Yesterday was the first full day of my SAHM summer existence. I have always been a little skittish about being home all day every day with my kid, mainly because I am a kind of off the charts extrovert to the point that I kind of get a natural buzz when I’m around two or more friends and feel downright drunk when at a party where I know most of the people.

Because of that, I was amazed when I woke up at 6:30 ready to get up. I think that’s happened maybe twice in my WHOLE LIFE. I got up and made breakfast. Made. As in, a toaster was involved. And eggs. Man, that was a bitch to clean up.

I JEST. I made scrambled eggs on the stove and toasted toast and we also had cantaloupe that I had cut up the day before. It was so wholesome and Leave-It-To-Beaver-esque!

But it gets even more bizarre. I washed the breakfast dishes. This bears repeating. I Washed. The. Breakfast. Dishes. And a fact that Lorso can confirm heartily is that since we have lived in this dishwasherless house, I have washed dishes maybe one time. That is because in order to get me to agree to live in a bathtubless, dishwasherless house, Lorso promised that he would be the dishwasher always. Then I made him put it in writing and sign it with blood.

Anyway, the rest of the day followed in the same alternate-universe fashion. I did chore-like things, cleaned out Bug’s room, and took the car in for service. And then I hit the wall.

Walking back from the Goodyear at the mall with Bug, I realized that I was bone-tired. And it was only ten till ten. Suddenly being home for the rest of the day had this ominous, foreboding kind of feeling. My steps grew heavy.

And then like a shining beacon, the QT gas station appeared on the horizon. So we stopped in for some cold drinks.

While we were in line to check out, a guy TOTALLY grabbed a case of Corona Light and took off out the door. Without missing a beat the little 45-year old cashier behind the register scaled the counter in one motion and chased the guy on foot through the parking lot. I gawked. Bug was fascinated. “Mama, why did that guy run?”

The lady behind me in line answered him, “‘Cause he a damn fool. What’s he think he’s gon’ do if he catches that man? Dumbest thing I ever did see.”

A minute later the cashier came back in, huffing and puffing, beerless. “Good try,” I said, hoping I would cheer him up. We took our drinks and left. As we walked out of the parking lot I wondered where that guy had gone with that heavy box of beer bottles. He easily could have run to our street, which is right next to the gas station. I started thinking of scenarios in which I ran into him carrying the stolen beer on our walk home. How awesome would it be, I thought, if I apprehended the guy and dragged him back to the QT triumphant? I would be a local hero. “SAHM Catches Alcohol Thief By Soaking Him With Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, Telling Him He Should Be Ashamed Of Himself.” I had visions of waddling back to the store with the guy by the scruff of his neck.

It didn’t happen though. I didn’t see him or the beer. But I went back home with a renewed vigor. Because I thought, shoot, if duties of a SAHM include “Beer Vigilante” then obviously it’s a job I was MADE FOR.