I’m a fraud.
Minutes after I wrote that pollyanna-ish blahblah, something happened to my wifi connection and my computer wouldn’t load the picture and I was on reserve battery and didn’t have my power source in the cafe where I was writing and I morphed into a bitching cursing beast. Then I had to leave without finishing the post because it was noon and boo was still at Luc’s when he should have been home napping and I was being selfish mom, so I shut down and bolted, even though I really just wanted to publish one fricken blog entry this week, and then when I got to the car I became bitching cursing beast again because I looked for my phone to check the time and it wasn’t in my bag. Tore the place apart, ran back into the cafe, had the woman who works there call it with no answer, looked outside where I’d last used it to receive a call from Harlan telling me he was going to Target to buy a pump for the air mattress, asked the people who work at Soaptopia next door if someone had turned it in, also with no luck. Bitched, cursed. Thought I’d better go check the car again since I might have jostled my bag into ejecting it in all my bitching cursing beastly furor.
Sure enough. Lodged between the seat and the passenger door, a green cellphone.
These last few days—with all the meeting of workmen and errand-running and trying to close down our life here and get a new one up and running in Boston and getting up at 5 and driving up and down and up and down from the Palisades to Venice and Venice to the Palisades and boo not really napping—they have taken their toll.
I’ve never had worse road rage in my life. Over the past few days I’ve honked at more cars and said, “Are you a total idiot?” and “What the hell are you doing, jerk?!” more times than the rest of my life put together.
I’m over it. I’m over the retarded drivers and over getting up while it’s dark out and over not having time to write or work out and over friends who don’t even respond when I send them an email asking them if they want to go to a book reading with me, who don’t even take the three seconds it take to type, “can’t make it” on their blackberries and iphones.
I don’t need upbeat drivel about embracing what the world throws my way. I need a massage. I need sex. I need a week at a spa on a faraway island. I need a drink. Dammit.