After a somewhat rough Sunday morning that included me waking in the dark (the only part of the time change that really bugs me), Connor balking at the clothes I picked out for him to wear (he has opinions) and Teyla crying anytime I wasn't holding her (which is tough to do in the shower; those babies are so slippery), I got everyone bundled into their coats and strapped into their appropriate car seats.
I was feeling a little frazzled, a little rushed. (Single moms? Seriously. You have my undying admiration!) But I was pleased to see that we still had 20 minutes to get to church and get everyone delivered to their Sunday school rooms. That meant we were on time, a huge accomplishment for a recovering late-a-holic like me. And I was really looking forward to church that morning. Really. Looking. Forward. (And not just so I could entrust the children to another caring adult. I seriously adore our new church home. We had to skip church the Sunday before due to The Sickness, and I almost cried from the disappointment of it all. But I didn't, because Vulcans like my husband view crying as a sign of weakness.)
So anyway. I put the key in the ignition, listened for the roar of the engine over the sound of Teyla's screams and heard -- a click.
A click?!? Not good.
I tried again. Another click.
My brain raced. Corey's car is at the airport. (Baby screaming.) I don't know any of my neighbors. (Baby screaming.) I can call AAA, but by the time they get someone here, church will be over. (Mommy screaming.)
That's when I remembered Corey's battery charger. He bought it a couple of years ago, when we lived in The Country and had all sorts of battery-powered equipment that constantly needed a little somethin'-somethin'.
So what's a woman to do? I got out of the car, popped my lid, plugged in the charger, reminded myself to keep the negative and positive clamps separated lest we all go "boom!" and jump started my car.
Yeah baby. I'm all that. Natalie and Connor were duly impressed. Teyla just kept screaming, but I think they were screams of respect and admiration at that point.
It reminded me of something Garrison Keillor wrote many years ago, in an advice column for Salon. (Warning: Some slight inappropriateness is ahead. But -- well, it was published on Salon, a website not known for it's adherence to Victorian values. And it's worth it -- I promise.)
Dear Mr. Blue [Garrison's pen name],Garrison's political viewpoints are a sometimes tad wacky, but this column made me stand up straight and say loudly (even though I lived in California at the time), "Amen brother! I'm a Minnesota woman!"
I am looking for a woman who's really exceptional: smart, funny, good-looking, horny, loyal and strong. The women I've met so far aren't even close, but is it wrong to date them anyway, knowing there's no long-term future? Should I never go out with a woman if I think she's not "the one"? I don't want to "settle" for someone, but I also don't want to waste my time looking for perfection if it doesn't exist.
Looking
Dear Looking,
The exceptional women you seek are here in Minnesota. Smart, funny, good-looking, horny, loyal, strong -- that, plus blond, describes them to a T. They're all over the place; any man who could walk four blocks down Nicollet Avenue without falling in love with at least three women is either clinically depressed, or gay, or blind. Minnesota produces tall sinewy women who can paddle a canoe, handle an ax, dance the tango, manage money, write a paper on "Hamlet" and at the end of the day do things that make a man faint from ecstasy. If you can settle in Minnesota for a few months, you won't have to settle for anything less than perfection. If you're looking somewhere else, you're probably wasting your time.
Which, to me, really means, "I'm a strong, capable woman who loves her man and doesn't have to cut her own grass or change her own oil or fix the leaking sink. But I could, if I needed to."
Oh! And the car battery was dead again Monday morning when we were leaving for school. (Baby still screaming.) It took longer to jump it this time, for whatever reason. But because I'm a Minnesota woman, I eventually won the battle.
How about you? Is there anything you can do that makes you swell up like a puffer fish?
