I Need A Recharge
Mrs. Bayou has gone to San Francisco for the week. The only thing keeping me from going with her is the kids. Then again, if the youngest wasn't so young, I'd probably leave them all here alone and go to Tennessee. Alone.
In a previous blog, I commented on the problems I face with the people around me coming up with Great Ideas. In a nutshell, all their Great Ideas involve ME doing the task. Mrs. Bayou has caught on to my phraseology and gives me the stink-eye when handing out tasks where I reply "Yep. That's a Great Idea." (Yes, sometimes I talk in italics)
I thought I was making progress in this area. I've learned to quickly recognize Great Ideas, and I've been telling people around me "You've got to be kidding," and walking away quickly. "But Bill! Where are you going? It's a Great Idea!" (No, they never speak in italics, but my brain readily does the font change)
My time was freeing up right and left (time to sleep, mostly). Then Mrs. Bayou comes in with her announcement that not only is she freeing herself to go to San Francisco (she says she's going there on business, but I know it's to get away for a week), but she's got a freakin' Ghant chart of a schedule for me to accomplish while she's gone. Bam! One page broken down by dates and times is thrust upon me like a Turd Sundae with a glossy topping of "Your Family Comes First" Guilt-Trip drizzled all over it.
If I thought the dreaded phrase was "Bill, I have a great idea. Could you..." I was wrong. The devil is truly in the details. Buried within the instructions of moving children around to and from before-and-after-school activities, dance and music lessons, photography appointments, and airport taxi driving is a phrase which turns my stomach into a dyspepsia-themed amusement park: "You should just have enough time to..."
I shuddered when I wrote that. It's worth repeating: "You should just have enough time to..."
(And there's my lunch coming up the back of my throat. Ugh.)
It's not just a list of Great Ideas, its a list of Great Ideas that can only be accomplished if I rush from point to point like a pinball. The intersections around the city are no longer photo-controlled traffic-lights, but blinking bumpers on a map-themed game table. Sirens and horns have replaced bells and whistles; blaring out at me as I strive to accomplish the list of Great Ideas. Pre-recorded phrases pipe through the speakers of my life announcing "Dad! We're gonna be late!" "You've missed our turn!" "I can't find my shoes" and "Do you know how fast you were going, Mr. Bayou?"
I carry the Ghant chart with me at all times. I've studied it in an attempt to divine it's secrets, but every time I glance at it I see something new. If I get pulled over by the police, I'm going to show it to the officer. "Look!" I'll say, "She left me a 'To Do' list!" However, with the way things are going lately, it'll be a male cop, unable to quickly decipher my task list of Great Ideas, and he'll start clawing his eyes out. Somehow that'll be my fault, but I'll at least I'll skip the ticket and be quickly on my way to the next item on the list.