|"How do I know it's Saturday? Bob, what other day do we practice the Hand Jive?"|
I tell ya what, this stay at home mom thing is pretty glamorous. Not only did I narrowly just avoid dropping pop tart on the slip acting as an undershirt to my paint-spattered sweatshirt, but the butler called in sick so now I have to go fill up my own coffee.
...My giraffe pants and I will be right back.
Now, where was I? Ahh, yes, Saturday, the sixth Monday of the week. She's a subtle minx, that one, differentiated from the other Mondays by good intentions and false hope. I, like most parents, use these false hopes to spot Saturday, as Ahab tracked Moby Dick.
If we don't do this, Saturday is confused with Sunday, thereby throwing the space-time continuum off and causing liquor stores to close early on business days. And we simply can't have that.
But, how does one spot these hallmarks of Saturday?
Relying purely on instinct, and leftover Nyquil, I whip the two into a well-balanced formula of spotting the following:
How I Know It's Saturday
1.) I am up before the sun. The children do not recognize their father an entity able to retrieve breakfast. The father of my children sleeps next to me, however, so it must be Saturday.
2.) As I root around for cereal, I feel hungover. It's clear I ate my Friday night one-pound bag of M&Ms.
3.) Carefully, I measure out the last of the week's coffee and mix it with a strangely abundant supply of poppy seeds, in order to make a full pot of what can only be described as, "magic" or "Homeless Man's Latte."
4.) The 300th showing of Toy Story has started. Friday was the 229th. Sunday will be the day I draft a letter to Pixar, asking whether they'd like to adopt my children.
5.) As on all other Mondays of the week, the bathroom needs to be cleaned. But, unlike any other day of the week, I get the overwhelming urge to move the toilet brush slightly to the left.
6.) My weekly survey of the bare landscape out my kitchen window confirms the squirrels have used the bird feeder for another Friday night rave.
7.) An urge to pack up the kids and go on an afternoon excursion overwhelms me. Then, cookies happen, and I'm convinced the food coma may impair my ability to drive to a museum or park.
8.) The afternoon is spent staring at Husband. He stares back. We mutually try to figure out why we're seeing each other at one o'clock, and whether that means it's Saturday, Armageddon, or we're hallucinating at our respective places of employment.
9.) Scanning the refrigerator confirms we're out of food. I now have Saturday night plans.
10.) Dinner made, kids in bed, house quiet, Husband and I decide to retire for the evening. After some witty repartee and a game of "If you Take My Pillow, I Don't Have One," we agree that it must be Saturday because all the fun that was had in the previous twelve hours. Only six more Mondays until we do it all again.
Until Next Time, Readers!