The $220 Day
So we forgot to change our clocks last night. I bet about sixteen bazillion other people did, too, thanks very much. I thought I was getting up at a nice, early hour when I rose at 8:30 a.m. Turns out it was actually 9:30 a.m., but I was content not to know that this morning. I revelled in my pride until my Aunt Sue burst my bubble around noon. But I'm getting ahead of myself, really.
After waking at my (not-so) early hour, I proceeded to leave Mike alone to sleep in further while I gathered the last lingerings of dirty laundry from around the house and began the process of doing the wash for the fifth time this week. I have really been trying to get on the ball with the clothes, but with the washing machine in the basement where I can't hear what's going on, it's kind of difficult to stay on task. At any rate, I had nothing to do while the first load was running, so I returned to the bedroom after about an hour and bugged my poor, semi-slumbering boyfriend.
Waking Mike by being an absolute pest is one of my favorite activities in the world. (Thank goodness I have the most tolerant boyfriend in the universe.) I crawled on top of him and blew gale winds into his ear until he rolled over and squashed me flat. Then I gathered up all the covers, leaving him to shiver to death under the fan in nothing but his boxers. Since this still didn't rouse the man, I decided to give him a nice, powerful wedgie. That did the trick. Unfortunately, it resulted in my being wrapped in every bit of covers on the bed and tickled until I nearly peed my pants. I love mornings with Mike.
With the conclusion of the morning activities came a phone call from my Aunt Sue in Virginia, whom I haven't seen in about a month and a half since we've been going to Mike's family's place in Pennsylvania every weekend in an attempt to move all Mike's crap from there to here. Aunt Sue and her husband, Richard, were in Maryland and wanted to know if we were receiving. Of course, being raised Southern and chock full of good-girl manners, I said of course we were, and wouldn't they like to have lunch with us? (Keep in mind, the house was an utter wreck--clothes and hangars and shoes strewn all over both bedrooms, the bathroom looked like Godzilla came tramping through with muddy feet and spit old toothpaste in the sink, the dishes were piled to the rafters in the sink, seven piles of laundry were on the kitchen floor, and dried mud trampings were all over the living room floor.)
Needless to say, Mike and I did the Cleaning Dance of Doom in anticipation of their visit. Plus, I hadn't showered yet (thank goodness Mike had) so the two of us ran in every direction possible, picking up and sweeping and making the bed like mad people. I was just giving the stove one last swipe when they knocked on the door. It's good to know that it takes exactly one hour to clean my entire house, top to bottom, and still be able to fit in a shower.
On a wee side note, why don't men understand that doing the dishes includes wiping down the kitchen counters? Mike's done the dishes a few times now since we moved to our new house, and not once has he wiped the counters after he finishes. Not. Once. Seriously, do they not watch their mothers at all as children? Hell, do they not watch their wives and girlfriends? Do they not have the sense they were given? WIPE THE COUNTERS!!!
Right. Sorry. So Aunt Sue and Richard and Mike and I all piled into the car and zipped down the Mexican place in town because there isn't a good one around where Aunt Sue lives and she loves Mexican food. The place in town is quite tasty, really, so we don't mind eating there with semi-regular frequency. As we were all sitting around, having a lovely discussion regarding the differences between men and women (which always seems to be the topic when we get around Sue and Richard--probably because poor Richard is the only man in a household of four women), when the boys stumbled onto the topic of cigar rooms and the traditions that come with. Apparently, one of these traditions is for men to dip their cigars into a glass of cognac.
My response to this: "Doesn't that put them out?"
I'm not blond. Not even close. But that was definitely a blond moment. Sheesh.
At any rate, Aunt Sue and Richard couldn't stay long, they had to get back to Virginia in time to pick up their girls, so Mike and I spent a couple hours doing typical lazy Sunday afternoon stuff--I did the wash, he played computer games. Finally, between doing a load of khakis and the whites, I decided it was time to call my mother.
See, way back when I first moved up north (which was back in January), my mother said she would pay for my move as my Christmas present. To her credit, she did give me $400 as a gift (which got me through about one day of travel paying my gas and my cousins, as well as our hotel rooms--since my cousin was helping me move). However, she also agreed to pay for the trailer to haul my crap, which cost about $220. Somehow, the money for the trailer ended up being charged to my account instead of hers, and chaos insued. For weeks, I asked her to reimburse me since she agreed to pay for the trailer in the first place and I couldn't afford to lose $220 anywhere that first couple of months. She kept agreeing and saying she'd mail it and blah blah blah.
She never mailed it. At first, she said she wanted to see if it was going to be charged to her account as well. Then she said it wasn't on her statement when the statement came, but the statement didn't cover the date the trailer was rented so we'd have to wait and see if it was on the next statement. Then she said it was on that statement (which it most certainly was not--my cousin had in his hands the actual receipt for the trailer, which showed in no uncertain terms the money being charged to my account and NO money being charged to hers), so she needed a copy of my bank statement showing it had been charged to me and blah blah blah. Finally, after my cousin gave her the receipt (which proved it was charged to me), she said she didn't want to admit it previously, but she just didn't have the money to pay me at that time. This was two weeks ago, maybe.
Yesterday, she called me and told me she'd bought a new Toyota Highlander and they were shopping for a second new car for her husband. My tolerance disappeared.
I did wait until I was in a decently calm state of mind before I confronted her regarding the money. I didn't want it to be a knock-down, drag-out, really. I don't fight with my mother anymore, it's useless. Instead, I called Mike into the bedroom to be my moral support in case I needed to shove her lame excuses down her throat and hang up on her, and I dialed up her number to attempt a calm, rational discussion of the money.
To my surprise, she said, "Oh, yeah, okay I'll mail that."
No lame excuses. No fighting me because she'd changed her mind. No telling me to forget about it because it was in the past (the excuse she gave to my brother when he demanded to know why she sold his car while he was away in the military and didn't tell him about it). She just said she'd mail the check. Now, whether or not she really does is yet to be seen, but I've got Mike as a witness, so she definitely can't go back on things this time.
After that, I was feeling rather chipper. Mike and I went shopping in the Big Town (thirty miles to the East, because it has stores like Target and Office Max, whereas our wee mountain town has stores like "You Bawt What?" run by the local seamstress) because we had to pick up some printer ink and other random items. While we were there, I decided that I was going to get myself some hair color--not to change to something new or update the auburn I've got in it now, but to return my hair to it's natural dark, dark, just-this-side-of-black color. It hasn't been it's natural shade in six years, and now that it's done, it's really strange to see it back this way again. I'm so used to having something red in it. Now the only way you'll see red is if I'm standing at just the right angle in a fiery sunset.
I did it because I'm on this change kick, and while this isn't a change to the future, per se, it's my reverting back to what I really am at my core. It's not exactly a great spiritual revalation or anything, but it really does make a difference, I think. I want to get back to the girl I used to be so I can be the woman I was always supposed to be instead of this half-broken girl that waylaid me when I wasn't paying attention. I'm past her now. I'm better than her now. No, that's not true--not better than, I'm not better than anyone--but I'm better. Unafraid. Unintimidated. In charge instead of going where someone or something else takes me.
Hell, if I can confront my mother, the least I can do is change my hair color.