Go through the drive-thru at Starbucks because I can’t go inside because I’m not wearing a bra. Because it’s too hot to wear a bra. Even though it’s apparently not too hot to drink coffee. Is that what’s called cognitive dissonance? I don’t know, I went to public school. But that still doesn’t mean the dummies at Maidenform shouldn’t get off the stick and make lingerie with built-in fans. (Possible name: The Boobie Breezer)
When it’s finally my turn to pay at Starbucks, the clerk hears the Barry Manilow disco remix I’m blasting in my Volvo and I can tell she’s impressed by the way she wrinkles her nose and slightly gags. I announce, “Oh, yes, I’m the number 3 Google search result for ‘Fanilow‘” but if you think that gets you a free latte in America, well, you’d be wrong.
Arrive two minutes late to pick the boys up from baseball camp. Nine-year-old Jack sees me, then crosses his arms, narrows his eyes and announces, “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”
Later, Jack discovers how much fun cleaning baseboards can be.
Glance outside and see the neighbor’s dog Max standing in our pool with a confused expression. Max is roughly 12,000 years old, never has any idea where he is and he’ll eat absolutely anything, so it’s kind of like looking in a mirror. After feeding him a bowl of expired pita chips, we take him back home. Ten minutes later, he sneaks back into our pool. I let him stay, but only because he makes me look a little less hairy in my swimsuit.
Max and Sam walking home. Again.
Wake up to find a very expensive blender in the kitchen. Wonder if I was somehow on a game show the night before and that’s my prize. Check legs for game show bruises. Husband then reminds me about our drunk date night that started in a fancy restaurant and ended in the freezer section of Costco. “Remember? You kept yelling PULSE THAT MELON, CHACHI! at the demo lady,” he says. “Then you choked on an organic cracker sample and had to rest up in the furniture aisle. I’d say it was one of our better dates.”
The expensive blender means every meal in the Aarons household is now liquid. Liquid turkey? Yes.
Go to yoga class even though the instructor is a woman we all call “Masculine Energy Tami.” Masculine Energy Tami (MET) hasn’t liked me since I once called her “Sir” at Jamba Juice, so I just keep my mouth shut and do my downward dog without making any unnecessary eye contact. But then during the final Svendeleena, or whatever they call the time when you’re supposed to lie still like you’re a crime scene body waiting for a chalk outline, MET approaches me and begins to roughly massage my sweaty head. I choke back the words, “No touchy, mister” while a single tear quietly drips onto my yoga mat. And people wonder why I’m always so tense.
Day ruined by liquid kale.
Take kids to Seaworld aka Hell: The Fish Edition. Enjoy the parade of male tank tops and ladies with baby feet tattoos. Kids go on the river raft ride ten times in a row, once with a big bearded guy who tells them his name is “Parole Violation.” Day ends on a high note when husband yells, “I taste Shamu!” when taking a bite of his Seaworld sandwich.
That night, I wipe the melted ice cream and cigarette butts off my feet and smile, thinking that summer will be over in nine weeks.
One way or another.