DAMN, DRAT, AND FREAKIN PHOOEY

On Tuesday, I awoke at the crack of dawn with a bright idea.

"Stewey!" I said,  "Mommie Dearest is feeling particularly motivated to get organized this year.  Let's make a list of all the chores we need to do around here and then spend Saturday getting them all done once and for all."

He was beyond excited, I can tell you, because before I knew it, he had donned his little reading glasses, strapped on his little apron, and grabbed his copy of the Martha Stewart Homekeeping Handbook.

So we plotted and planned and planned and plotted, and for the rest of the week I thought about how nice it was going to be to have a proper weekend of getting stuff done around here.

Friday afternoon, I realized that I would need to complete all of my shopping and errands in one fell swoop, because if I tried to do them on Saturday morning,  the long list of getting stuff done around here would never happen.

So I went to the bank and the car wash and the grocery and the lab and the Targets and every other damn place I could think of, and by the time I got home at nine in the pee em, I was worn out.

"Oh, Stewey! "  I sighed, as we tucked into bed last night.  "I'm so worn out, but tomorrow is going to be our day of finally getting stuff done around here!  I'm so excited!"

"Me too, Mommie Dearest!" Stewey said "Shall I ask Cook to prepare us a special breakfast in anticipation of our big day?"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that "Cook" is actually Your Truly, and that the only reason he hasn't figured this out yet is that he's usually still wearing his little sleep mask when the breakfast tray hits the bed each day, so we moved on.

The alarm went off at seven and after I stumbled out to get the paper, I realized that something was amiss.  Why did everything seem so fuzzy, and why did every part of me feel like I had been dropped from the top of a tall building?

I got my coffee and headed to the Happy Chair and....BAM!  I got the flu.

When I called Aunt Chrissy to tell her the news, she allowed me to have my tantrum and then told me to go back to bed.  "Its fourteen degrees outside and miserable" she said.  "Besides.  This might be the last lousy winter Saturday we're going to have, so you might as well enjoy it."

You gotta love that about Aunt Chrissy.

So I'm headed back to bed and hope to woke up sometime in May.  Don't cry for me, Argentina. I guarantee you that the chores will still be there when I wake up and You Know Who will be there to share his disappointment with me that our Super Perfect Saturday of Cleaning and Polishing and Organizing will have to wait.

What's new with you?