How come when a person has his or her day planned out, things never seem to go as planned.
I used to be more of a planner than I am now. Some times it seems like I fly by the seat of my pants. No matter how hard I try to tell anyone that I am organized, I hear the "pfffft" sound. I probably feel the splatter too.
I lay in bed last night planning my day out. I wanted to work, finish my column, teach CCD, come home and fall into bed.
Wednesday morning, I had to be to work early, which I love. I'll go early anytime I can miss the 45-mph masses descending on Highway 14 to Mankato. I rarely drive that road; it's hazardous to my health.
I was scheduled to work until 4 p.m. I would be home by 4:30 to finish a column I had previously written. It needed to be fine-tuned.
Wouldn't you know it, I was asked to stay late, which, of course, I did because I really like my job. So I didn't return home from work until 5:30 p.m. I figured that would be just fine; I would still have time to polish my previous column.
On the ride home, Joey called and he wanted me to help him study for his religion test in school. One quick one-hour cram session and I was off to teach CCD at St. Anthony's School.
I walked into the house at 8:30 ready to start polishing my work of art and Russell came tromping down the stairs.
"Hey Mom, since you are such a good artist, you can help me make some wings out of this cardboard," he said, not asked. "I need 'em for a skit."
"You better not be pulling my leg and using that as an excuse to go trick-or-treating Friday night."
"No this is for real. I have to do a skit on the book "My Side of the Mountain."
I agreed to help him draw out the pattern for the falcon wings on two long, but dirty, strips of cardboard. We proceeded to cut them out with those handy-dandy Miracle Blade knives we purchased off the tube several years ago. I only pretended that he cut me once. I didn't have time to do it twice.
Then Steve walked in and explained how awful his day was bad because he broke the combine twice.
"I wanted to get so much done," he said. "Now I have spent more than two hours making repairs. I fixed the tailings auger. (Whatever that is.) Started combining again and fifteen minutes later, the unloading auger chain broke." (I don't know what that is either.)
Russell and I returned to our dangerous work of cutting out the wings, with, I regret to inform you, the blade facing toward us. Hey, at least we weren't running with scissors.
Then Joey came down the stairs and I threw the wet washrag, that I used to clean the cardboard, at him when he requested me to "throw something long."
He missed the flying green rag as it bounced off my book shelf. He picked it up, tossed it back and again I threw it long.
He missed again! Now I know why he doesn't play football. The third time he asked me to go long, I threw it long-right into the kitchen sink.
So here it is quarter-after nine, 45 minutes past my usual bed time and I have this urge to write a new column. I know it's late because Steve got into bed way before me.
It's just that whenever I get that urge to write, nothing else matters.
I have to write.
I never did plan on being awake this late writing a column.
I should know better.
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