“Cooler” weather has hit, and the proof is on my front porch swing. Normally, I drink my coffee in Bossy inside the garage, tempting myself with an inevitable nap. I ride so low in my car that I cannot see over the hood; my left shoe always slides off, and my foot comes up onto the seat, my knee just trying to see what my eyes cannot, since I refuse to sit any higher. I ate my banana on the way to school drop-off (for reasons later explained and of course not in chronological order). I always toss my peel onto the all-weather mat and throw it away the next time I make a stop. This morning was no different, other than I was recovering from disappointment and so excited to get back and get to the porch that I forgot the banana was there so when I took my foot off my seat, I stepped on it. It had just enough yum left in it to make my foot squeal and body cringe. I thought about rinsing it clean and what all it would require, so I landed on nah, said “fuck it”, ran to the porch, and pushed off the concrete with my bare and semi-dry feet, banana guts squishing between my toes. My torso was bouncing up and down ever so slightly, making the coffee do a little back and forth aquatic show for me, resulting in most of the liquid crash landing outside of the mug, and not inside of my mouth. Not the worst thing in the world, if you know what I mean (Brad). 

The cooler weather was a result of the rain, praise the sky above, but with it also came more mosquitoes. Praise your quick “smack that mosquito” response time if you have it. I do not. I imagined these mosquitoes looking up at me with dumb glasses on and in some nasally accountant voice saying “oh, too slow” as I clapped my hands to end them, but missed because I am, in fact, “too slow” when I am wide awake and noticing everything. In this particular missed kill moment, I was distracted by the coffee stains on my fingernails that I acquired while attending the aquatic show. Fingernails that only appeared to be missing a Marlboro Red in this theatrical stereotype morning show taking place in my mind, filled with a snarky comment battle and smirks exchanged between human and insect with sucking mouthparts. “That’s ok, your days are numbered, you little fuck” was coming out of my mouth when I remembered I paid for a palm reading right before I fell asleep last night. I instantly stopped the production and character development, opened my phone, found the magical email informing me my wait was over, and downloaded the report on my palm (On my iPhone, about my palm. Do they still make Palm Pilots?) The very palm that the mosquitoes were mocking revealed that my days are numbered too. Numbered to 110 years of life to live! My hands may be “too slow,” but my life line still ain’t fucking around. Imagine how slow I will be clapping then. I began to feel pity for the accountant with the grating voice at this point, so I stopped slow-mo clapping in their direction and instead started a new production of my 110th year of life and what it looked like. The mosquito was no longer a viable cast member. Turns out the whole palm-reading thing is real after all. 

Let me back up to the banana, previous to the porch swing. From my house, I can hear two different sets of church bells. One I prefer over the other, and the other I give thanks for being consistent and reliable. It takes more than one of anything to keep me happy. That was for you again, Brad. I timed everything out perfectly this morning, and ate my banana with my nice little Subaru lean so that I would be able to be sitting right in front of the church (with the bells of my preference) when they struck on the hour before I took the boys to school. I stopped at the stop sign, rolled down the window, had my best pjs on, left foot on my seat (prior to banana yum), and gave my full attention to the anticipation of this magical sound. Nope. No bells. No sounds. But in the distance, I could hear the backup bitch working her vocals and proving she was good enough in her own way. This morning, she did just fine in reminding me that our first choice does not always pan out, and that while “Choosey Moms Choose [church bells]”, they also have to choose what to make for dinner, and how to spend the life they are soon to be informed is going to last for far too long. So I decided to let go of the church bell person not making it to the bells in time, put my one-shoed foot on the accelerator, and got the kiddos to school. After which Bossy flew back into the garage, and I ran to the porch with banana on my foot, never slipping once before discovering my death day left me with so many more dinners to figure out for other people. At this point is when I had to remind myself to take it day by day and it only takes “one foot in front of the other” (banana covered or not).

