I had plans. Nothing big, but I had plans.
I was, for the first time in quite some time, productive.
Laundry was laundered. Fresh flannel sheets on the bed. Just in time for the 80 degree weather tomorrow. Stupid Texas.
I mowed the backyard so her highness, Ziva, could squat without those pesky blades of grass touching her tucchus. And also because freshly mown grass makes Himself happy. And because the guy Himself contracts to mow our grass is the same shrubbery murderer from several year’s past. I cannot trust the man around green growing things and sharp cutting implements. Clearly, I have trust issues.
Laundry was folded. Apparently that’s a thing. You wash it, you dry it, you fold it. Who knew?
I shaved my legs.
Dinner was planned. Dinner. Was. Planned.
The Phone Call.
Our oldest, His Army Awesomeness.
Barely above a whisper, he said “hey, Mama” and then the shitstorm commenced.
He’d lost his wallet.
Social security card.
1300 miles away.
I may have uttered words. Choice words. Something with “mother” in it.
Mind you, this is all after 5pm. Naturally.
And so, the mad scramble commenced to find numbers: phone, card, bank.
As I’m simultaneously plotting a homicide.
I’m nothing if not a multitasker.
The logic of plotting to off your offspring while trying to preserve the security of his future financial dealings was/is obviously at odds. 🤷♀️
He was texting me to death. Mostly obsequious apologies and promises it’d never happen again. You can bet your ass it won’t ’cause imma kill you! Where’s the shovel?
It’s interesting, but I think I managed to convey a tone of voice via text because he was yes ma’am/thank you ma’am/ please make it quick and relatively painless ma’am. It’s a tone I haven’t employed in quite some time. I kinda missed it, truth be told.
I returned to our living room, Himself ensconced in his plushly upholstered throne, researching how to replace all the cards that clearly convey to the government that you exist, muttering under his breath about how the hell do you lose your damn wallet?
The remains of dinner dithered about on the stovetop, gravy congealing, waiting for me to clean it all up. Where’s Martha Raye when I need her?
Two hours later, as I sagged into my matching cushy throne, tiny sammich in hand, slavering dachshund at my side, my phone rang. His Army Awesomeness again.
“I found it.”
Imma kill him.