I’m always late. Always. Maybe just sometimes. Ok fine, almost always. I know you’re never going to believe this, but sometimes I get distracted.
For example, I just lost thirty-five minutes watching that new Kanye West video. I don’t even like Kanye. Unless you count that first record. That shit was brilliant. But still, I’m not sure he deserves thirty-five of my precious minutes on an already busy day. Especially since that video was ridiculous, pointless, and made me inexplicably angry. Damnit, Kanye. Stop messing with me, already.
I’ve got more examples of distractions – loads of ’em, in fact. Why, one of my facebook friends just posted a story about a toilet explosion in a small fast food restaurant in Sydney. I have to read that. Obviously. Herbert looks kinda chilly on the shelf over there all by himself. I should probably pluck him. I can hear Lucy puking. Theoretically, I should do something about that. But first, that little, furry bitch Mildred almost always needs a zerbert.
Speaking of distractions, today’s Craftastrophe is the result of a head cold and the accompanying medications.
See? Two hours gone. Poof. Which is probably why we were running late yesterday for Stage Two of our wine making process.
Rocco thinks that if you’re ten minutes early for something, you’re twenty minutes late. (Side bar: we don’t travel together very well.) So he was, not surprisingly, mildly frustrated and cranky yesterday.
When he gets anxious, I get anxious. Which makes me short tempered. Which makes him short tempered. You get the gist. Yesterday we were both camels, each one straw short of a broken back.
So we’re barreling up the 14th Street aqueduct in Ginny with plenty of time to make it through the yellow light…that is until the ass hats in front of us decide to brake.
“Damnit, we totally could have made it!” I shouted as if they could hear me.
“Fucking old lady,” Rocco mumbled under his breath while pounding the steering wheel.
“How do you know it’s a woman?” I asked, indignant. He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Oppressor,” I scolded, already giggling. “Then how do you know she’s old?”
“She has a handicap sticker hanging on her rear view mirror. She’s all ‘Look at me! I’m never in a hurry. I’ve got free parking everywhere.’ Damnit!”
Thank goodness I have him to keep things in perspective. Also? His old lady voice sounds almost exactly like Mickey Mouse.
Maybe I should braid all the fringe on my throw rugs…