I am the Titanic.
Retaining enough water to sink more than one overpriced ocean liner.
Thankfully, holding on to all this water didn't have an adverse affect on my Monday morning weigh in.
No loss.
No gain.
Thanks Aunt Flo.
Emily paid a price for her resistance yesterday.
She wanted to come grocery shopping with us.
Yes.
Us.
Stephen decided at the last minute that he simply couldn't refrain from accompanying me to the Superstore.
Something akin to not letting small children go to Disney. . .I don't know. . .
But Em was dragging her little self around.
So much so that even though I had planned on leaving at one, we didn't actually get out of the house until ten to three.
While she was in the shower, Keith managed to get home.
One day, I am convinced that boy is going to forget where he lives.
A few minutes after he came through the front door, the phone rang and I heard Stephen say,
No. She's in the shower. But Keith's here. Would you like to speak to him?
Next thing I know Keith is in my room doing the hungover-but-happy dance because he was given the night off work.
Custom was slow at the theaters due to the absolutely stunning weather we had yesterday.
They were overstaffed for the evening.
Someone was getting the night off.
That intended someone was Emily.
However, because she delayed entrance into the shower, she was unavailable to answer her cell phone when it was called first, then the house phone when it was used as backup.
And her brother had no problem whatsoever taking the shift-off-that-was-intended-for-Em.
Under other circumstances, this wouldn't have been something Em would have needed to know about.
But Keith was supposed to be sitting in the car in his Empire uniform, along with Em, when we took her to work.
She would, no doubt, have noticed if he wasn't there.
When she emerged from the shower and was informed by the over-gleeful Keith about his unexpected night off, sparks flew.
To say she was unhappy would be to say that the Titanic suffered from a little drip.
She ran to her cell phone and informed us that she had a missed call.
From work.
Feigning ignorance in hopes of also getting the night off, she called the theater and in her sweetest little-miss-innocent-Emily voice asked how come she'd been called.
Only to hear:
Oh, nothing. You're brother took care of it. See you when you come in later.
Fuel to the fire, baby.
Fuel to the fire.
Not only, then, was our grocery trip delayed, but I had to engage in an activity I despise with a miserable, unhappy, mean-spirited sidekick.
And I'm not talking about Stephen, who wanders through the grocery store looking all dewy eyed.
Em was silent as she drove herself to work.
Me sitting in the passenger seat knowing nothing I could say was going to make her feel any better.
Although I did warn her brother that he must contain his overflowing joy because I wasn't going to be able to protect him from the Wrath of Em if he continued to press her buttons by spreading his goodwill around.
She didn't even say goodbye to him as she left to drive to the grocery store.
In addition to a miserable sidekick was a miserable me.
Grocery shopping is already among the most hated activities of my everyday world.
Only second to trying to get Stephen out of bed in the morning.
Although in fairness to Stephen, who would want to get out of bed with such an adorable companion.
Grocery shopping when you feel as if someone is trying to remove your inside plumbing with a crochet hook through your bellybutton only adds to the pain and agony of grocery shopping.
Don't get me started on the exuberant and elated Stephen and what his happiness and joy added to my volatile temperament.
Slogging through the aisles, grumbling as I had to maneuver around the middle-of-the-aisle conversationists, Emily almost as miserable and grumbling a lot more than even I was.
I really was miserable.
And it was one of those instances where you knew you were being miserable, completely cogent, cognizant, aware, that you're behaviour and attitude toward your loved ones was completely inappopriate.
Stephen, who is normally quiet patient when I get like this, even had enough at one point and in the middle of the grocery store stopped pushing the cart and said, while several people behind were listening,
YOU can push the cart. YOU. Then maybe you'll stop nagging me about going too slow. I don't know what you want me to do.
Even my pain addled mind was aware that maybe, just maybe I should make more of an effort to quell and wrangle the bitch within.
And from that point on, I just kept my mouth shut and counted the seconds until we arrived back home.
Be glad you didn't encounter us.
Be very glad.
The end result of our collective, agonizing efforts:
A club pack of shitty kitty. . .
And groceries to last for a couple of days. . .
A couple of days.
Stephen commented just a few minutes ago that he felt it was going to be a scorcher today.
Indeed it is.
35 degrees Celsius.
The dogs will lay on the cooler, laminate floor.
Reilley and Goblet will find the hottest spot in the house and roll around in it like porn stars.
Goblet was showing off her goodies and her voluptuous figure yesterday.
No shame.
She has no shame.
Look at her face.
Sultry?
Yesterday, then, as you can see, was a bit of a bust.
Other than tackling the grocery store and visiting my mother, which was blissfully uneventful, I spent the day in bed, reading, feeling sorry for myself as I agonized through my miseries.
Today, at some point when Stephen decides he'd like to get himself moving, I may be able to get to work.
I have just a couple of weeks left to get this funding application written.
And Stephen has more proposal writing to do.
Because of the heat, Em is just going to lay on the couch and not move until she has to go work for 5.15 pm.
Keith has the day off, so we're hoping he'll start washing the walls in our bedroom in prepartation for painting later this week.
Heat doesn't seem bother Keith.
Must be a genetic anomaly.
Title Lyric: Don't Punch Your Friend for Being Slow by Bluetip
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