What I Mean is...

You know the worst thing about being in a bad mood? You miss the comedy in life. Not like the big comedy. I'm talking the day to day. The mixed-in-so-seamlessly-you-might-miss-IF...and only if...you're in a bad mood. And not to brag or anything...but kinda to brag...I'm going on like week number five of being in a good mood. Of course, this is after 18 months of riding a bumpy loopy loo roller coaster. So technically, I really don't even know if that can be considered bragging.  And besides...WHO CARES? Bragging, no bragging, the fact of the matter is I've been living in a sitcom this last little bit. Everyone loves to talk about the witching hours- bka 4-7 pm- and we hear chatter about the morning rush. You know, the ticking time bomb of getting kids up, dressed, fed, lunches and backpacks filled, and off to school before the bell gets to ringing.  But what you don't hear much talk about is... the after-crash. The fact that after it's done you can barely think straight enough to coherently put one foot in front of the other. That's an exaggeration. That's like a Red Bull crash. Or, maybe just a drunk driver walking the line. But have it be known, there's a physiological deterioration that comes after this compact, intense, mental exertion. Like a few weeks ago, when I bee-lined it from drop-off to the gas station for a 32 oz, 2/3 ice-filled Diet Coke topped off with Cherry Coke- just how I like it at that broken down Mobile station. I ingested that first sip and was off sprinting to the next drop-off or appointment or whatever was completely occupying my mind. And next thing I know, the notorious Indian gas station owner- or possibly his cousin- is chasing me down, following me out to my car. Which I'll admit, I thought was really weird. And caught me off guard. And do you know what he wanted???  His $1.75. Because most consumers actually pay for their product before walking out the door and getting in their car.  Brown nosers, right? And it's funny how scenarios like these keep playing through your mind at unsolicited times. Who needs a cop or even a kid to keep you in check? One embarrassing situation, and they got your number. Best behavior from here on out. And so it was as I was taking the drive of shame one morning-- Wait...you don't know about the drive of shame? K, well it's embarrassing but here it is. It's when you decide to take the 15 minute drive to get your beverage of choice. But come on, the right cup, the right ice, and a good sodie mix...you can't put a nominal value on that. And besides, like Miss Chelsi J said when I couldn't help but give her my confessional, "It's about so much more than just the drink. The drink just completes the experience." And to that I would like to say AMEN. Sista. So during the drive of shame, the reel uninvitedly began to spin, playing the scene of that one time I walked out of the gas station with my dirty fountain drink. Fine. Whatever. A subtle reminder that I must pay for my drink before exiting the premises. This is important. But there's other etiquette that is equally important and should also be as second nature as paying for your crap. It's as I'm opening the door and making my entrance that I realize I have failed in that etiquette department. Because it's just been made painfully obvious to me that I am wearing a tighter fitting t-shirt and....no bra.  And let's get past the giggles and cheap jokes of "It's not like you need a bra anyway." Because, NO, I don't need a bra. But, come on...what about some band-aids at least? I could have at least used two little circular band-aid in this moment of desperation. Don't you ever try to call me high maintenance. But this mama doesn't just roll with 2 band-aids in her back pocket. So I just had to make my bold, faux-confident entrance into the Circle K. But in my mind, I was robotically repeating a Deeter-fed dialogue, "H-A-T-E  Y-O-U." The boys had been doing their thing in the back seat- their Mad Lib thing- and fired out, "Mom, how do you spell beautiful?" Actually, scratch the Mad Lib thing, obvi they were writing me a love letter. I willingly spit out the spelling, keeping my eyes on the road. And before I had any time to bask in how much my boys love me and how they think I'm beautiful and what not, Deeter came in, throwing the sobering cup of ice-cold water in my face, "Mom, how do you spell hate you?"

And those 7 letters are what I found myself repeating, h-a-t-e y-o-u, h-a-t-e- y-o-u. We're talking basics, Gay, could you not have thrown on a bra? I mean, the Paparazzi is never going to mistake me for someone famous and beautiful if I can't even even be pulled together enough to wear a bra. But there's always a silver lining...

I remembered to pay for my drink. All 89 cents of it. So no embarrassing chase down of the bra-less, homeless looking woman was necessary.    My life cracks me up. And I'm glad I'm finally in good enough mood to realize that and live the series.