Symbicort-fueled grumping

My chest seems to belong to a wrinkled old man named Leo hanging out on the docks behind the Sunnyside in Lasalle, a lifetime of smokes rattling around in there. Coming back to the city in full allergy season bloom means I've been sucking on my inhaler like, well, like some addictive substance a person sucks on. This wet mop needs-a-lung-brush feeling films over everything and my Monday is just mundanely grumpy. I'm grumpy that my cleaner turned into a petulant adolescent while I was away and not only didn't show up when she was supposed to (nothing like coming home to dustballs after a week away when you've been expecting shine), but spit defenses about it at me ("I couldn't remember what we agreed to! I was really busy and I worked at Dish three nights last week! I couldn't find your phone number because I got a new phone and the old one wasn't charged! It's really hard to fit you in now that it's only every three weeks! I didn't get your email! etc."). Classic example of a conversation bifurcation point -- what could have been: "I noticed you didn't come, is everything okay?" /"I'm so sorry I didn't make it and I didn't call you, I was crazy busy, I should have called you though" became "Are you sure you can fit this job in?" "Fine, I'll return your key then."

And thus worlds vanish in the blink of an eye.

She's coming today, but I'm grumpy because I have to go out and work in a coffee shop or the library until my 4:00 p.m. meeting, and really I just want to curl up on the couch with Theories of Human Development on my chest and snooze.

In the middle of all of this grumpiness, I skim the Globe headlines, procrastinating in my usual "is there REALLY nothing more to read in that 120 column series on life with children that Siobhan linked me to that's made me laugh so much?" absolutely pointless kind of way. Apparently, there are Australian miners trapped underground, and they can be communicated with but not yet freed. The first words of one of the trapped guys: Mr. Russell's first words to his rescuers were short and to the point. “It's [expletive] cold and cramped in here. Get us out,” he implored them.

Um, yeah. Kinda. What the hell else would he say? I remember years ago hearing a similar report about some people trapped in earthquake rubble after two or three days. Their first words? "Get me out of this rubble." This was reported with great gravity.

Seems about right to me. Maslow and the hierarchy of needs and all of that. And mine right now? A cup of good coffee from Moonbean and a winch to drag myself into some able-to-interact-with-the-world space.