Hippity Sloppity

I am completely soaked when I finish my 10 mile trek, and will have to scramble to get to all of my obligations on time. And I still have to cut some daffodils from my yard for Dad's grave. Should be a blast in the rain...the flower cutting AND the graveside. Yippee.

I race home, cut the flowers, tie a ribbon around them, jam them in a pint glass full of water so they don't immediately wilt while I shower. I have weapons-grade BO and need to stand in a steaming, scalding shower to return to an acceptable human condition recognizable by other humans. There will 19 of us gathered at dinner. It's the least I can do not to smell like I've slept in a landfill.

The weather woes return while I scour myself with lye, and I am dismayed to learn that I will look like an ass if I wear my plucky Spring outfit out in the schmutz. Sleeveless and flowing florals will need to be replaced by something more grim and dismal. And to do so will add to the dwindling prep time needed to be fabulous and on time for dinner.

I wrap my hair in something typically used to dry vehicles at the car wash and begin to rifle through my closet for something casual but not slummy, cute but not showy, flattering but not flirtatious. I have nothing.

Eventually I pull on the mustard skinny corduroys I just had altered to the tune of 35 dollars and 3 weeks of being out of commission. I am actually grateful to be able to wear them, since the tailor was probably wearing them herself for the remainder of the corduroy season. I find a plum sweater and coordinate accessories while my hair gets the life soaked out of it and becomes a tumbleweed. I rub some styling lotion through the raffia-like strands and begin to spackle and paint my face.

Eventually I am prepared to leave. I grab the pint of daffodils, the plant I got for my cousin, the bottle of wine I stashed in the freezer to bring to a reasonable drinking temperature, and head out into the weather with an ankle-length rain coat covering all but my feet. Fetching.

The rain mercifully stops while I visit my Dad's grave. A few hurried prayers and a few tearful sentences to Dad and then I am off to my cousin's breaking the land speed record and trying to listen to my Google Maps backseat driver.

And as I drive I get a text. But not from Craig.

From Scott.