Monday, May 9, 2011

Understandable Confusion

Rojo had a busy weekend. Wanted to take his shower early Sunday evening, 6:00 PM, get into jammies and watch TV until bed. I was all for it. Got awfully quiet around here - even when he's watching TV, he's noisy. Humming. Tapping. Making do-do-do sounds to the tune of college fight songs, and my personal favorite, ring tones. Kicking the sides of whatever is near him.

I decided to take advantage of the bonus time and watch an episode of "Glee" on my computer, streamed instantly from Netflix. Have a love-hate relationship with "Glee." Don't love all the special ed./short bus jokes. Don't love that so much that I've almost stopped watching the show entirely, but there's enough going for it that I stick with it. If special ed was the only subject of jokes, and if the jokes weren't meant to make the jokers look ridiculous, I'd really have a very big problem, but that's sort of the point, I think, that those kids/people so much of society disregards, can really rock it when they all come together.

Anyway, back to Rojo. I went downstairs about an hour later and he stumbled down the stairs shortly after. Hair full of bed head, dingy look in his eyes, clearly confused. "What time am I going to school?"

"Tomorrow?" I asked.

"No, today. It's 7:10, what time do I have to go to school?"

"Honey, it's Sunday night. It's 7:10 PM. You are going to school tomorrow, on Monday. I think you fell asleep, but it's not morning, that was just a nap."

"I did not fall asleep,"he said. He looked around the house, looked at the clocks, searching for a tell tale AM or PM indicator. Looked outside at the daylight. Looked at me and say that I was wearing the very same clothes from "yesterday," and still he insisted it was Monday morning.

Took me ten minutes to convince him otherwise.

I think I know what it was. It was the clothes. It would be very hard for anyone to get their bearings on what day/month/year it is by looking at me. That's because I wear a uniform. It's called black lycra sweat pants, a jog bra, and one of about three Nike sport shirts. Usually a black fleece jacket is involved. So "usually" that STM calls it "the"jacket, as in, "Oh, I see you're wearing the jacket."

The other day I came out from getting dressed and said to STM, "Are you as tired of my clothes as I am?"

"Yes," he said with nary a pause. "I'm tired of 48% of them."

Well, I am not about to replace 48% of my clothes, way too lazy/cheap/practical to do that, but I am going to go way out on a limb and buy myself one nice pair of jeans that actually fit. I brought in my friend, Nancy, the perfect person for the job. She cleared her calendar and is picking me up in a couple of hours. (Think she's tired of 48% of my clothes, too.)

I think they'll look great with the jacket.

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