I am not in a coma. And my post office peeve.

Well, I hit 20K today, which is about 25%, and I just had a glass of wine to celebrate. It was Gruener Veltliner, incidentally, not the Riesling with undertones of turpentine and a strong plastic finish I tried to drink the other night. And it was quite nice with the lemon pepper salmon.

But word counts aside, I’m not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. In fact, I am almost embarrassed to admit that I fell asleep sprawled across a metal mesh picnic table at Abby’s school. I have no idea how many people saw me drooling, but I shudder to think. (Ian’s been waking up in the middle of the night the last few nights, reminding me — as if I needed a reminder — of why I am happy with two, and only two, kids.) In fact, if it hadn’t started sprinkling, I’m pretty sure I’d still be in a semi-coma at the school playground, with the kids seeing how much pea gravel they could fit into my ears before I woke up.

But with the help of the rain and a few shoves from Abby, I did manage to pry myself up (I still have mesh marks on my left cheek). And this evening, while I was frying up a flank steak and a couple of salmon filets — it was another what-fell-out-of-the-freezer night chez MacInerney — Maggie Sefton called, which was an unexpected delight. Truth be told, I forgot to call her this morning, due to my sleep-deprivation-induced haze. But she forgave me, and told me about her great trip to New York, meeting all the bigwigs and impressing the socks off them. Her books are selling like hotcakes. I’m so happy for her; she’s worked so hard for so long, and it’s wonderful to see good things coming her way.

And something about that last paragraph made me think of another thing I wanted to talk about. Why, I don’t know, but since I spent a good forty-five minutes waiting in line (with mesh prints on my face and two bored and active children hanging from me like ripe fruit), I guess it’s still a bit fresh in my mind.

Traditionally, there is a long wait at post offices. Like, twenty to twenty-five minutes at the least, if you go to the one I go to. What I want to know is, would it be too much to ask that one use this time for things like, say, selecting the envelope one would like to use for one’s correspondence? Or, perhaps, writing the address of the intended recipient on said envelope? Or maybe even investigating the certified/return receipt requested options before approaching the desk with six piles of paper whose intended destinations include Tasmania, Hong Kong and East Burlington, Timbuktu?

Ah, well. Next time, I’ll just bring a paperback — and about forty lollipops for my kids. They can stick the half-eaten ones to the bottoms of the people with stacks of certified mail for Tasmania, who are on their cell phones trying to make sure they’ve got the right zip code.

I’m off to make sure my son doesn’t drown himself in the tub.

How was your day?