The schedule was supposed to run like this. I was supposed to leave in time to get to the plasma center at the crack of eight or before. Giving plasma takes about two hours; the third hour is transit time both ways, and the fourth hour is delays. So I would get out of there at ten or sooner, and catch the bus home, half an hour, and be there by 10:30, or 10:45-ish at the latest. I would skid in, and Marx would skid out by 10:55 to catch his bus to school.
Even with all the delays, I was still home at 10:50. And no one was home.
Fuming, I figured what must have happened -- the incomparable pair of males must have gone to find me at school, where I was not. I was cursing them (well, the leader of the pack) and myself for miscommunication. And Marx's bus to get him to school on time was due any moment. I strode angrily toward school, muttering inside my head all the way, scaring the pigeons and not speaking to passerby. My watch beeped the hour against my wrist bones as I crossed the street: eleven. No bus yet, but no partner's partner and no kid either.
I spotted him across the parking lot of the strip mall as I marched toward school. There he was, with all his school gear -- and yes, the Little Fayoumis in tow. We collided with yells (me first, screaming that I was not in school today, and him screaming at me to not scream at him) and the situation was quickly resolved as yes, a miscommunication, with the Little Fayoumis's mistaken impression at the heart of it. Little Fayoumis said I was at school today. That was his guess, not me telling him. If there is a next time, I am guessing that there is going to be a "Did she tell you that she was going to school, or did she leave and you think she is at school?" small interrogation.
I think that Marx got on his bus all right. He strode off in the direction of the Red Line stop in front of the Kyoto Bowl. I marched for the intersection, still steaming. Little Fayoumis was informed that I was grouchy at everybody: him, Marx, and me too, and that was mostly because I was just plain grouchy. He knows grouchy. He knows that when Aunt Joanie is grouchy, she is just grouchy, and the best thing to do is to leave her strictly alone.
And now we're home. I'm in my room, not speaking until I stop feeling like yelling (mostly); the Little Fayoumis is wandering around amusing himself. I'll probably try calling Darkside later. I have to go to school later to see to some scheduling fuckups. Joy. With the Little Fayoumis in tow, in the Arizona fucking spring fucking heat. Joooooooyyyyy.
This post has been fueled by bad schedules, not enough sleep, school stress (native and communicable), job stress (ditto), not enough hugs, not enough Darkside, and a raging case of PMS. I'm now able to distinguish PMS from suicidal depression, yay me!