Don't say I didn't warn you

I am a stay-at-home mom, largely isolated from the sanity-preserving effects of adult interaction. I operate on Mama Standard Time. I spend an embarrassing amount of time reading the grocery flyers and am addicted to Y&R. Despite having provided myself with a university education, I spend much of my day blabbering in babytalk.

Sometimes, however, my world collides with Everyone Else. It is at such times that a sign like this would come in handy, like a warning label. I'm sure my neighbor and the mail carrier would've been grateful for it.

The problem is, since my clock is set to MST, my schedule is skewed. I may just be getting out of the shower at 4 pm or still in my pajamas at lunchtime.

Or giving myself an armpit wax in front of my bedroom window (that conveniently overlooks the front walk) because I need the natural lighting, then seeing a much-awaited package arrive tucked under the arm of the mailman. I hurredly yanked on some clothes while cowering in the shadows of my bedroom and ran for the door.

Then, in true idiot fashion, I stood there gabbing with the guy about my recent trip to DisneyWorld while I signed the delivery slip. My waxy fingers goobered up his pen, and while sheepishly apologizing I reached up to push my hair out of my face. I stood there, still jabbering on about Mary Poppins as I yanked my hand free.

See, I was that desperate for adult conversation.

Now, when the mail guy sees me, he winks and smirks a little.

Then there was my poor neighbor who came by unannounced to drop off some squash he promised me. He caught me sleeping in after a night up with Kye and the flu. The doorbell rang, I foolishly stumbled to the door in my grotty Molson Canadian Tshirt and skivvies, squinted through the side window, caught his eye, reacted in horror, raced to the bedroom, frantically put on the first thing I found, patted my hair down, and casually sauntered to the door pretending like nothing happened.

He doesn't bring by any more squash.