Pink Monkey Chatter

I am admittedly often prone to whining/writing about the series of spaz-outs and screw-ups that are my life. In fact this whole blog is based on the impermeable truth that I cannot have one fricken normal day.

Today was no exception..but add crazed holiday shoppers with road rage, and we have ourselves one heck of a Christmas clusterfuck.

The day seemed like it would be relaxing. I’m done with classes and the only thing I had left to do today was to grocery shop at Trader Joe’s and buy Pheobe  the chihuahua some x-mas presents. Now, you might argue that a dog doesn’t need X-mas presents, but this is a moody pup who has no problem expressing her emotions. And by expressing, I mean purposely chewing up Mommy’s new pair of Ralph Lauren thigh-high suede boots and peeing on the new Ikea sofa. Or visa versa…

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I still maintain that this dog spends most of her day plotting to take over the world… or at the very least my closet. Being left out on Christmas morning could very well send Phoebe over the edge, into the mother of doggy psychotic episodes that would involved tearing up my socks and shoes, most likely with me still in them.  

So, I was out buying a twenty-dollar bucket of rawhide chicken wings for the dog, when my ex-husband called to say that he would be dropping by Christmas morning to watch the kids open their presents. Really nice for the kids, but now I had the dilema of having to pick some gifts for the children to give their father.

And there is is nothing left in the stores ..And I mean nothing…

I was trying to decide between a Hallmark Christmas ornament of a Galaga video game and a sock monkey scented nightlight when I received a desperate phone call from my youngest son.

“Mom, we are having a Christmas party and all the mothers are going to be there,” his little voice pleaded.

“Okay, Griffen. When is it?”

“Right now.”

Big sigh..influx of guilt..I suck.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.

With my energy level at warp speed, I made a mad dash for my truck. Finding the damn vehicle took a full five mins, which gave me about ten minutes to speed up Route Nine and get to the the school. I reached for my car keys…and… THEY WERE GONE!!!! 

Christ on a cracker!!

A guy in a Mustang was waiting for my parking space, and he looked pissed.

Almost crying with guilt and frustration, I grabbed my cell phone to call for help. The pink razor flew out of my hand like a damn greased salmon at the exact moment the young man decided to race toward another parking space.

Now, I was neither able to call for help nor inform my son that mommy was having a complete mental break down and might miss the party. Let me tell you that single parenthood had never felt better than at this moment.

Then, it happened: A God damn Christmas miracle. A young women in calico patched jeans and black converse tennis shoes saw me screaming swear words to the sky and bless her brave heart, she offered to help.

Not quite out of the woods, I borrowed her phone to call AAA, only to be told by the extremely unhelpful and quite snippy AAA operator that my ex-boyfriend had canceled my membership.  Clutching her laptop with her Jack Skellington mittens, this wonderful person offered to drive me to my son’s school.

If I had one x-mas wish, it would be that the guy in the history club that my heroine belongs to would notice what a steller person she is.  

But I digress, I tear towards my sons’ classroom, burst through the door, and spray the bag of dog squeaky toys and the entire contents of my purse onto the classroom meeting rug.  At which point, I discover that nestled on the top of the bacon dog snacks..are…wait for it…. MY CAR KEYS!!!

Christmas is officially killing me.

I think it is killing my kids, too. As my sons and I were trudging home from school in ten below weather (sans car) and without proper head wear, my usually sweet, polite baby grumbled, “I hate all of you.”

To which I sarcastically replied…”God Bless Us Everyone.”  And my oldest and I  laughed like crazy lunatics while my youngest lay down in a snowbank, persumably to die in peace.

I’m pretty sure my son was just kidding…about the hating part.