In Which Amy Blames Crazy Brain on Murphy's Law

Friday was one of those days when Murphy's Law should have been renamed Amy's Law. It seemed that no matter what I did or how I did, it went down the crapper. By 2 pm, I felt like I was in my own personal game of Chutes and Ladders.

Up, up, up, up the ladder! Yipppeeee!!!!

Down, down, down, down the chute! Sonuvabitch.

The sky menaced us all day long with grey clouds straight out of the movie "Twister."

Yeah, like that. Sorta.

Lizzie didn't "get" that I knew as soon as we got to the park, it was going to turn into a scene from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail" ("Run away! Run away!") because the sky would open up and monsoon on us. She whined, begged, and pouted, but I stood my ground.

"Puddy, if we go to the park, it's going to rain. I know it," I insisted to my whinging 3 year old.

"How you know?" Lizzie asked.

"Because I'm the mommy and I'm super smart."

My confidence soared as Lizzie looked at me with adoring eyes and said, "I know, Mommy. You super smart."

Well, guess what never happened yesterday? Yeah: rain. I am SUPER SMART. And apparently can also be a weather girl, since they're never right either.

And if any of you follow me on Twitter or read my obsessive-compulsive status updates on Facebook, you know that I had about 30 loads of laundry to do yesterday. Okay, only 3, but it seemed like 30 after I lugged the baskets down the 90-degree angle staircase from my apartment, around the corner and into the serial killer-style laundry room. When I got in there, I almost tripped over the 300 baskets that were already piled all over the place.

"You've got to be f***in' kidding me!" I growled.

The place was overrun by oil and dirt splattered boy clothes, so I was pretty sure that they all belonged to my new neighbors: The Two Guys from Texas who Work on the Gas Derricks. So I'm standing there, seething (thank you again, dictionary.com), when The Blonde One with the Glasses walks in.

I guess my hands on hips, gritted teeth, Darth Vader breathing scared him a little because he immediately started to apologize:

"Gosh, Miss. I'm real sorry 'bout this. But I gotta wash some clothes. You ain't mad, are ya?"

How can I be mad at a guy who a) apologizes right away, b) washes his own clothes, and c) insisted on calling me "miss" even though I'm actually and officially old enough to be a "ma'am"? So I left my baskets and went back upstairs to Lizzie, who immediately asked,

"Mommy, we go to the park now?"

Oh, my god. Was this for real?

The day continued like that. Unable to do the laundry and unwilling to risk pneumonia with a trip to the park, I tried my best to entertain Lizzie and keep my own sanity. By the time Erick got home at 4pm, I had just started washing clothes and was about one more "park now?" inquiry from flinging myself out the window.

By then, I had developed what I like to call Crazy Brain. See, Crazy Brain happens when you've been trapped in a small place with a wild 3 year old all day with no adult conversation, no car, and no escape. It starts with being overly-happy to compensate for the twitches that proceed to teeth grinding, facepalming, and grumbling under your breath. Your brain starts to think horrible and rogue thoughts from Satan like, "If she (or he) says one more thing to me, I swear I'm going to get in the car and drive until I run out of gas." or "Why, oh, why did I ever decide to do the wife/mother thing?"

The only respite to Crazy Brain is bedtime. I love bedtime. I love bedtime like I love not having Crazy Brain. Bedtime is a crap-shoot around here. Some nights, Lizzie passes out before we even shut the bedroom door. Other nights (like, oh, last night), Lizzie is up and having a blast like she's 14 and at a sugared-up slumber party. Erick passed out around 8.30pm in front of the Phillies game while Lizzie hung tight until about 9.30pm.

After everyone else was asleep, I realized that it was only 10 pm and I had the rest of the night to myself. Barely breathing, I thanked God for my good luck and began my long road to back to Normal Brain.

This is how I recovered from my case of Crazy Brain:

1. Cara, Michelle Blumensteel (nee Rodrick), and I had a running commentary on our wild Friday night--and how it wasn't all that wild. And how Cara found a rogue bag of Cheese Doodles in her kitchen cabinet.

2. I turned off the Phillies game and turned on "Ocean's Eleven" (Thank you, Mr. & Mrs. Damon: I so appreciate your contribution to society).

3. I FB-ed and Twitted until my fingers ached.

4. Tony Condo and I discovered that we both have the same really eclectic taste in music, spent many years of our lives horseback riding, and have to meet for "cawfee tawk" in Ithaca ASAP.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you to Cara, Michelle and Tony. You guys were huge contributors to helping me get over my Murphy's Law/Crazy Brain Friday.

Be prepared for tonight's therapy session for my recovery from 12 Hours of College Football Saturday.