Welcome to the second installment of Tuesday Morning Press wherein I endeavor to write for one hour during the time when I drop off my kids at school and prepare for yoga.

I thought I’d have nothing to write about today but that thought became completely invalid when I got back to the house to discover that my husband had locked me out. But my neighbor let me back in.

Our oldest son, Thing 1 who is 14, is feeling unwell for the second day in a row. His stomach is bothering him to the point where he has no interest in eating once the food is in front of him. Plenty of appetite, but after that first bite: no thanks and it starts to hurt, so we made an appointment for this morning at 9:30. I didn’t think my husband would be leaving an hour and a half before the appointment to get to it on time. I didn’t take my keys with me to walk the boys to school. I didn’t communicate that, but then again, you can’t miss my keys: they’re preppy with a bright pink ribbon:

And they hang right next to the door.

But he did miss them and it’s my fault. This time. Not like on Sunday when He Drove Us to Sugarloaf Mountain and 2/3 up the slope I noticed the fuel light was on. It was glowing, like pulsating hot embers; a lava pit of foreboding: YOU’RE ALMOST OUT OF GAS AND YOU’RE ON A MOUNTAIN IN RURAL* MARYLAND! FOOLS! AT LAST! YOUR SOULS ARE MINE!

When that happened on Sunday I checked every gal’s automotive best friend: the DTE (distance to empty) button and it said, “1” as in “1 mile” as in “YOUR SOUL IS MINE in 1 Mile.”

I started to growl, preparing myself for an existence in the underworld, in Dante’s last rings of the Inferno, in the netherworld’s 9000˚ sulfur-scented waiting room… “We are almost empty and we’re on a mountain.”

His reply, “This isn’t my car.”

OMIGAWD.

I almost died. No, he almost died. But there were witnesses: our children and I couldn’t have that. I’ve watched enough “Law & Order” to know that witnesses are a definite challenge to committing the perfect crime.

I won’t go into what happened next.

Ok, I will: I pouted and raged. You might wonder, dear reader: Can you do that at once? Yes, you can. I said not quietly, “While this might be my car, Dear One, you are the driver. You are the Captain. How is this my fault?” And he said, “This is What You Do. You get in These Moods when we do these trips…”

I decided right then and there that I was going to be Duchess Bitch until he apologized. Internal dialogue: “Hoooo Noooooo…. I did Not have anything to do with this. I was in a Good Mood – in such a good mood in fact that we took This Picture

Immediately before leaving for the outing. And we even did This Chalk Outline of my body like they do on TV because I supposedly died, no I was slain, while carrying the granola bar wrappers from the car to the trash.

Tell me, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do people in Bad Moods do chalk outlines making fun of themselves? I think not.

Objection! Circumstantial! Defense is tainting the jury…

Sustained.

Argh.

Anyway,

That’s how good a mood I was in. So Don’t go There, telling me This is What I Do – get in bad moods on outings. It was My Idea to go away for The Day.

All the grabitnitz frakin ditzabrigit Yosemite Sammin’ wasn’t going to solve my issue. I pouted so hard I demanded the keys (that I left hanging inside the house today) and walked back to the car and sat in it. I opened my Kindle and I even Turned It On.

Cue the Husband … in 5 … 4… 3… 2…

Unlock the doors. Growl though, for effect.

“Why are you so mad?” he asked.

“Because you blamed me for this in front of the children. This is NOT my responsibility. YOU are the Driver. We’ve already been through this. And you said I always get like this. I DON’T.” Nyaah. I’m very mature.

Simmer. Huffle puff.

“I am sorry. This is not your fault, you’re absolutely right. I didn’t mean what I said, I was projecting my anger at myself on to you; it’s like blaming you for the weather …” (Which trust me, readers, I used to feel COMPLETELY responsible for — see this post on Guilt and Letting Go)

I said, “Apologize to me in front of the boys. Tell them what you just told me and I will come back and have fun with you all and not plot your mysterious disappearance and death.”

“You bet.”

And so I got out of the car, still grumbly but feeling better. Feeling heard, which is a big deal.

Here is what I saw:

And we joined the team; they were up about 100′ on a 45˚ incline and completely unattended. I let it go. They are boys. Boys are half goat. At least mine are.

When we got to the top of the mountain it was gorgeous. (*Rural: no gas station for 3.82 miles according to my GasBuddy app… and we were surrounded by drivers from oh, everywhere. We weren’t stuck in the middle of nowhere… it’s a state park fer crissakes…I know, I’m a brat.) And the more I recall this entire situation, the more I realize (gasp, as I type this) that I sorta stirred the cauldron the other morning. I mean, as I dial back and see the big picture, I see that I sorta blew it out of proportion: we weren’t lost; we had a phone; we weren’t in danger; we weren’t alone… Ugh. I owe him an a.pol.o.gy.

Ok. I’ll get on it.

But that was the only picture of the outing I took and I took that one when we got back to the car. I didn’t bring my phone / camera with me because I wanted to unplug – which brings me to my next point: I am just not feeling it… the writing thing just isn’t there right now. I am feeling a bit eDrained.

Do you think it’s my desk?

Let’s see…I’ve still got about twenty minutes…

Nope, I’m out. I definitely don’t want to talk about the desk.

I might make it to yoga on time… now, where’d I put my keys…?

Thank you.