Skip to main content

It's a Monday!

Whenever any member of my family (one husband, 6 schnauzers, 2 cats) or I have a lousy day, I always think to myself that it's because it's a Monday. Even if the rotten event happened on a Friday, I'll still refer to it as a Monday mess-up. It would appear that it wasn't until about three seconds ago when my brain woke up for the day that I realized I'm a prejudiced bitch, at least about negative occurrences happening only on Mondays. What do I have against Mondays? I don't know, but a lot of professionals and other service providers I use have come to understand that I will never make appointments on a Monday.Got a suspicious looking mole on my leg? No way am I going to the dermatologist on a Monday because dollars to donuts, the diagnosis would be melanoma (translation: you're going to die a horrible excruciating death but only after you go through weeks of nauseating chemotherapy, 4,000 doses of radiation, and all the money you were saving for your old age). So far I've excluded about 50 people from Monday appointments, including my shrink, my dentist, my GP, my hair stylist (on a Monday I just know my hair color would be turned to vomit green instead of its current lush auburn), my bottled water delivery guy (I'm sure he'd leave the tainted-with-mold variety), and my barista. Yes, I never go to Starbucks on a Monday because then I'd probably get a weak vanilla latte spiked with a hint of opioids--just enough to make me drive through two red lights and badmouth the cop who pulled me over. I also never contact editors on Mondays because I realize that they're pretty much like me on Mondays: resentful about going back to work; tired and too caffeinated to engage in a coherent conversation; and just plain moody and negative about LIFE AND ALL THEIR PETTY ACCOMPLISHMENTS. So I have a mega ego crisis every Monday that results in giving myself a pep talk about my writing prowess, my status as a career woman (as opposed to a no-nothing homebody who cares for pets and babbles on a blog), and my future as a cherished friend and wife. That last one really has a way of sneaking up on me and turning me to jello. I'm convinced that most of the narcissists I consider to be my friends are secretly planning to out me to the immediate world. Then I'd be forced to kill them, and I'd hate to become a mass murderer. Just kidding. I really wouldn't kill them with the shovel I keep handy in the garage, but I would have to apply super glue to their lips and hands so they wouldn't have the option of spreading nasty truths about me to their families and scribbling factoids on Facebook and Twitter. I figure I'm going to die someday (on a Monday, of course), but as long as it's not one of those Mondays declared holidays because the real holiday falls on a weekend when everyone already has the day off, then it's going to be okay. My obituary wouldn't hit the newspapers until at least Tuesday and by then, according to the latest psychic I've consulted, my soul will have had the time to adjust to its non-earthly existence and would be flitting around in heaven from dog to dog, making sure they all had their parvo shots and were on leashes.I intend to be an animal activist in my next life so I might as well get some experience in a nonjudgmental setting (which I hope heaven is because if it's not, I might just have to write a nasty Facebook message to the Pope). But let's face it. I would be better off dying on a non-Monday when everyone is planning on going to happy hour after work. Because then lots of people would be toasting my demise and saying nice things like "I'm glad she didn't die on a Monday and mess up my week." One thing I'm glad about: I don't think I was born on a Monday. I've seen pictures of myself as a baby, and I was damned cute! J. Arenofsky, author, raconteur, and blogger
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dogs and Cats: Tales that Strike Terror in the Hearts of Owners

I just returned from the #veterinarian with Maddie, my eight-year-old #schnauzer with valley fever. She's on a half dose of her meds, and we're seeing if this has any positive or negative influence on the course of the #disease. Valley fever is a plague in the Southwest, especially Arizona, and it's one of the crazier #fungal diseases out there. For instance, Maddie never showed any #discernible symptoms but when I chanced to test her for the disease, she showed a high titre. So either the test was really wrong-----about three times in a row--or else Maddie's immune system is so good that it's #clobbering the disease but not ridding the body of it. This is a long way of stating the obvious. Although dogs like Maddie as well as cats, miniature horses and even  bunnies are regularly being used as #therapy animals at nursing homes, hospitals, schools, and all kinds of venues, they also are capable of traumatizing people or just plain breaking their heart. Wai...
2 comments
Read more

Should Old Acquaintances Be Forgot?

In the Scottish dialect of the old New Year's Eve song Auld Lang Syne, the composer posits the question: Should old acquaintances be forgot? The short answer to this is "Sometimes." One example will suffice. A "friend" of mine emailed me the other day and although she is not a writer, her words spoke plenty. Her first rebuke was that I don't answer her calls, and this is a claim I cannot deny. But the accusation was caustic, mean-spirited--it was as if I had neglected to visit her in the hospital, that's how grievous my omission was. She insinuated so much by those few harsh words. Why did she call? Purportedly to inform me of her physical status and that of her dog Murph. Being the obedient child I still am, I did call her afterwards, and we spoke. Mostly S spoke of her new illness--osteoarthritis of the spine--and her dog's possible diagnosis of valley fever. I listened and listened and listened until I just couldn't take it any more. The...
2 comments
Read more

Part 12 OCS Sib: a Saga that Sucks

To refresh your mind, the last time we saw my sib (the OCS I've profiled here), everyone was celebrating my niece's wedding. I'm staying at my mom's condo, so I  hang out with her new friends, a couple about her age who recently moved into her residential community. As we talk, I gather a few more clues about my mom's physical and mental condition. She is now having problems telling time, and she calls up her new friends many times a day. The news isn't good. I fear the worst. Over the next few months Mom has to recuperate from a heart attack, and my sib and I agree that an assisted living facility should be the next move. Up to now the sib and I are more or less on the same page. Soon this change. When finances rear their ugly heads, I learn that somehow my sister has prevailed on my mother to sign over all her monies and house to my sister. All documents are now in my sib's name. The condo will be up for sale, and my sister has deposited my mom's inh...
1 comment
Read more