Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace;
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go;
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for its living;
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Mother Goose
(Two doves who look to know that today is indeed a Monday / Julie Cook / 2014)
Why do I think Mother Goose got it all wrong??
Today is Monday or by the time you’re reading this, it will most likely be, thankfully, Tuesday or hopefully some other day–any other day than Monday!
Monday marks the dreaded beginning of the work week.
It is the day most folks wish would quietly come and go as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
Maybe Monday’s child should be full of dread, difficultly, foreboding–no offense to any of you born on a Monday— but fair of face?? Really?? I beg to differ.
You never hear of folks clamoring for a Monday to hurry up and get here like they do for a Friday.
You don’t hear of people getting ready to kick off Mondays by starting the party on Sunday evenings.
I suppose that’s why they invented Monday Night Football—trying to bring the weekend down easy. . .
I suppose I should have seen it coming.
I suppose I should have realized it this weekend when “they” decided it was time (get it) to switch up the times on me. This whole time thing, dark in the morning / light in the evening, light in the morning / dark in the evening. . . is an entire post of its own waiting to happen—
but I’ll just stick with Monday for now thank you very much—I can only handle one bad thing at a time!
So as I was saying. . .I should have been a little more cautious this morning when first light forced my brain awake at 6:15, which was really 5:15 or maybe 7:15 or was that really 8:15–all I know is that two days ago it was an entirely different time—-see what I mean—why do “they” enjoy tormenting me this way???
Digressing.
As I had by now opened my eyes, there was no going back, there was no other alternative but to get up.
It wasn’t so bad. I hadn’t slept anyway and seriously, what woman my age does sleep? (Digressing)
6:15 or 7:15 beat my mornings when I was teaching as I would have to get up at 5 AM, which would have been 4 AM or maybe it would have been 6 AM–AAAGGGGHHHH—see what I mean. . .again digressing.
Any whooooo. . .
As I get busy going about my morning routine and rituals, my husband readies for work.
I feed the cats, fix my coffee, post my post, clean the cat box (joy of joys), let one cat outside, the other cat out on the deck (he’s an indoor cat who’s outside is the deck), kiss my husband good-bye, let the cats back in and out respectively at least 10 more times, move some things out of the garage, come back in, read my devotional and say my prayers. . .next it’s off to strip the bed as this is “wash day”, let the cats back in and out respectively at least 10 more times–yada, yada, yada. Plus I knew I needed to get a move on if I was going to exercise before heading out to the grocery store and the Monday ritual of errand running.
Down to the basement I trot, checking on all the plants I’ve had to move in due to the freezing temperatures suffered all weekend. My workout area is now crammed full of giant potted plants and two fruit trees loaded with green fruit, who are taking their own sweet time to ripen.
30 minutes of weights then 30 minutes on the nemesis, aka Elliptical.
Huffing and puffing with just about a minute of time remaining to the run, I begin to hear an odd bit of thumping. Note to self–remind husband to check all the nuts and bolts, making certain things are good and tight—when suddenly there’s a snapping sound and a thud, as I am propelled forward falling precariously to the right while at the same time trying to stop the 5 mph speed of motion of the arm swings before real damage occurs to both me and machine.
“What the. . .??!!”
IT BROKE!!!! AAAGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!
Are you freaking kidding me???!!!
Lifting the broken leg bar, which must have some sort of resistance or tension against it, as it immediately snaps back down, out of my hand, slicing open my wrist. You know, the side of the wrist those wishing to end things go for—it’s deep, it’s bleeding— so now, not only am I mad, I’m going to bleed to death.
Great.
Sweating like a pig and out of breath, remember I was just finishing the workout when the blasted thing snapped, plus now bleeding to death on top of being mad, I grab the information booklet and head upstair to the phone in order to call these Sole Elliptical folks on their 1 800 number.
Greeted with automation I push the number button I’m directed to push in order to speak with a representative.
The phone disconnects.
What??!!
I dial again.
More automation.
Pushing more numbers.
Still bleeding to death with paper towels wrapped around wrist.
The automated voice tells me I am caller number 2 in line or in the imaginary “que”.
I head up stairs, with phone to ear and pressure on sliced open wrist, in order to rummage through file folders for the receipt.
Always keep the receipt!!!
A person finally answers.
I’m still bleeding.
Still sweating.
“Mam, do you have the 16 digit serial number?”
“Where would that be located?”
“On the machine”
I run back down stairs, a double flight back to the basement, while holding the phone to my ear and pressure on my wrist.
“There is no number on the machine”
“Yes mam, there is, it should be on the fly wheel”
“There is no number on the fly wheel”
“You need to pop off the covering over the fly wheel, it’s located inside the housing”
“WHAT?”— now he tells me
Jerking and pulling, I can’t get the plastic covering to ‘pop off’
“Yes mam, it should just pop off”
“It isn’t popping off, did I tell you how the thing sliced my wrist wide open??”
