Brew Day

This morning I did not wake up on the wrong side of the bed.

More like walked out of the wrong side of the bathroom, or pushed the wrong side of the coffee button, or flipped the wrong side of the eggs. But whatever it was, it was the wrong side of something, because it wasn't long before I was borderline livid about everything, and it was hardly 7:30 am, not near enough time for me to react badly to anything, because nothing had time to happen yet.

Today was Brew Day, the day my husband's home-brew beer club gets together to, well, brew beer. Venue: Our house. From 10 am until sunset. I could see the sideways digital eyeballs blinking at me between the 9 and the 40 on the microwave. The kitchen--soon to be brewing labratory--was still a mess from the amazing dinner I managed to whip up after doing the dishes TWO times yesterday. I could sense my hair mimicking the shape of my pillow. The baby was getting hungry. The hubby was getting hungry. And I had only managed to eek out my beautifully handwritten to-do list before having to come to terms with the above, but I knew I wouldn't get far before I stopped and read the writing on the wall.

No, make that the paper. Man, that was some nice handwriting. A little too nice. See, I've figured out myself well enough to realize that whenever my handwriting looks extra nice, it's usually because I'm trying to be exacting and controlling, and if things don't go my way perfectly, there will be a fallout of some degree. I could feel the bubbles of aggravation already flowing through my coffee-deprived veins, and I still had about 30 seconds left of sanity to deal with myself before I dealt it out, whether it was to Aaron, Gwenivere, or our brewing guests. Perhaps not in a colossal blow-up kind of way, but in a way that just puts a subtle, inexplicable cloud over that beautiful Inland Empire sunshine.

I knew my attitude could make or break the day.

To be continued, because it's 11:42 pm and I'm old...