One of Those Days, and Then Some...

(Originally posted as a note on Facebook August 2011) Thank you, dear spoonful of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream, for being my friend in need right now, my comforter, my confidante. Even though you and I both know you are as fair-weather as they come--with your come-hither, frosty cocoa smoothness and teasing ribbons of peanut delight that will tomorrow be only a memory on my tongue, but a bold reminder of your deceitfulness on my scale--I will selfishly let you soothe me for now, as I attempt to erase those parts of today that were less than perfect. Which was pretty much every part of today. Dare I recap? I had a wonderful weekend full of reunions with wonderful people from my pretty wonderful past. But, of course, with all the activity and fun comes a lack of normal sleeping patterns, which in turn makes me very cranky. Add to that the worrying over my lovely children--whose behavior is age-appropriate only on Long Island and pretty appalling in the rest of the country, except for maybe certain sandy parts of New Jersey--and you basically have a recipe for disaster. Or at the very least, a severe case of Brainfartitis. Brainfartitis is usually accompanied by the blues, and sometimes exacerbated by them as well. And so it was this morning, when I needed fifteen minutes upon my arrival in the parking lot of work to sit in my car and sob my eyes out into a tissue that has probably been used several times before for nasal stalagtite removal. Once I gathered myself together, I walked in the building, sat at my desk, and proceeded, as always, to turn on my computer and pretend I know exactly what I'm doing. During my lunch hour, I drove through McDonalds to get a salad. Opening my wallet, I realized I had left my debit card in the small purse I used for my reunion Saturday night. Thankfully, I had some cash on me and used that. After I left work, I went to an appointment with my chiropractor, who proceeded to manipulate my stomach so enthusiastically, Brainfartitis was--for the moment--replaced by Assfartitis. It was not pretty. Thankfully, he's either deaf or just a darn good sport. So when we finished, I wrote him my last check in the checkbook, and went on my way to get gas. For the car, that is. I pull into the self-serve gas station and open my wallet to get out my debit card. Which, of course, was still not there, and was still in my little purse that I took to my reunion. Scrounging up ten dollars, I paid for my gas and took off to go to the food store to get cold cuts and something for dinner that now needed to cook at the speed of light, being that it was almost 7pm. Going into the supermarket "just to get something for dinner" is almost never a reality in my life. There will always be at least five or six other things I will see that I need. And I know this about myself, I really do. But I still take a hand basket instead of a cart, because I am and will continue to be in severe denial about my food shopping habits. I put in my order for cold cuts at the self-serve kiosk, and move along to stuff my basket with a box of gluten-free crackers, a can of cannellini beans, two boxes of pasta, two packages of chicken sausage, and two loaves of Italian bread. Passing through the refrigerated items, I remembered my son exclaimed there were no drinks this morning, so I picked up two containers of orange-strawberry-banana juice and attempted to add them to my basket. NOT. Stuffing one under each arm, I hear my deli order number being called, and I make my way back to retrieve my cold cuts. Most people, I find, are generally polite, even here NY. And so it was when I squeezed my way through the ordering line at the deli counter to pick up my order. One gentleman moved up a few inches, another moved his cart back a few so I could get through. However, the real evidence of their cordial-ness was most definitely their ability to bite their lips and turn their heads away at the sight of the woman with two containers of juice under her armpits trying to stuff 3lbs of meat and 1lb of cole slaw into a handbasket that had met its full capacity two loaves of bread and a package of sausage earlier. If you've never seen a container of juice tossed by one's armpit onto a conveyor belt, you haven't lived life. Times that by two and toss in a handbasket full of nosh, and you have the Stop n Shop Olympics gold medal winner in the form of Lisa Hyman. The young checkout girl announces that I owe $47.62, and I pull out my wallet to take out my debit card. That is still not there, and still in the little purse I took to my reunion. Panicking, I suddenly realize I have my checkbook and ask the girl if I can write out a check. "Of course," she says...and as I open my checkbook, the vision of me ripping the very last check out and handing it to the chiropractor begins to manifest itself right before my eyes. You know, the thing about Brainfartitis is that usually, you are the only one who knows you have it. Most times, the symptoms of Brainfartitis can be easily covered up with an artful manipulation of words, or just plain ignorance. However, this was not the case at the express checkout today. Not only did the checkout girl bear witness to my severe bubble-headedness, but so did the bagging boy and the five customers standing in line behind me. I think I heard an actual jaw hit the ground two people back. Throwing excuses left and right at the young girl who honestly could not care less, I finally asked her "What do I do?" She called over a manager who very kindly told me "it happens" and that they would hold onto the bags until I came back with some sort of acceptable payment method. Their only stipulation was that I do, indeed, come back. I imagine the last few people who "it happened" to might have been too embarrassed by their own sufferings with Brainfartitis to even show their faces again at the local Stop n Shop, which truly holds "Cheers" status within the small town it resides in. I did eventually run home, grab my debit card, and go back to retrieve my groceries. Later on, I breathed in a sigh of relief as I walked into the house and ate some tuna fish my husband made (it was too late to make chicken sausage at that point). Later, after he went to his Wing Chun class, I sat down with my computer, a cup of tea, and some chocolate-peanut butter ice cream he had bought me the previous night. Just as I was beginning to veg out, there was a knock at the door. I opened it up to find my sons two friends there. As I invited them in, they good-naturedly joked around with me, teasing me about my son. At that moment, my Brainfartitis kicked in full gear, and I did not notice until I saw his tail out the door that my dog had run out of the house to "visit" with the next door neighbor's dog, who was strolling by with his owner. Let me state for the record that my dog loves people. LOVES them. Other dogs, not so much. And if that dog is bite-size, like my neighbor's dog, things could get ugly. Which is precisely why I ran out of the the house screaming my fool head off like a lunatic. There have been many times in the last 14 years that I have wondered if my neighbors thought I was strange in some way...today, there was not doubt in my mind. Thankfully, there were no injuries, not even a scrape. it turns out I'm a heck of a lot scarier than my dog, and I am certainly much louder. However, I didn't stop shaking for two hours afterwards...so much for relaxing. Is there a cure for Brainfartitis? We may never know. But the best treatment for it is definitely a good sense of humor and a few deep breaths. Works for me...most of the time.