I Blame Daylight Savings

Gosh, isn't it nice to get that extra hour of light? People I know go crazy about that extra freaking hour of light. They feel reborn. As for me, not so much. I tend to kvetch about it. I'm only a day in, and Daylight Savings can kiss my tush. Subtract an hour, one stinking hour, and the SJG brain flies out the metaphorical window. One stinking hour, and my circadian rhythm goes kablooey. On Sunday, I parked my car on the expectant parents' driveway, their first driveway ever, a challenging, narrow zone with no real barrier, no sense of division. Immediately to the right, maybe a foot or two away, the car that's always, always on the neighbor's driveway threatened my well-being and parking acumen. Park too close to the neighbor's car and your passenger, if you're schlepping, say, a mama-to-be, must weigh her exiting options. She can crawl out the sun roof. Sidle out the driver's side. Or sit in the car till the car that's always, always, there departs. This is no way to live.

My options were limited, too. I could park way too close to the vinyl picket fence on the left side, or tell my goddess-in-law, "Get out," and dump her at the curb. But who's thinking logically at a sleep-deprived time like this? Not this lil' byotch. So I parked too close to the fence, squeezed out and tried not to fall head first into the thorny rose bush. Chlo-Chlo escaped with ease. The fact that my car was beeping escaped me. I mean, seriously, this car just beeps too much. The minute I turn it on, it starts in with the beeping. The entire time I'm driving, I'm feeling berated. The beeps translate into all kinds of harsh judgment. "Hey, you, do you see that wall? Try not to hit it this time." "Hey, you, you've departed your lane, for eff's sake. What's wrong with you?" "Hey, you..." You get the point. I tend to take the beeps a little too personally.

As Chlo-Chlo and the SJG headed for the front door, lugging groceries and ignoring the beeps that herald my downward spiral, the daddy-to-be arrived, fresh off a drunken bachelor party weekend, with just enough brain cells to detect that something was amiss. In a tone reminiscent of all the times I've scolded him throughout his life, he said, "Mom! Don't you hear the beeping?! You left the car on!" "Oh, @#$% that!" I went back to finish that pesky step I'd neglected. But was it really my fault? Of course not. I blame Daylight Savings. I plan to blame Daylight Savings for every mishap from now till next Sunday. I'm going to milk it, and I think you should, too.