After a really crabby day yesterday, imagine my surprise that I was able to get up at 6:15, be downstairs and breakfasted by 7:00, and have my daily word count completed by 8:30. Who am I? This is the routine I used to have as an employed person, and Hubby was shocked that I was up and dressed and making him tea before he even got up and wondered if I was feeling okay. Maybe a crabby day is the precursor to an accomplished day?
My crabbiness stemmed from so many sources and they were all illogical. Why should an unsatisfying dream cause a mood? It’s not real, for heaven’s sake, so why did it affect me? Should I call my sister-in-law and demand an explanation for her last-minute change in plans for our cookie business? For the record, we have no plans for a cookie business, but she left me high and dry in that dream and dag nab it, that was not a good thing. It left me ripe for a confrontation which I had with my mirror. (Please tell me you do that, too. Makes for a cathartic venting of emotions, if a somewhat crazy-looking scene.) I had my principal and my administrator and my superintendent in front of me (well, in the mirror in front of me) and I gave them what for. Clearly I am still carrying many conflicting emotions about this situation and a unresolved cookie business simply broke the camel’s straw or something like that.
Then I rolled the dice even more and went grocery shopping. On a Sunday afternoon. Every slow driver in the area must have decided that it was a perfect time to go for a sight-seeing drive, and never mind that the sight-seeing occurred at green lights, crosswalks, stop signs, and the middle of the road. Really? You’re actually stopping mid-turn to point to something of interest? Got your license from a Cracker Jack box, did you? (Yoda? Am I channelling Yoda?) And what’s up with the parking lot of the supermarket? Do you really have to stay in the middle of the lane, blinker flashing desperately as you wait for the elderly couple to unload their cart? Couldn’t you drive a bit further and find a different spot? Oh, that’s good, blast your horn when you perceive someone is trying to cut you off and grab the spot you’re waiting for and in the process give the elderly couple a heart attack. It’s a spot in a parking lot, not Mecca. Your giant EscNaviBoat probably won’t fit in the spot, anyway.
Oh, Lord, help me. I just want to get in, get out, and go home, but They are conspiring against me. I’ll spare you the descriptive commentary of the Peering shopper, the Drifting shopper, the Just-Off-The-Mothership shopper, the Won’t-Pay-Attention-to-her-Screaming-Baby shopper, the Abandon-the-Cart shopper, the I-Forgot-Something-Be-Back-Quick line hog shopper who comes back carrying nine different items and is scanning the end caps for more stuff to add, and the Let-Me-Examine-Every-Item-Again-As-I-Put-It-On-The-Belt-And-Wait-For-The-Price-To-Show-Up shopper, who you know is going to wait until the total is announced before she dives into her overstuffed handbag to find her checkbook and pen. My blood pressure is approaching the sort of comparisons you find on hot sauce bottles (Caution! Sizzling! Hell’s Gate!).
To make it a truly gripping tale for you, I’ll just throw out there that I had to go to THREE separate stores to find lard. Why is this a thing? Where else would I buy lard? It’s not like there’s a plethora of pig farms out in the suburbs that I can pull up to a grab a bucketful. Why do I need lard? (Boy, is that a loaded question! For that reason, I did not ask store personnel “where can I find lard?’ in case they answered “Why, I believe you can just look at your hips and buttocks, madam,” and instead asked the more direct “Do you sell lard?”) Because Hubby is making apple pie and it has been drummed into our collective brains by my late father that lard is the only acceptable fat for a pie crust. I’ve heard of butter, vegetable shortening, even vodka (and isn’t that an intriguing experiment to think about?) but I’m sure we’d be haunted severely if we ever deviated from using lard. For the curious among you, this is the New York Times Cookbook recipe for pie crust.
Reaching the safe haven of home did not improve my mood, and my poor Hubby was knocking himself out. He had cleared three items off the To-Do List, fixed a sign that I broke because I was too impatient to slowly sink it into the ground, cleared off the counter in preparation for apple pie magic, and was going to be in charge of dinner. He is Superman, and I was just a big old crab. Hugs didn’t even uncrab me.
I think the real kicker on the crabbiness was the fact I saw two of my colleagues (excuse me, former colleagues) in the supermarket and I avoided them. I just didn’t want to get into anything, even though I knew they would have been super supportive and caring and genuine and offered lots of hugs, but I avoided them anyway. And that did not feel good. It was way worse than the usual reaction of seeing someone you want to avoid because you don’t want to be sucked into that conversation where you relive the last year of your lives minute by minute and irritated shoppers want to get something off the shelf exactly where you’re standing. This was inexcusable and it sealed the crabbiness for the day.
I will say, however, that a cup of hot tea with Bailey’s Irish Cream is a remarkable cure.
Tell me how you uncrab.