera phone (Thank you again, Laslo & Queen B!), I take pictures of all the shamrocks they have sold so far and plan to put it in next week’s newsletter. I spend a few minutes chatting with servers, doing the general rah-rah thing, then return to my car and drive down three stores to my next destination. Yup, three whole stores. Deal with it. I’m a fat girl and I don’t walk if I don’t have to. Besides I’m paying for this vehicle, I need to get my money’s worth. At least that’s the rationalization I’m using today.
Cue light streaming from above and Handel’s “Messiah”. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are talking nirvana (not the grunge band, although I am a fan). Shoes that is, girlie gold, all for me. God bless the person who started Payless Shoes. They deserve to be canonized, immortalized, bronzed, and even laid. Nothing is too good for them. For the first time in nearly a year, I bought myself some shoes. And I went wild. I bought two pair and spent about $40. That’s right, folks, she’s living on the edge. Yeah right.
With my prized new shoes in their shiny bag, I return to my car, consult my errand list, and discover that I am done. With a small car dance of joy, I head home. Halfway there I realize that I am too tired to cook dinner so I gleefully turn into my favorite Chinese take out restaurant. After doing time in the drive through, I pull out of the parking lot and immediately turn into another one. This one belonging to Sonic. My goal is a soda.
You see I don’t like the sodas at the Chinese take out restaurant. They taste fishy to me. I don’t mean “fishy” as in suspicious. I mean “fishy” as in their soda dispenser & coy pond share a filter. On second thought, maybe that is suspicious. Especially since they really don’t have a coy pond. The drive through had to go somewhere, right?
So anyway, I get a large diet coke at Sonic and head for home again. What do you mean is that all I got? What else would I need after I just bought Chinese take out? I have NO idea how that banana pudding shake got into my car. Really.
To be honest, I needed that shake after dragging everything inside my apartment. It’s not often that I dislike being single. This is definitely one of those times. It would be nice to have someone else around to carry all my stuff. My own personal Sherpa. Not really a good reason for marriage, which is why I’m still single. At least that’s what I tell myself.
So that was my Sunday. I warned you it was boring. That should cure your insomnia, Frank. :P
