There are not enough words in the English language to express exactly how screwed up I have been for the past few weeks.  I will simply reduce the experience to a Haiku:

                                   Family visits suck.
                                   Obligations do bite.
                                   Pour more Moscato.

I will now round off this august moment with a solemn vow to never, ever write poetry at you again. 

At the tail end of my male progenitor’s deca-annual (how would you write every-ten-years?) visit, I caught the plague.  Or some other totally nasty virus.  I am finally able to breathe again (through both nostrils, thank you very much) and now am frantically scrambling to get ready for camping.  Good thing I bought an extra bag of glue sticks!*

Just before bedtime, I decide to download some directions so I will find the campground in under two hours this year.  (In my defense, it is a particularly hard place to locate.  People have been known to spend the weekend desperately seeking Wifi and muttering to trees for companionship in lieu of Facebook.)  In my sincere attempt to be proactive and get the directions before I am half-way out the door, I get distracted by email.  (Yes, I still have email. Sue me.)**  I am trolling my email when one reply in particular catches my attention.  It’s from my son’s summer camp.  “Ahh,”  I think to myself…which is generally how I do it. I rarely think to anyone else.  “Ahh, I have a reply to my silly question about the ridiculous idea that I have signed my son up for a day of camp tomorrow which can’t possibly be the case because it isn’t on my calendar!”

“Yes, your son is signed up for Friday.  Do you need to see the confirmation we have previously sent you?”

The subtext, if you missed it, is that I am a complete idiot.  I believe the message they wanted to write went a little bit more like this:

“What the h*ll?  How can you not know that your child is scheduled to come to camp tomorrow?  You signed him up for nearly two months worth of camp!  He’s your child.  Aren’t you supposed to be responsible for him.  You moron.”

Or words to that effect.

So, if in the next week or so, you don’t hear from me…I am likely trying to come down from the stress of my own ineptitude.  Feel free to send me Moscato to support my recovery.  Oh, and more glue sticks.  You can never have enough glue sticks.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*And, no, I am not going to explain that one.  I will leave it to your imagination.
**Please don’t sue me.  I have enough problems with imaginary car noises that cost me $179 to determine there is nothing wrong.***
***I wish I were joking.