Daisy, my beloved truck, has a brand spanking new inspection sticker on her. Yay. Now I'm legal. Legal to make that trip to the lake that I've been aching to make all week because it's hotter than hell here.
I somehow mentally equate Labor Day with fall. And I don't know why, but I do. It's as if since that's the "last" holiday of summer I expect to wake up the next day to fall like temperatures. Not happening here.
The bathing suits are in the dryer. I hope my regularly $80 but cut in half to $40 swimsuit makes it through the wash. That'd be just like me, eh, paying *that* much money for a bathing suit and then ruining it because I didn't have the time to allow it to soak in cool water and then spin it by hand. Okay, admittedly, I have had the time because it seems like ages ago we took our little trip to the amusement park, but I just kept forgetting about the thing. You know, out of sight out of mind.
Have I mentioned that Daisy has a brand new sticker? Yeah, I'm a happy girl. A very broke but happy girl.
And I'm even happier because I am down here by myself with nothing but the whir of the dryer while the rest of them are up there. How friggin' cool is that.
I'm waiting for the water to boil so I, Supermom, can carry mac and cheese upstairs. I'm sure I'll get a four star rating for that. And it's all about the rating, you know.
Da Man has drill this weekend. I have to go to that meeting tomorrow. Maybe I'll send the baked goodies with Da Man instead of making the trip. I had forgotten about him having drill and having both the girls takes quite the bite of mom. Hell, having both the girls takes quite a bite out of me. A woman in Wally World the other day told me that the girls would keep me young; she doesn't know Mak.
I watched Dr. Phil a week or so ago and the show was full of women who were tired of being moms. One chick had actually left a couple of times but always came back. She sat there all glamourish and cried the blues. Whatever. Discipline your kids and it will be easier. But I know what it's like to sit and dream. I know what it's like to miss the old you, the you without the responsibility of kids. Believe me, sista, I know.
I dream.
I dream about the old days when owning a couch bogged me down. Days and nights spent on the Magic Bus, smoking weed and touring with the reggae band.
I dream about the old days when Mr. Smiley would show up at my door at odd times of the night, always bringing a surprise. Sometimes it was an American flag that he had stolen from atop an utility pole in front of my house, while others it was a buddy to come and check out my toe ring because I was "so cool."
I dream about the old days, remembering what it felt like to hop in my little car and not worry about anything. Nothing. And just drive. Start out heading to my brother's and end up in Indiana, sleeping on the floor of J's parents' home.
Or taking off for Detroit so D could see his dad. That was the last time D saw his dad, I believe. And the last time I talked to D was when he called to tell me that his dad had passed away.
And I am usually pulled back from my dreams by a screech because the little one pinched the big one. Or a crayon comes crashing into the side of my head out of seemingly nowhere.
Then my dreams change.
I then find myself dreaming of Grace becoming an instrument of change. A free spirit. Successful.
And I dream of, in hopes of coming to grips with, Mak being a regular on Jerry Springer.