So Sunday was a great day, and yesterday totally sucked. I'm being a little dramatic--it could have been a million times worse. Like nobody died or anything; I was just in a piss-poor mood that even a half a bottle of wine while watching Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story couldn't shake.
In case you couldn't tell from my Why don't kids today leave the goddamn house? post, being out of work while the kids are off from school is definitely fraying my nerves. And my tolerance for friggin' Black Ops is at an all-time low after the tragedy in Colorado last week. For a thoughtful commentary that's much better than what I could ever put into words, I'm going to send you to author Nathan Bransford's post on Violence in American Culture, in which he reports the rise of very violent young adult literature. Gee, what a shock.
I hate violence. Ironic, I know, since at any given moment I'm ready to kill somebody. Whatever. I don't find violence entertaining, and I sure as hell don't think it's appropriate for a 7-year-old to be cutting her grown-up teeth on Black Ops. It makes me sick. What equally makes me sick is that the man I love seems to think there's nothing wrong with this picture. Yes, I understand that one of the frustrations of step-parenting is having to witness a polar opposite parenting style. Got it. I'm just sick of that shit from morning till night.
So yesterday morning Mike had to take the kids to a dental appointment, which meant I'd have the house to myself for a while, which I really needed considering my fragile state. When they left, I was lounging poolside with my coffee, breakfast--three pieces of bacon on a plate--and Time and Entertainment magazines. Glorious! Then when I'd had enough sun, I picked up my crap and... was locked out of the house. AGAIN! This was the third time that Mike locked the door behind him when I was outside.
Unfortunately, by that time I had nothing left to drink and my iPhone was sitting inside on the kitchen counter. I called to the one woman who was biking on the path behind our house, and she didn't have her cell phone. No one else was on the path for at least a half hour.
I decided I'd scale the wall with a locked (of course) iron gate to the front of the house and see if maybe he accidentally left one of the front doors open. I pulled a chair over and was able to climb on top of the gate, but looking down at the length of the jump before me, I felt it was a little too risky. I was already making up brand new swear words; if I'd sprained or broken one or both ankles, I would have been a mental patient.
So using my body strength, I climbed off the gate, thankful for all the yoga I've been doing lately, and then carefully dropped a cooler to the other side, hoping I'd be able to land on that.
Again, I climb up to the top of the gate and with a deep breath jumped a couple of feet to the cooler.
I should mention how thankful I was that 1) I wasn't in bare feet, and 2) I had a little sundress over my bathing suit. The situation would have been much worse otherwise.
Okay, so now I'm in front of the house and try both the front and side doors. Locked, as they should be. I see a neighbor, whom I've never met, a few houses away get into his truck and head my way. I flag him down and ask if I can use his cell phone. I'm filthy, sweaty, fucking pissed, and ready to cry. Lovely introduction.
I call Mike and tell him I'm locked out again and don't take an hour and a half to get home like last time. My neighbor was nice as hell and even went back in his house to get me a bottle of water while I waited for my beloved. He mentioned that his wife goes to yoga classes and I wondered if I might have seen her, not knowing she's my neighbor. Vegas is like that--you can live in a house for a year and not know your neighbors. Kind of sad.
Anyway, Mike and the kids got home and I was in total "Nobody-say-a-word-to-me-I-can't-handle-it" mode. I showered, put on a cute little dress and planted myself in the nearest Race and Sports book, where I played some exactas in the last four races at Saratoga. My new, manly readers are probably surprised to hear that I frequent a sports book--it's true, but only during the Saratoga meet. I do some writing between races and make friends with the old guys.
Of course, none of my horses came in, and there wasn't a cocktail waitress in sight. Fortunately, I got a text from a reader who's also a stepmother and she, too, was in FML mode, so we had fun with some good old back-and-forth bitching via SMS. Bad moods are so much better when you have someone to share them with. After the races, I got lunch in the casino, which was a scoop of gelato.
I still wasn't ready to go home, so I went to the movies and saw Bernie with Jack Black and Shirley MacLaine. Jack Black gave a very impressive performance, but the movie was only so-so. Thankfully, there were were only three of us in the theater, so I didn't have to put up with anyone talking or breathing too loud--one of my many pet peeves.
On the way home, I stopped at Starbucks for dessert--iced tea and banana walnut bread. By the time I pulled in our driveway, I was almost human again. But as a precaution, I sequestered myself in the master suite for the rest of the night with Mr. Cox, thinking, "Yes, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day." Hopefully I'll eat better, too.