Can't you read, buddy?
8:04 p.m.
Today was one near disaster after another. As I may have hinted earlier, we are going away this weekend to take part in a 25th-anniversary reunion for the people who started their master's degrees in 1981 in music composition at the U of M in Ann Arb0r. I tried to organize something last year, since it was 20 years since my husband graduated with his D.M.A., but it was too little too late and one of the two former classmates we met with said we would do it properly this year. So one of their former professors, the incomparable WiIIiam B0Ic0m, has very graciously offered his house for the party, a caterer has been engaged, and it should be one hell of a fun bash. I really am looking forward to it. But what I hate are all the preparations that lead up to going on a trip of this sort.
This morning I dyed my hair. In itself this is not a momentous thing: I have to do it ever four weeks anyway. But, as I sat there reading a short story from my sci-fi and fantasy magazine with reddish-brown goop on my head, my son said, "Weren't you going to drive me to Dan's house for band practice at 11:00?" to which I replied with many an expletive and said, "We'll leave in 10 minutes." It was 10:30. Well, that was a scant estimate, but close. First we had to drop by his school to pick up the rugby jacket he paid for a couple of weeks ago, and then we drove for a half hour in a northeasterly direction before we realized we were going the wrong way. Luckily we have a map of the Eastern T0wnships in the car and we were able to cut across country to the correct highway so we could head in a southeasterly direction instead. A trip that should have taken a half-hour ended up taking more than an hour. I felt so stupid. He was an hour late for his practice, I wasted all that time and gas, and I had things to get done. I also had to drive home again, another half-hour.
Now my son had a friend stay over last night who was going to be picked up by his mom this afternoon. Not always the best at organizing things, Buddy Boy went off to his band practice and left two of his friends in the house (one just lives down the street). My husband did not know that there were two strange boys downstairs watching the big television, and he went to play tennis at noon, as he often does, and set the alarm system, as we always do when we go out. When I was driving home, I saw the two boys walking into town, presumably to get some lunch.
Once in the garage, though, I noticed that the red light on the alarm panel was flashing, which meant there had been a breach. The areas affected were the motion detector and the front door, which was not locked. The answering machine was beeping too, a message from the central station. I called them and explained what had most likely happened, that the boys had emerged from the bowels of the building, set off the motion detector, then further aggravated the situation by going out the front door, but they had already dispatched the police. The alarm sounded at 12:55. The police arrived while I was on the phone with the central station at 1:20. Twenty-five minutes later. If this had been a real break-in, the crooks would have cleaned us out and been long gone. Twenty-five fucking minutes.
I explained to the cop (who spoke no English at all and whom I don't think is particularly bright but who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous, although that really has nothing to do with this story) what had likely happened, and because it was a "false" alarm (we've been through this before) he handed me a ticket for $37.00. Thirty-seven fucking dollars for being 25 fucking minutes late! You know, I suppose the one I should be upset with is my husband, since he didn't notice the shoes by the front door which didn't belong to any of us, or I should be upset with the boys (but how can I be?) or with Buddy Boy because he never told his dad that his friends were staying when he was leaving. But I'm not. I'm mad at the fucking (I'm using this work a lot, I know, very uncharacteristic of me) City of Sherbr00ke of which I am a citizen because of this policy regarding false alarms. Grrrrr!
Okay, so that was one adventure added to the other adventure. At exactly 5 o'clock (I know it was then because the clock started striking) the mother of one of Buddy Boy's friends (not the mother who picked up the overnight guest, she had already come and gone) dropped by looking for her son and niece who had been by earlier and I was telling her about my wild goose chase this morning, when I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be picking my son up at that precise moment and that he had rugby practice at 6 p.m. I quickly said goodbye to the other mother, hopped in the car, zoomed out to C0atic00k, picked up Buddy Boy, got home in time for him to change into his gear, and then dropped him off at the playing field at the university.
Fine, disaster averted there, except he hadn't eaten. He'll eat when he gets home. However, I was so flustered and scattered, I didn't feel like eating right away, so I hung out the laundry I had washed earlier and got online to read diaries, check emails, and chat with a friend in the Midlands, when Hubby yelled downstairs from the attic, "When are we having supper? I have a rehearsal with J-Y at 7:30!" It was 7 o'clock. When he came into the kitchen, the spaghetti was only half cooked and the asparagus was not even started. I begged him to please call J-Y and tell him he would be late because I had totally fucked up everything else today, I wanted to at least have a nice meal with my husband. So he did, J-Y was very accommodating, we had our nice meal, he went off to his rehearsal, I brought in my laundry, and here I sit, spewing all my frustrations into the little white box.
It is strawberry season, though, in the Eastern T0wnships, and all along the highway (many highways today) are roadside stands selling freshly picked fruits. Fraises cueill�es say the signs, with big pictures so you can't miss them as you drive past. On Route 147 I passed one such farm, an enormous strawberry painted on a sign, probably as tall as I am, with huge letters underneath it spelling out "TOMATES".
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