Today was kiddo's first day back in school - this time 9th grade - and a frantic one at the last minute because he didn't receive his homeroom assignment until the 11th hour (yesterday afternoon, in the mail, after a last-minute desperation call yielded the news that if he didn't get his homeroom assignment it would be posted on the main building door and no, they couldn't tell me over the phone). Schedules weren't handed out till the kids *arrived* in their homeroom classes. His schedule is a disaster. We went through the same chaos every year when the eldest was in high school. I'd forgotten, probably because it was so horrible I mentally blocked the experience.
So, having gotten the kiddo off to school I updated my vacation blog, did a little laundry, turned on some music, sang loudly and then danced like a dork. I can get away with such things when I'm alone. I had fun for roughly two hours. Then, off to run errands.
Here's where the day really began to suck. First, errands that dragged on in a way they shouldn't for reasons not worth elaborating upon. Then, an hour in the crowded, treeless parking lot from hell in 105+ heat index, followed by the news that the schedule was a total mess and kiddo had missed the first swim meeting at the pool.
We arrived home at 4:00; school allegedly dismisses at 2:40 p.m. and it's maybe a 5 minute drive, at best. Just inside the door, I realized that I'd been wearing my shorts inside-out all day long. I did a mental tally of all the places I went with a tag and seams showing on my behind - Walmart, the rescue mission, my friend's photo shop. Just shoot me.
Shortly after, the kiddo handed me a pile of incomprehensible forms. One says, "Circle this number if your child is being transported." Okay, aren't they all transported to school? Do we mean by bus, car, or beamed down from the Enterprise? They asked for the starting date of transport. I wrote in, "Car rider from day 1." I was thinking about Andi of "Tripping Toward Lucidity" (see blog link at left) and her recent desire to find a rooftop and a machine gun. There are days you can understand the maniacs.
I cleaned up the kitchen, ran the disposal and got the clunk-clunk-clunk that means something hard isn't going down. The spouse had put ribs down the drain. It's 9:20 p.m. and I've spent the entire evening filling out forms, translating gibberish, undoing disasters, writing checks for fees and band sweatshirt and blah, blah, blah and realizing that every single damned evening is filled up - even Saturday offers no escape; there's a pep rally that youngest must attend. The only redeeming feature of the entire evening was the hummingbird visit in our derelict kitchen garden (currently going fallow, I believe is the nice way to put it) as I sat at the table. He was green and he loved our weeds. Nice birdy.
Best book news of the day:
Two books arrived - one an autographed copy of my buddy's book, not yet released: Rainbow's End by John Floyd. I'll review that when I get to it and then post a blaring red notice when it's published. John is cool. You'd like John.
The other book was sent by a book list friend. I'm too tired to look up the title but it's a memoir by Jancee Dunn. I think that's right. It looks fun. Fun is good.
Current read is The Secret History of the Pink Carnation. I hope to read a chapter or two after scrubbing the kiddo's tub and soaking in it because . . . you've got it . . . some little microscopic thingy broke in the drain of the master bathroom after I dropped a bowl and the glass shattered everywhere, just after we made it home alive and proved the hubster still has decent reflexes when a deer jumped in front of the car last night and . . . I could go on. My life is bananas. I need a sedative or an hour in a fat leather chair with my book. Either would do.
May your days be full of books and free of hassle.