I fear my computer is hosed.
Boo-hoo-hoo. Sniff, sniff.
Yes, I spent most of my evening doing just that. Until I gave up trying to sort out the mess and watched both Jon Gosselin and Flipping Out until I felt, well — not better, exactly, but OCD casts a long shadow. Almost as long as wife-on-husband spousal abuse. At the very least, I feel more philosophical.
So now I’m sitting at The Dragonslayer’s computer, waiting for McAfee Virus Scan to tell me that everything is perfectly fine — which is wrong, wrong, WRONG — and coping with the knowledge that other people out there are facing much more challenging and heart-rending circumstances tonight than I.
Now I’m really depressed…
So all I can offer before I thump my head against the desk for choosing a diet that (until Saturday) forbids alcohol in any form is a cute anecdote — one lone, shining moment of humor from an otherwise aggravating and tormented day.
After naps today, it was time to pile the boys in the car and go vote (Note to Self: check election returns…). By the end of the twenty-minute chorus line that passes for “getting ready to leave the house” around here, my precious eldest son is still parading around in nothing but a pull-up, walking the tightrope of my last fraying nerve. Walking? He’s doing Riverdance on it. And bless him, he doesn’t even know it.
The cold truth is that Griffin is a gifted meanderer. His guileless little soul has no malice a forethought: yet he piddles, he drifts, he dawdles, lost in a world all his own. Maybe it’s a world with a giant waterfall crashing into a churning riverbed or huge jet planes taking off all day. Because there has to be a reason he tunes me out. It must be that he just can’t hear me.
Anyway, it goes like this:
Harried Mom: Griffin, it’s time to go.
Dawdling Son: [unintelligible response — perhaps a quote from Dora — followed by no discernable movement exitward]
Harried Mom: [trying to keep a lid on it] Son, I am losing my temper.
Dawdling Son: [cue the wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look, thinking: What did I DO?]
Harried Mom: [DEFCON Four] Griffin, get your butt downstairs NOW.
Dawdling Son: [innocent eyes widen, searching the floor in sudden panic] Where’s ‘my butt’?
Of course, I stopped. I took a deep breath. I laughed. I explained the new word and its related concept. Dear child, how can such sweet innocence be aggravating? Thank you, Lord, for a little reminder of what’s most important in life.
Hint: it’s not my POS computer.
