Suzy Says

My driveway, in all its puddled glory

Yesterday was one of those crappy days we all have, though that doesn’t make them any more enjoyable. Also, it never makes me feel better knowing that other people are having a crappy time, because, really, I only care about Me.

It was raining again, in blithe defiance of my eviction notice. Forty chilly degrees outside and fifty inside. It was one of those mornings where you have to psych yourself up to emerge from the warm cocoon of quilts into the cold morning air. Not for the first time, I considered how utterly lacking I am in the pioneer spirit and how Laura Ingalls Wilder would have smacked me upside the head if I had been one of her sisters.

After getting a load of dreary work out of the way, I decided to go to the local store to pick up a couple of missing items for tonight’s family dinner. I lurched sadly down the rough, deeply puddled driveway, contemplating the wear and tear on my car caused by the state of the road and the bushes scratching it when I ran into my brother. Not literally, fortunately: he saw me coming and backed up his red car so my red car could pass. We talked briefly through the rainy windows and he told me that he was shopping some of James’s junk piles for parts for the windmill he and Rob are hoping to build on the property.

At the store, I discovered that they did not have what I wanted. This posed a rural dilemma. I’d either have to drive to the next town in the pouring rain, or think of something else on the spot and buy it there. I opted for the drive, thinking it would be easier.

As usual, I was wrong.

I had to try two more places, and in doing so, it became obvious that I really should have remembered to change from my pale blue suede slides with no socks into more suitable footwear, as the puddles were deep and the passing cars splashed me as I trudged through the village. Will I ever figure out appropriate country footwear?

I finally tracked the final item down at the ridiculously named “workers’ collective”. By this time I was so grumpy that all sense of triumph was totally lost. Arriving damply home, I investigated the mail Rob had brought over, which consisted of the most boring edition of “Vanity Fair” ever (World Cup soccer guys on the cover in terrifying Speedos which, I’m afraid, may have made me gay) and a fill-in-the-blanks rejection note from my most recent job application. I guess that’s what I get for complaining about not getting any answers to my repeated pleas for employment.

A glance at the clock showed me that it was too early for a cocktail, so I just threw the nearest thing against the wall and burst into uncinematic tears. Putting away the hard-won groceries, I discovered that the salsa had leaked all over everything and that I had completely forgotten to get anything for that night’s dinner, being too focused on tomorrow’s (now today’s).

It was suddenly cocktail o’clock.