Terrible Tuesdays and Mr. Big

I'm beginning to notice a trend. If I have a day that is harried, frenetic, involves major mechanical failure of my car, clothes washer, or water supply to the house - it's a Tuesday. Is there some sort of cosmic plot to make that day horrendously difficult for some of us?

Yesterday happened to be one of those days for me. My car battery died not once, but twice. I had let the battery drain all night and when I finally got my car jumped (after frantic calls to friends to come take the kids to school so they wouldn't be late for their AIMS testing) I immediately turned the car off and went into the house. Seems I didn't know you should drive the car around a bit and let the engine run for a while so the battery won't die again. Which mine did, just before I had to get Jacob from kindergarten and get ready for a job interview.

I interviewed yesterday for a part-time (very part-time) job. I did this after a day where I had sweat my way through several t-shirts, made phone calls where I sounded like a prank caller because somewhere along the line I have lost most of my voice - I sound like Kathleen Turner after twelve packs of ciggies - and wrangled yet another friend to drive to my house out in the country and jump my car.

The interview went really well, but I have to make a decision. Do I want to work for a company where the Big Boss happens to be my husband? Where the executive who interviewed me for this job seemed almost nervous around me? It made me think back to times I had wanted to die laughing, throw up, or punch Bob in the back because of his position.

Like when I was in labor with Jack. I was stumbling through the hospital hallways trying to get my reluctant cervix to dilate when I heard some of the nurses at the nurses station look at Bob as he walked past them and they giggled. One of them said, "Do you know who that was?" I had gone into labor during the work hours, so Bob was still in Executive Wear. Meanwhile, when I had lumbered past them in excruciating agony from the eight pound baby getting ready to work his way out...nada. It made me want to feign some terrible pregnancy pain and fall onto them, my will causing my water to break all over their pink and green crocs. So much for will.

Or the time when an employee of his approached me and the kids at a function. She seemed a little breathless around Bob, and I was standing very, very still so that I wouldn't involuntarily snort, roll my eyes, or push her to the ground. Which was even more difficult when she looked at my daughter and asked, "What's it like?"

My daughter, younger at the time, looked at her blankly and said, "What's what like?"

"Living with your father," she replied.

Yeahhhhhh. Goood times. Which explains the question in my interview yesterday as to why I would want to work there. Why did I want to go to work? The implication was clear: Why would you leave your velvet chaise at home, your silver urn of chocolates, and the cushy life as "Stay at Home Wife to Mr. Big" for a job at the hospital?

I had prepared for that question. Bob had prepared me for that question. But still, the answer on my lips was not the answer I was supposed to give. I wanted to look this coiffed, professional woman in the eyes and screech, "Have you met my husband? Do you know how many kids I have? Do you know if I am gone for part of the weekends this man has promised to do laundry and keep the kids happy? Well, DO YOU?"

Instead, I smiled blandly and said, "I believe every woman should work, whether it be five or fifty hours a week."

So there.