OVERLOAD

You know what I'm talking about.

One of THOSE days.

Mug slips from your hand as you simultaneously grab it and car keys. Shards of ceramic explode across the tile floor like Bellagio fountains. Going to be late for the meeting.

Coffee splatters on blouse as you sip, and hand off a lunchbox. Going to be late for school.

Dog runs through every mud puddle in yard as you collect purse, briefcase, kids, phone.  Going to be late for the appointment. 

You are on pick-up patrol. Usually steady traffic crawls for six miles. Your child is waiting outside a locked school in the pouring rain.  Going to have to search for a getaway lane or side street to Mario Andretti across.  There is No Way Out.   

I have had so many of those days, I know they are always preceded by signs that say, "It's gonna be one of those days." 

Alarm clock volume is too low to awaken the dog.  Oatmeal scorches while you are digging through laundry basket for one black sock. Coffee bag has six beans. Conditioner you reach for in the shower is next to the sink- downstairs.   

Signs, all.  They mean, "Go back to bed.  Wake up tomorrow. "

I don't go back to bed- because then I'd have to confront Sleep.  Instead,  I chide myself, "If you think it's going to be one of those days, then it will be.  Ignore the signs."

Early yesterday morning I slipped on black ice as I was lugging recyclables to the curb.  Arms and legs awhirl, I danced like a wind-up toy for a split second.  But I did not crash to the ground. 

That was a good sign- neighbor humiliation rather than slipped disc in lower back. It was not going to be one of those days.

Until  4:30 PM.

I had to be at a basketball game by 5.  Twenty miles, across three towns.

Left work at 5.  Drove six miles, then stopped before a glowing brake-light serpent that stretched to the horizon.  Every side street was a dead end.  I finally arrived at the game in time to see six jump balls and my son's nose meet a competitor's crushing elbow. 

6:20 PM.  I had a book signing at 7.  Forty minutes to drive home, feed kids, get two of them to the Middle School, one of them to the High School, and gushy nose kid to ice and a doctor. 

Detail: Husband was in Salt Lake City.

I hustled home; told daughter to order pizza. She didn't speak, but I heard the words she has uttered to me (for nine years) every time I am weaving through lanes of traffic, or screaming at a ninety year old for driving 26 mph on a 50 mph country road: "Don't worry, Mom.  It's OK if we're late.  People who were late on 911 got to live."

One of those days. Then it got better. 

Pizza wasn't ready.  Bloody nose swelled, then black-and-blued.  Rushed mascara application black- blobbed.  Sweater caught on doorknob. 

I arrived at the book signing ten minutes late.  I left forty minutes later, apologizing as I reached for my keys.  I had six minutes to get to the holiday concert I had been hearing about since October.  It would all work out.

Except my keys were AWOL .  Briefcase.  Purse.  Car.  Bookstore. Pavement surrounding car.  I searched. Bookstore patrons searched with me. Eventually I found them- tucked in a purse pocket that I had reached into four times. 

Dashing out of the bookstore, I was unable to yell a word of thanks.  Speech meant tears.  I sped into the school parking lot as parents and kids were leaving the building.

Major front seat meltdown.  I hurried into school, hugged my child and told him that the concert was amazing. 

I lied to a twelve year old because I couldn't find my keys, and I couldn't face the truth.

I am on overload- and failing at it.  Big Time.

Youngest child looked up at me, alarmed. "What happened, Mom? Why were you crying?"

Mom Improv: "It's the Holiday concert. It's fifty-six degrees. I want snow."

He laughed. "If it snows too much, it's Global Warming's fault.  If it doesn't snow enough, it's Global Warming's fault. Everything is Global Warming's fault."

We walked to the car. Dismayed, I needed  a scapegoat to blame for my no good, very bad evening.

Husband was out of town.  Global Warming would have to suffice.

At least I know the signs. 

Paying attention to them, that's a whole different matter.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  If the signs spell 'Overload', go back to bed.