OK, Life. Uncle.
You win. You've officially trumped the obsessively organized, anal-retentive, irritatingly nit picky, self-proclaimed Supermom.
How do I know this? I looked in the mirror. Yeesh.
This morning, I leaped out of bed at my normal rising time of 5:45 am. OK, I lie. I hit the snooze button twice, giving me 18 extra minutes of half-sleep, only to wake up at 6:03 and leap out of bed only because I was really supposed to be up 18 minutes ago.
From there, I felt my way downstairs like a blind mime and poured (read spilled) my first cup of coffee, prepared breakfast for my son that he proclaimed he "wasn't hungry for" and then made a lunch for him I knew he wouldn't eat. Then, donning my leopard-print slippers and pink Green Bay Packers cap, I took him to the bus stop, coffee in hand, stains and all.
That magnanimous task completed, I returned home to talk myself into my daily exercise routine, which I am supposed to start promptly at 7 am in order to be done in time to prepare breakfast for my other son and get ready for work. Unfortunately, on this day I was experiencing aches and pains that were either a result of a) thinking I'm the shiznit in the previous days' workouts or b) starting to come down with what every pasty-white, cooped up Peorian has right now. Needless to say, the exercise started half-heartedly at 7:10, throwing me completely off schedule.
Breakfast for my younger son consists of a) a frozen Belgian waffle and a banana or b) Fruit Loops or the generic equivalent and a kiwi. Oh, and white hot chocolate. No, not hot chocolate. White hot chocolate. He doesn't like chocolate, only white chocolate, so for the past two years (since they stopped making Nesquik vanilla unless you buy it online and it's all in Spanish) I've been secretly buying Carnation Instant Breakfast and transferring it into an old vanilla Nesquik container.
Told you I was kinda anal-retentive.
Anyway, you know those cups you put in the microwave that aren't supposed to be microwaved? Well, they punish you for using those by heating the outside of said container to lava-like temperatures, while the contents inside remains stone cold. This causes you to grab said receptacle, acknowledge that it's burning your flesh, but be astute enough to not want to spill it all over the stove. Hence I held this smoldering piece of cheap china for about 10 seconds, in turn searing the flesh off of my right ring finger and causing that hot, throbbing pain that lasted for hours.
Now running later than late, I hopped in the shower, only to determine that even lukewarm water on my charred flesh felt like acid. I completed my shower with one hand sticking out of the door, performed some sort of pseudo Cirque du Soleil configurations with my left hand in an attempt to apply my makeup and clothes, pushed a headband into my wet, curly hair, shuttled son #2 to school and raced to work.
Once there, I juggled my briefcase, coffee, orange juice and Egg McMuffin (which I somehow talked myself into because I felt sorry for burning myself, even though it completely negated the earlier workout) and somehow made it to my office "space" without killing myself or someone else.
Writing assignments were plentiful today; so plentiful that I scarcely had time to pee. My sitter called at 3:25 to say she was stuck in traffic and would not make it to pick up my son at 3:30, which caused a panic as I pictured my youngest, forlorn and near tears, standing in an empty parking lot silently waiting for the mom who never shows up. At least that reminded me I had to pee.
At 5:00, I ran out of work and made it home in time to turn around and drop my son off (who did in fact make it home with the babysitter) at tumbling class, then venture to that adventureland that never ceases to amuse - Wal-Mart. After racing through the aisles like some adrenaline-crazed, shopping cart wielding maniac, I tore through the checkout so I could make it back to tumbling in time to, as promised, take a picture of my son doing an unassisted back handspring. Finally home, I threw a frozen pizza in the oven and added some fruit and veggies in order to proclaim Tuesday as "the night I cooked". I went to wash my hands and have some alone time in the comfort of my own bathroom, and that's when it happened.
I looked in the mirror.
I shouldn't have. Really. Good GOD. Who let me out of the house this morning? My half-ass attempt at makeup meant that I had those globs of eyeliner that managed to actually stay on just in the corners of my bloodshot eyes. My skin looked like I had spent the last year underground, not to mention my furrowed brow from the past 16 hours of scowling. And my hair? Yeah. I sincerely had not touched it since I shoved that headband up into the wet rat's nest of curls at 7:30 this morning.
WOW. Yeah. Uh... WOW.
So for anyone reading this who I actually came in contact with today - my apologies. I'm sorry you had to see that. I'd like to promise you it won't happen again, but tomorrow ain't looking so great, either.