“Mam, we’re here until 7PM CST if you’d like to wait for your husband to come home to help you.”
“WHAT???”
Still pulling and pushing I ask if he’s certain this thing isn’t screwed shut.
“Mam, you may want to get a flathead screwdriver.
Oh ho buddy, I’m one up on you, I’ve already got the screwdriver!!
By this point, thinking I’m going to break the damn thing with Marcel (the name of the representative) wanting to hang up on me. . .
I pry open the panel just enough the see the blasted serial number.
“Oh wait, I can just see the sticker, let me read you the numbers”
“Mam what’s your address? Full Name? Phone number?”
“Am I going to have to ship this whole thing back to you all??!!”
“No mam, we should be able to send you a part”
“Can you take a picture so I can see what exactly broke”
“I can do that”
He gives me his e-mail address and we hang up.
With me still bleeding and Marcel nonplused over my ordeal–probably needed to act unconcerned thinking I was sue happy.
I snap the pictures, upload them, compose the e-mail and off it goes—into cyber-land.
Have I heard back?
No
Shouldn’t some sort of a reply of confirmation come back letting me know that Marcel got the e-mail????
One can only hope. . .
Great.
My wrist is still bleeding.
I head to the bathroom in order to preform some sort of triage.
I pour betadine over my wrist, now turning everything yellow,
Still bleeding.
Next, cotton balls soaked in alcohol
AAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!
Still bleeding but at least things should now be sterile.
I probably need a stitch, maybe two, but who has time to sit in an ER for 4 hours??
And of all things, here I am, not trying to commit suicide, and I’m going to be the person who bleeds out.
Great.
I shower.
I let the cats back in, for the umpteenth time.
I dry may hair
I bandage my wrist.
I let the cats back out
I dress (don’t worry about the order—it all gets done, clothes, no clothes, comsi comsa)
But now I’m afraid to leave the house.
Wonder what’s waiting for me out there if all this happened in here?!
Hummmm. . .
Oh, I’m just probably delusional from the loss of blood.
Fast forward to my arrival back home, thankfully in one piece.
Still bleeding through the bandaging, I proceed to bring in the groceries.
I notice the mailman at the neighbor’s box so I make my way up the driveway to meet the carrier at my box.
I know they see me coming because it’s a clear shot of our driveway from the neighbor’s mailbox.
Just as I reach to open the gates (yes we have a gate, because we have a fence, because of those blasted rodeo bulls, the ones living across the street in the bootleg fenced-in pasture, which are constantly breaking out of their bootleg fence, so we put up a decent fence to keep them out. You’d think their owners would get the whole good fence / bootleg fence concept—digressing)
–the mail carrier pops the mail in the box and takes off.
“Well nice to see you too” I think to myself as I open the box in order to retrieve the mail.
Sitting on top of the mail is one of those “sorry we missed you” cards stating I have a registered parcel which they couldn’t deliver because I was not home.
WHAT???
Are you freaking kidding me?!
Heeellloooooo, here I was and here I am!!!!!
I was at the gate, just about to open it to met the carrier!!
They never pulled into the driveway, just popped it all in the box and quickly took off!!
They had to see me coming up the driveway—I was in broad day light and a clear visible shot!!
Great.
I hurry back to the house, picking up the phone, I call the post office.
My wrist is still bleeding.
The number is busy for about 5 attempts, finally I get a person.
A very unfriendly person.
I explain what happened and that I was just about to meet the carrier, when they took off.
“Could you radio them to come back letting them know that I am here and was trying to met them?”
“Name. Address. OK”
“OK? OK as in you’re going to radio them or OK, what. . .?!”
“Yes” click
What is it with the postal folks??
I proceed to actually go outside in order to sit, in plain view–remember the trees are now gone—you can’t miss me, nobody misses me!
I proceed to wait, and wait and wait.
Finally the mail truck pulls down the driveway.
“I thought you saw me on my way to meet you”
“You always keep those gates closed?”
Oh great, a new carrier.
“Well not always, but we do prefer to keep those bulls out of our yard”
“You need to sign the card”
“uh, do you have a pen I could use?”
Reluctantly handing me a pen, I sign the card, hand it back to her as the happy carrier (note my sarcasm) hands me my parcel.
“Thank you” I mutter as she drives off into the sunset. . .
Sunset?
Yes, sunset- – -remember they changed the freaking time on me.
The sun is starting it’s decent, as in it’s now later, or is it earlier???
No matter, all I know is that this Monday is soon setting and I couldn’t be happier!!
And yes, I’m still bleeding.
Here’s to Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday and, well you get the point!
As seen on the web:
Dear Monday,
I want to break up.
I’m seeing Tuesday and
Dreaming about Friday.
Sincerely, it’s not me, it’s you.
cookiecrumbstoliveby 