AUTHOR: Carolyn Savage | POSTED: January 15, 2013 | COMMENTS: 40 Comments
I felt like garbage this past Sunday.
I hate to blame it on that PMS excuse, but honestly, it’s all I got. How else would I explain one of the most embarrassing incidents of my life?
Apparently, along with the other gifts of aging, like bunions, wrinkles, gray hair and dwindling eyesight, my hormones are starting to get a little out-of-whack. I remember when I was younger and I’d hear of this mythical condition called PMS. I used to think it was an lame excuse. I had no idea that PMS could truly catapult an otherwise docile, loving and kind person into a level of bitchiness that would make Roseanne Barr cringe.
I woke up on Sunday morning with a headache that mimicked the grand-daddy of all hangovers. Unfortunately, I’d consumed nothing the night before that was capable of causing such a condition. After an hour or so, I realized that not only did I have what felt like a cranial bleed, I was also experiencing abdominal pain that felt a lot like labor. I quickly realized that these were PMS symptoms and accordingly maxed out on Advil. Surely 800 milligrams of ibuprofen would cure me.
Sorry to say, it didn’t even come close.
Now, add to the equation that Sean has become somewhat of a church Nazi. If it were up to me, Sean and I would attend separate masses sans-little-kids, but Sean insists that we all attend church together. Now, don’t misunderstand, I love attending church with my family. What I don’t like doing is engaging in a wrestling match with two tag-teaming one year olds that seem to know how to make even the quietest toy noisy during an otherwise silent church service. Add in a very bright four year old that has figured out that when Mommy is wrangling one twin, and Daddy is wrangling the other, she can pretty much get away with any thing she pleases because there are no spare arms to stop her, and we’ve got a dog and pony show in pew # 17. I’ve pleaded with Sean to realize that going to church with three kids under the age of four is pointless, but he refuses to give in. So I relent, and the chaos commences.
This past Sunday was extra horrible. I only made it through the responsorial psalm (for you non-Catholics…that’s about twelve minutes into a sixty minute service) before having to vacate our pew with one of the girls in tow. Most weeks that would disappoint me, but this time, I was relieved. At least in the narthex (back lobby) of our church, I could put said toddler down to roam around and do whatever, while I sat on the steps of the choir loft and hung my head in agony. Needless to say, by the end of mass all I wanted to do was go home, crawl under my covers with a heating pad and die. As the recessional hymn played, I hastily packed up and practically sprinted to the car when Sean reminded me that he’d driven separately so he could drop Ryan at running practice on the way home.
Me: How long is that going to take?
Sean: I’ll be home ten minutes after you.
I scoffed and then nastily reminded him that it was in his best interest to hurry because I felt like I was standing at the gates of hell, which…apparently…made no impression on him what-so-ever and ultimately led to my sh*t losing incident.
So let me set the scene…
I’d been home from church for forty minutes– alone –with three crabby kids, feeling like my head might explode all over the kitchen counter, and growing more and more annoyed that Sean was no where to be seen, when the phone rang. Now in my defense let me explain that Sean’s cell phone number starts with a “3″ and ends with a “8″. As I grabbed our ringing house phone, my old crapped out eyes that were currently seeing red also saw that the caller’s phone number started with a “3″ and ended with a “8″. Obviously this was Sean calling to make some lame-ass excuse as to why he was delayed.
Me: screaming into receiver “Where the hell are you?”
Caller: startled and screaming back “I’m on my way home!”
Me: still screaming but kind of questioning myself about how Sean didn’t sound like himself…but still screaming anyways…“What the hell is taking you so long?”
Caller: also screaming “I stopped for gas—pause---Is this the Savage residence?”
And that’s when the garage door opened, and I swung around, to see Sean standing there, NOT talking on his phone!!!
At moments like this there are choices. If I took the mature path out of this I would have taken a second; calmed myself down; gotten back on the phone and channeling my sweetest, kindest voice, profusely apologized to the traumatized caller; explained that I had a terrible headache, horrible cramps, my husband was MIA, my kids were acting up, my husband’s phone number looked similar to his, and that’s why I just lost my sh*t with him; and then asked them what it was that he originally wanted?
I could take the cowardly path and hang up.
I hung up.
I must have looked like I was about to explode because Sean immediately launched into a self defensive explanation of how he was late due to a flooded street that blocked the entrance to the park where Ryan was supposed to meet his teammates. What Sean didn’t realize was that he was in luck because I had just completely gone ape-sh*t on a perfectly innocent person and was in a state of mortification that made me feel like I wanted to die even more than I did before the phone call ever happened. My crazy bitch tank was on empty.
Then the phone rang again.
After I confirmed that indeed, this caller’s number did begin with a “3″ and end with a “8″ I figured there was no reason to “man-up” now. I let it go to voicemail. It took me a two hour cuddle with a heating pad and a maximum dose of Midol to garner the courage to listen to the message.
This is what it said:
“Hi, Savage Family!” (Couldn’t help but notice the caller sounded very friendly…and a little frightened.) “I noticed, after you left church today, that one of the girls left their doll in the pew. We were going to drop it by your house on the way home but when I called ahead I’m pretty sure I got the wrong number. Anyways, let us know when you want us to bring it by!”
I got nothing else.
(Oh…and I may be finding a new church community soon. Wish me luck.)