I have recipes saved everywhere on my phone, and I spent so much time directing this morning’s show, I decided I needed to make better use of my time and wrap up this whole “what’s for dinner” bit real quick and just pick one to make up for the lost time. So, I picked one and sat there making a grocery list of all the stupid little things I will never use again (and that I am never certain make or break a recipe, but certainly take up too much space in my kitchen). I went to the kitchen, tossed blueberries in my mouth one by one, noticed one never made it to my mouth, but thought there was no way in hell I was cool enough to get that to land in my shirt pocket. I got back in Bossy and went to the grocery store with a slow roll and a stink eye as I passed the church whose bells are never consistent but remain my favorite, all with now dried banana on my foot, and still so many years left to live in this magical place I create.

I parked at the grocery store, but my music was way too fucking loud to park straight. It almost always is, and of course, has nothing to do with the fact that I cannot see over the steering wheel. I walked inside, sweatpants and my pocketed PJ shirt. I glanced down as I grabbed my cart and caught a glimpse of the unaccounted blueberry. He was just hanging out in there, totally down for the day ahead of us, so I smiled and laughed at him, and gave him a little pat from the outside of the pocket like I was high-fiving myself and the blueberry for pulling off some too cool for school move to “save that baby for later.” At this point, I am wearing half of the produce I need to purchase as I walk in confidence from my palm reading. I never took my sunglasses off because ew, I never do. Inside, outside, daytime, nighttime. I stared at grocery shelves mesmerized by certain packaging for far too long, pulling my sunglasses down my nose just a smidge while saying “hmmm” like some marketing expert, toggling between my nonsensical Spotify playlist and the store’s solid jams. I asked the cashier for a rundown of business flow for the day so far, and what kind of mood they were in as a result, while telling them something along the lines of, “I don’t know how you do it. I would fucking lose it on these people. It’s too loud in here and there are too many smells.  I’m sensitive to everything, especially assholes.” As if I were not one of the biggest assholes they would have to deal with for the day, and that I was not just blaring some ridiculous song in my ear hole and returning to a station wagon full of jams that make my speakers bounce and my parking jobs crooked. I said “thank you” ten times too many, and nearly ran over three people exiting the sliding doors because it’s become challenging in our evolution to remember you enter on the right and exit on the right. I tossed my groceries in Bossy’s backside, which is full of reusable bags I don’t use for groceries but rather for sticks, rocks, feathers, leaves, a change of clothes, or a bottle of wine…never groceries.

I returned home with the same gusto as earlier in the morning when I pulled into the garage, except this time, I was anticipating slipping back into bed for a nap with my blueberry. The anticipation resulted in the groceries being unloaded faster than my record-breaking ability to fall asleep. I did a song and dance for the dogs as the blueberry bounced around my shirt pocket like we choreographed the whole jig, told Eli he was going to live forever and that he is my best friend, asked Yote why we don’t get along, and picked up Chip tucking him in like a football player holding on to the ball and running for the place where they score..end zone(?) which in this case was my bed. Spoiler alert, it is always my bed. My energy was high, which always means I am about to pass out hard, but if someone or something stops me, my energy goes to bitch…but no one was in my way, so I grinned knowing a thing of beauty was mere seconds away. I dropped the dog, put my right hand on my pillow, and let my body collapse with a huge smile on my face, smooshing the blueberry in my shirt as my chest crashed against the mattress and noticing the faces on the mosquitoes outside of my window showing sheer terror when they realized I am in fact not too slow, I just have to be tired enough to be fast. The church bells (of my choosing) hit just right on the hour as my partner in crime blueberry exploded as if the church bell ringer who missed the 8 AM ringing was making it up to me by sending my new and now dead friend off to Berry Heaven. It all really does work out, at least in my productions, AKA reality. Life is what you make of it, and so are naps. So my feet went up, I went down, the blueberry went off to heaven, the accountant mosquitoes got their warning, and again one hour later the bells of my choosing went off to wake me up and put my crusted banana foot on the floor to start this long life ahead of me, one dinner at a time.