School Supplies!!!

Today I ran about 16 errands in the putrid heat-midity of Illinois.

It's that kind of heat where you go through several mental stages as the day wears on. You begin cheerfully enough, looking forward to marking things off your list. You get in and out of the car many times. The dark, heat-absorbing car. Three or four stops along the way, you become philosophical about the heat. "It's very hot," you say. "But this is better than driving on ice. Driving on ice sucks. And this is just uncomfortable." You drink water. You buy more water inside the mall where you are forced to go, because the fantastic art supply store that used to be on campus has relocated there. They are the only store in town who carries your favorite purple fine-point felt-tip pens. Stylist brand.

The heat radiating from the sun, which has moved five kilometers from Earth, has made you stupid. You walk the long mall trek back to your car, where you realize you've left your bastard keys on the counter in the bastard art store. So you walk your stupid ass back to the store and there they are, your keys, on the bastard counter. You want to stick your purple felt tip pens through the forearm of the guy working there, because this is all his fault. He should've kept track of your keys for you. What the hell is wrong with him?

Hmmm. You are starting to pick up on the alteration of your mood. You call your husband to try to touch base with sanity. You tell him you still have 6 places left to go, and you fear coming close to snapping because the surface of the sun is resting on your windshield, and because of the 4 steps backward you keep taking every time you try to complete an errand. He tells you "Just take your time and enjoy the process."

The process becomes a little like throwing yourself into a jet engine. One that has been sitting on a runway in Phoenix idling all day and is nice and hot when it purees you.

You finally finish your list of errands. Your revised list of errands, that is. The last 2 are deep-sixed when you see clearly that if you don't get home, and fast, your old friend Road Rage is coming to visit.

You walk in the door. Your husband kiddingly shouts "Who is it???" And you say "It is someone who wants to purchase a machine gun."

But then, Amazon does not sell machine guns, and so you'd have to leave the house again to get one. Leaving the house again is an option that is as appealing to you as taking out your own entrails and wearing them around your neck like a feather boa.

So you stay home with your new purple pens.