We have arrived 27 minutes early and are sitting on the runway at Newark waiting for a gate. The plane is 95 degrees and a prop, so it is loud enough for people to fart freely. It is almost as if we are sitting inside a sulfur cloud.

Killing time yesterday as the pharmacy and insurance argued for 45 minutes about reimbursement for my super special anti depressant I shopped. Sunscreen, already confiscated at by BTVs crack TSA agents, pens and notebooks for the boys, ripped to shreds in a dramatic confetti of cardboard, paper, and plastic, and oil free facial wipes for me. I have never loved the disposable cleaning products, we don’t even have paper towels in the house, but I imagined myself an organized traveler, able to clean and refresh myself with a single swipe.
I used the debut wipe parked on this prop on the runway and I feel like I am wearing a mask. Although cracking a smile is not imminent in this fart fest it does in fact feel like cracking is the correct descriptor.

Monday was our first writers group and it was excellent. Steve was away so I had a sitter arrive after dinner to hang with the boys while we gathered in Shelburne Village around a hand crafted conference table drinking red wine and eating $16 chocolate bars. Anticipating this upscale salon (go ahead, laugh, particularly if you know who was at that fancy table) I was motivated to try just a little bit harder, be more thoughtful with my preparations.

I washed the dishes slowly and didn’t even break one. When I rolled the huge recycling toter to the street I took several extra steps in the crusty snow to park it far away from our driveway. I have already backed into the otters twice, the the tune of $800 and two afternoons of repair for the mini van Halen. Look at me, I told me, healthy dinner, tidy kitchen, an evening with friends discussing literature. This is winter in shelburbia.

As I pulled out of the driveway I had the extra obstacle of the babysitters car, and I managed to avoid the garage door and his large car. Just in time I saw the mailbox in my mirror a dc ore extend for that, making my next maneuver around the toters. I felt as though I had finished a car slalom event. This accomplishment was worth sharing. I dug around for my phone to. Text in triumphant d realized I had left it upstairs charging. With Steve out of the state I couldn’t justify leaving it behind so I reversed. Right into the garbage cans. There was a loud crack.

When I got out to inspect the damage my taillight, lit, was dangling from its electrical cord, the lift gate was askew,a nod the garbage can was knocked over.

Clearly trying harder doesn’t pay off. I may never take the trash out again.

The following two tabs change content below.
Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

Latest posts by Anna Palmer (see all)