Monday Morning Amnesia

Like a ton of icy, panic-coated bricks, it hit me about halfway between home and work: I had missed my Monday morning meeting again. Accelerating slightly, my stomach twisted itself into a Gordian knot as the dread sunk its claws deep into my gut.

This wasn’t the first time I’d missed the meeting. Just last week, my boss had commented on my consistently missing this meeting.

But can you blame me? I mean, come on. The thing is scheduled at 8:00 AM, on Monday morning. This is, without a doubt, the worst possible choice for a business meeting time.

If it was scheduled for Tuesday, Wednesday or any other day of the work week, I’d be fine: I’d have Monday morning to regroup and be reminded of my obligation. Even if it was Monday afternoon I’d be okay. Or even Monday at 10:00 AM: I’d still have an hour or two to re-acclimate myself to the sea of cubicles and arrive at the point where I remember who I am and what it is I do here.

But to perch an essential meeting snugly up against the leeward side of the weekend is madness.

For by this time, I will have endured two entire days plus one evening of Michael and his sisters systematically erasing my brain cells.

This weekend was particularly heinous, in that I had all of the kids with me, each with their own individual life essence-sucking skills, a major holiday involving transporting and/or keeping track of children, copious amounts of sugar ingested by said children, and no wife to provide backup, as she has to work every other weekend (her weekend tale itself described an entirely new circle of hell). My mom was in town, and she was a big help in distracting Michael and inspiring the girls to rise from the couch for a time to provide a token offering of assistance, but the kids are very skilled at targeting their strength-ebbing beams at the parent on duty. Michael was no slacker in this effort, in his element as a whirling vortex of random acts of destruction and mayhem. By Sunday night I was so thoroughly mind-wiped that I recall neither ascending the stairs nor clambering into bed.

Weekends are very effective at causing me to completely lose any and all thoughts of my bill-paying livelihood. The fact that I can actually drive myself to work and find my office after a weekend is a major miracle. To expect me to perform intelligently is beyond reason. And to expect me to remember something work-ish when I’m not actually at work is nuts.

So naturally, upon reaching my office this morning (fully ten minutes after the meeting had concluded), I booted up my computer to be greeted by this email (click to enlarge):

Yes, my boss noticed my absence. I had to reply with a tail-between-the-legs sort of response stating what actions I’d take to ensure that I would not miss another meeting.

Michael’s mommy called me shortly afterward, and I ashamedly mentioned my little faux pas. She later emailed me a sign she’d created for me that she will be taping to the shower door, the refrigerator door, the computer screen, the milk carton, the TV remote and my cordless drill. “Don’t forget your meeting!”

I dare say I won’t. I might forget my name, but I won’t forget the meeting.

They say that a man shouldn’t bring his work home with him. I don’t think I’ll ever be accused of that. My work doesn’t stand a chance in my house.