The Day Feels Broken
I remember very vividly before the state of New Hampshire became the first state to implement a four-day work week.
“Hey, sweetie. How was your day?” Mom asked.
I almost never answer how was your day. But this time, I very excitedly told her, “They’re gonna pass a law that gives us a four-day week! I’m psyched!”
Mom groansed. “We get half days on Friday during the summer at work,” she rolled her eyes, “Trust me, it’s not what you think
“It's not?” I said, surprised. I couldn’t conceive of how a four-day week could be bad.
Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Well, we had half days on Friday all right, but only for the guys. We were doing all their work while they got to take off.”
I tipped my head to one side. “You've mentioned some of the girls at work doing stuff with their half days, haven't you?”
“That's because they dumped everything on me!” Mom exploded, “I never got to enjoy those Fridays. Instead of five 8-hour days, it turned into four 10-hour days!
“So, it was just more work?” I frowned. After thinking it over, I responded, “Shouldn’t the longer weekend give you time to decompress?”
“Grow up, Christina,” Mom scoffed loudly, “A three-day weekend will never make up for the mountain of work piling up, and that goes for your homework too, missy!”
That shut me up. That whole conversation made me realize that despite first impressions, four-day work weeks aren’t worth the burnout. It also made me a lot more hesitant to share what I originally perceived to be good news
The four-day work week is now here, and things have, predictably, gotten more chaotic. Today was supposed to be a half day, but Mom was stuck at work long after she’s usually home
I got hungry. The fridge was locked. I needed to make food.
We’ve had a lock on our fridge since Halloween. A trip to the grocery store to buy bags of candy ends with something scary: being broke.
I didn't know what caused the problem, but when we purchased the candy, Mom was down to her last $1.50. Granted, she was getting paid next week and we have other money in savings accounts, but still, it was distressing. How did she let the checking account balance get that low? Regardless, there is now a lock on our fridge.
I came up with a plan to get the fridge open. Our fridge was embedded next to the door frame. The male side of the lock was on the fridge door, the female side was on the wall. I got a screwdriver and removed the female side of the lock off the wall. In the process, I cracked the door frame.
I know how to fix it before Mom sees it; just fill the cracks with spackle and call it a day. This is not good. we are out of spackle
Sneaking out is a bit fraught. You can’t go to the places you normally go; you have to go somewhere different, where people don’t recognize you. I’ve had several life experiences that reinforce the message that different is rarely better.
I went to the hardware store across the street from the mall. I was still hungry so I got something to eat first. After eating, I got the spackle. It turned out to be easier than I expected. They didn't check IDs. The cashier didn’t even ask me what I broke that warranted sneaking out of the house to buy spackle.
Now, the trip back is usually where it goes wrong in movies, especially if the person is in possession of goods, stolen or otherwise. In real life, it’s easier because you can just retrace your steps.
Successfully getting stuff from the hardware store deserves a reward. After I bought the spackle, I left the hardware store, went to the T.J. Maxx, and bought these pumpkin spice caramel chocolates, and I think they’ve got bourbon in them. Obviously, they are leftovers from Thanksgiving. Normally, I’d say you’ve fucked up if you haven’t moved last year’s Thanksgiving merch by March, but the pumpkin flavour masked the bourbon really well. Usually, candies with alcohol in them have such poor quality alcohol in them that you want to spit them out, especially if the alcohol in question is bourbon.
What happened next should not have happened, and not just socially. The amount of alcohol in your average booze chocolate isn’t enough to get a 170 pound adolescent female drunk. Why the amount of alcohol in the candies got me drunk remains a mystery. I know for a fact I don’t have auto-brewery syndrome because I’ve eaten sweets before without getting drunk, so what gives?
Regardless, prank time started. At Louis BonBon, I made a trail of orange juice on the floor to the bathrooms. Next I went to Benetton, where I walked up to an employee and told him in an official tone, “I think we have a code 3 in menswear” and watched the floor associates run around like chickens with no heads chasing down a nonexistent shoplifter. I went into Barnes and Noble and moved a CAUTION WET FLOOR sign to a carpeted area. I hid in the clothing rack at Dior and said, “Pick me! Pick me!” as people browsed.
I hit a snag when I got to the Gucci store. They were not pleased to see somebody enter the fitting room and loudly yell, “Why won’t this flush?” They actually called mom to come and get me. Mall security came by and warned me if the monkey business continued, that I would be permanently banned from the mall.
She was not happy about me getting drunk off of candy. She was even less happy about the door frame. And trust me, it went beyond money.
As it turned out, damaging the door frame put a significant dent in a load bearing wall. Thanks to the crack, part of the wall disintegrated. Not only is anything supported by that wall now at risk of a cave-in, an arm fell out of the hole.
This is not good. This is really not good.
