Paragraph One (Day 114, Year 3)

You know those novels that begin with the heroine who has $35 in her bank account, a chronically ill dog/cat, a leaky roof, a very stressful job that does not pay enough and some other large issue involving the mafia or a murder or something else momentous that begins with the letter m or some other letter, because problems start with all sorts of letters, right?

And if you know those novels, you know that everything works out in the end and everyone is dressed in lovely clothing from Nordstrom, the roof stops leaking, dinner is tapas in actual Spain and the heroine gets her own podcast and lifestyle brand because she is a successful, liberated, unlikely, but beloved role model for women everywhere. 

Well friends, I feel I am a total "paragraph one" and "paragraph two" is an obviously impossible outcome. 

While my roof is not leaking and my bank account does not only contain $35 and there have not been any taking of lives or crime syndicate involvement,  the general atmosphere--the vibe, if you will, of my life on this Monday is "paragraph one" and while "paragraph two" is the vibe I'd yearn for, I realize that I am not paragraph two and even on my best day, I am not a role model for anyone. In fact, everyone should view me as a cautionary tale and find some nice lady at the mall to be their role model. 

Not that I thought anyone thought of me as a role model. But, in case you thought I thought someone did and then someone actually did, I feel I should disclose the true nature of me so you can go find that nice lady with clean kitchen floors and healthy pets to be your role model before someone else scoops them up and their role model dance card is full because everyone knows that healthy role models also have healthy boundaries. 

Today was a very "paragraph one" day, with some hints that "paragraph two" could be possible. I managed to interview a very prominent, brilliant, genius like physician-scientist who will definitely find cures for pediatric brain tumors. I conducted the interview while in my husband's garage "office." The cleaners were in the house, so I had to hide from them because I am "a paragraph one girl" and there were strange footprints all over the floor, plus an explosion of q-tips that I was unable to muster the appropriate executive functions to clean up myself. Also, my husband is away (somewhere warm with steak or seafood or celebrity chef sushi for dinner), so his office was free. His office comes with a freight train (which sounds like it is inside the office) and a flock of ducks (or crazy people pretending to be ducks). 

The very prominent, brilliant, genius-like physician-scientist definitely thinks I am mentally ill because she could not hear the ducks and was not impressed that I could. 

Anyway, I also managed to order groceries and rescue a bag of rolls from a squirrel. Then I managed to navigate prom and semi-formal dress shopping with my daughters, which was almost too easy, so clearly the shoes and accessory shopping will present an intense challenge. I also managed to feed the children (fast food, gross, but I could not dirty my kitchen!) and deposit, deliver and retrieve them from a variety of activities. I have no idea if they did their homework or brushed their teeth. But they seem to be asleep or fake sleeping and that's awesome. 

I also managed to triage, panic, assess and schedule medical care for my mom. She is OKAY, but came out this afternoon to my kitchen with large sunglasses on and a very intense story of a fall and now two black eyes. She's seen a doctor. She is embarrassed to have black eyes. I had to have Barb from South Jersey Radiology talk me off the ledge of lawsuits and emergency medical-vacs. I am doing unnecessary and not-medically advised neuro-checks which have my mother begging to be moved to Shady Pines to get away from me. She said, "I guess I need black eyes to get attention."

She does not have a concussion. Just a bruise which seems to have collected beneath her eyes in a horrifying, but benign fashion. More follow-ups this week; but she's okay and the children have been singing and dancing and shouting at her in a way that would induce a seizure and she seems to be handling it without the use of headache medicine, which is more than I can say for myself. 

And while I should feel accomplished, I just feel like everything is a lot and the vibe is "more to come" and the "worst is yet to come" versus "you survived the storm" and "a rainbow is a promise."

Like maybe tomorrow the roof will leak or a raccoon will appear on the clean kitchen counter? And there are all the things I haven't accomplished: I have a giant work to-do list that I am scared to look at. I haven't been able to face the washing of my son's lunch box (some mini bell peppers fermented in there and it is like a sci-fi space crime scene) and I'll been descaling my Keurig since 7:30 am with very little progress beyond developing "descalers wrist." (Barb at SJ Radiology suggested I schedule a wrist x-ray.)

So, while there are hints that "paragraph two" could be possible, it is not a probable outcome that I emerge as the heroine of my own charming rom-com  and even if it seems like that is happening, it definitely won't be a permanent outcome; because I am forever a "paragraph one" kind of girl. 

And friends, I think you read this blog because I am a "paragraph one" kind of girl, so I'll just keep on with the descaling and start looking for large bowls to catch any sunny day roof leaks.