Today, on Lifestyle of the Poor and Stupid...

We shall start this morning with the realization that I had about a two day supply of coffee beans I had forgotten we owned. They are old, and dry, and look oddly shriveled beside the new ones.

I grind them anyway. They make coffee that makes me think of Arby’s. I don’t know why, because I don’t think Arby’s even has coffee on the menu. But it does.

I rouse the children from their beds. They do not wish to be roused. I insist. They eventually make their way downstairs. Three little girls get their hair and teeth brushed. Two of them find homework. One of them decides she will simply perish if she can’t bring a backpack, too. A jacket has gone AWOL. Also a pair of shoes.

And I wish I had a stack of ‘I DRESSED MYSELF TODAY!’ stickers, so I could assure the world that I personally would never dress a child in blue floral tights, a striped skirt and white floral shirt.

Because seriously – I wouldn’t.

Come home, hand husband his ibuprofen pill, and go to work.

Work is full of answering the Same. Danged. Question. Again.

And again.

And again.

Have I not told this same person this same thing at least four times in recent weeks? Yes. Yes I have. Why is this hard to understand? Is it? I don’t think it is. Also, I receive several emails that make no sense. How can I reload corrected invoices that already went out the door? How does that work? Does this not mean that the customers will be billed twice? I have been told in the past that this is a Supreme High Lord of No No NO. Once the invoices go out the door, there is no ‘do over’. The fuse has been lit and the rocket has left the pad, people.

I break into the new coffee and make myself a bracing cup of Kenya Kruising. After the so-called coffee earlier, it is not only ‘bright’, but downright frisky. I approve of it so much I swallow it too fast and give myself a slight burn on my tongue.

Ow.

I resist the urge to pour schnapps or whiskey into the coffee. It is, after all, not even 10:00 in the morning. There are appearances to be kept up and all that.

More work. More…well, I hesitate to call people stupid for not understanding things that are basic to my job, because I’m sure there are many things about their jobs that I don’t understand.

But still...Well. You get my drift.

Things that oughtn’t fail have failed. Again. And one of my fixes likewise fails. Damn.

More coffee.

And then…it is time to take Captain Adventure to the doctor.

Oh, why? Because. He is 30 months old and does the boy say mommy, daddy, juice, gimmie, or even the perennial favorite of two year olds the world over, NO?

Negative. He won’t even say ‘no’.

This is not right, people. At 30 months, the average child has an arsenal of roughly 400 words to use incessantly in an attempt to drive their parents insane. All of our children have been a touch slow out the gate with the talking-thing, but this is getting ridiculous. Together with some other little quirky things he does, I’ve begun to worry myself into a sniveling mess about things like autism. Or possibly that he was abducted by elves and the changeling they left didn’t have the ‘talking’ chip installed.

We go out terrified that the word ‘autism’ may be uttered unto us, and come home relieved with a mere ‘isolated speech delay’. We don’t even bring home a particularly long list of things to do to help – in fact, it’s more of a list of things not to do. Like, trying to MAKE THE BOY TALK. This is, we're told, not particularly helpful, and we should stick with simply talking to (not at, around, over or about) him as much as possible. Gentle leading. More interaction. Less television. More playing with sisters, who are to do less treating him like a pet than a sibling (eh, yeah, good luck with that) (by the way, one of the few words he WILL say? Boo Bug. Well, not Boo Bug, but her name. BOOOOOOOO BUG!, he will shout, running up and down the hall searching for her. Will he say 'mommy'? No. I feel so unloved *sniff!*)

Encouragement, but no pressure. Reevaluation in six months for progress.

We’ll take it.

And, we’ll also take a mocha made with Courtside Chocolate. Which makes an excellent mocha, even without a hefty dab of crème du cocoa poured into it. Which once again I nobly refrained from doing, in spite of feeling I might have a medical need about this point.

By the way: I swear I do not have any financial interest in Boca Java. Seriously. I have the same interest in their business that any good drug addict would have in the fiscal (and physical) health of their pusher, but other than that my interest is as pure as the driven snow.

Hand the husband another ibuprofen (honestly, the man would never take these pills if I weren’t around to remind him, even though they are the only thing standing between him and throbbing pain). Cuddle Captain Adventure until he accepts the grim reality that is Nap Time.

Put him in crib. Sit at desk regarding stubborn SQL Server, which is still refusing to talk to the Oracle box. Hmm. Maybe one is Catholic and the other Protestant? Hard to know, hard to know…

And then suddenly, several same-exact-answers-via-email and one Captain Adventure demanding to get up now later, I become aware that Brian Williams is on in less than two minutes.

I will give the President’s speeches a miss any day, but missing Brian Williams?

Let’s not be silly, people.

Two rows on the baby blanket and Brian is saying, “That’s our broadcast for this Wednesday evening, thank you for being with us…”

Pick up Denizens, dinner-bath-bed…ibuprofen pill for husband…check email one last time.

Oh no.

She didn’t ask me that question again, pretending it’s new by attaching a new customer number to it?

Oh yes.

She did.

Next up on Lifestyle of the Poor And Stupid: I am going to brush my teeth and go to bed. Hopefully, in the dead of night, my subconscious mind will come up with something more constructive to say than, “For the love of hot buttered toast, woman, did you drop too much acid in the 60s or something?! For heaven’s sake, FOCUS! FOOOOOOCUS!!!!!!!”