Latitude with the Attitude

I had a bad day today.

I'd like to think I'm not that prone to exaggeration, but my family members may tell you differently (like when I make a gasping sound while Mark is driving because I just opened the mail and found a 30% off coupon for Kohls - he thinks this means some danger is about to attack our car). Lately I feel like a turd complaining about things like my bad day or that buttoning my pants nearly gave me a hernia. It's all about perspective. I see the news stories and I feel deeply distressed by stories people post on their Facebook. Suddenly a little (or a lot) of cat pee soaking repeatedly into my non-waterproof carpet pad seems bearable.

It's kind of funny; when I make these grand proclamations (i.e. Positive Lily 2014, then Positive Lily 2015 - the redo and now Positive Lily 2016 All Those Other Attempts Failed) then a whole world of irritations rise up to challenge me. Perhaps I shouldn't be so sensitive to people who loudly crunch their chips or clip their fingernails in public. I'm pretty sure Positive Lily 2016 will not mind when a cat humps the clean laundry.

I gave myself a Friday pep-talk this morning. It was all about finishing the week well and not letting circumstances dictate my attitude. I should probably write self-help books.

All was going fairly well, even if I already had a mean thought about someone who breathed too close to me. Then it all went wrong.

I had a plan to run to the grocery store during lunch (an unfortunate necessity if you work all day then have kid activities at night). As I approached my car, I noticed it would not respond to my remote unlock command. It crossed my mind I was at the wrong car (not the first time), but then how many people have naked man-Barbies with missing legs on the floor in the back of their car?

I looked in the window and noticed my lights were still switched on. This is the peril of driving a nearly 11-year-old Civic. Things start breaking about now. The indicator that tells you when your keys are left in the ignition or your lights are on stopped dinging last week. Already I have left my keys in the ignition (in the garage) three times. I knew it was only a matter of time before those stupid lights got away from me.

Circumstances started to dictate my attitude... And my language. I was able to summon someone who was willing to come outside to help. Last year I purchased some jumper cables while I was in a disaster preparedness phase. I keep them buried in my trunk under clothes that need to be donated and a tote full of garage sale rejects from June (by the way, if I ever get stranded in a blizzard, I will have plenty to wear). Since neither of us knew how to use these cables and we both had a serious fear of either electrocuting ourselves or exploding one of the cars, we were somewhat paralyzed. As I read us the directions aloud, a kind gentleman came to our aid.

I'm always so pleasantly surprised when strangers are helpful, especially when they don't creep you out. We got my car back in business and no one was injured. I call that a resounding success (look at that, I'm thoroughly positive after all).

After the car incident, I was adamant that this would not define my day. At least I have a car. At least my pants haven't ripped down the crack in public. All positive things here. Then I looked down and noticed my work badge was missing. Since I was still in the building, I knew it had to be somewhere. I retraced my steps: in the bathroom, up four flights of stairs, through the cafeteria, pause at the vending machine to stare at the chips, back to my desk. Nothing. Just when I was about to despair, I looked in my purse. There it was, put away like I do at the end of day. I had officially lost my mind.

I should have gone home and gotten in bed at that point. But no, I finished my work day then went to the grocery store so I could be poured on while I walked back out with my groceries. While I was still there, I got a text telling me my daughter had been to see the nurse four times during school.

But...because of the variable, somewhat suspicious illness of a 6-year-old, I now find myself home on a weekend instead of at a soccer tournament. I suddenly have time to clean the house. I can snuggle with the Beans. I might go to the Auto Parts store and use my ignorance to con them into fixing my notification ding-thing. Turns out this day is not so bad after all. There is a cat sitting on my feet instead of humping the American flag bandana at the bottom of the stairs like he was 30 minutes ago.

I feel a bit like Pollyanna right now.

As a quick addition, I will tell this side story. A few days ago, in the middle of the night, Fat Linda left her normal perch at my feet and came to stand on my chest. As I struggled to breathe, she searched for a comfortable spot. She turned once, then sat right on my face. As you may know, cats don't sit on their tails. They keep them aloft so everyone can see their butts. When Fat Linda sat on me, she aimed her butthole right on my face. I instantly identified the horrendous contact and let out a cry, then flung her to the ground. I haven't spoken to her since. The positive side of this story is that it gave me a new catch phrase, "It's better than a butthole to the face."  It really works well in nearly every situation.

My car battery died in the parking lot. Yeah, well, it's better than a butthole to the face...