I have a scary problem with days.

What I'm saying is that I'll wake up and think it's another day.

Case in point: Last month I woke up on a Sunday morning, and upon looking at my alarm clock and seeing it a little past 6 a.m. (the time I normally leave the house for my 45 min commute), I jumped up (more like tumbled out) and started feverishly brushing my teeth trying to whip up an acceptable-outfit-to-wear image in my head so that I wouldn't have to blindly rummage through my closet. Mid-spit, it dawned on me that it was Sunday morning, not Monday morning (I had a flashback of preparing snack for my Toddler Sunday School class the night before) and I angrily yet disorientedly tried (but failed) to go back to sleep.

Fast-forward to this past weekend. I just knew that a certain dinner party I had been invited to was Saturday night. I got all ready, bought a bottle of sparkling cider (for the teetotalers like myself) and a Publix-made Boston Creme Cake. You couldn't tell me that the party was not that night. Upon my arrival, the hostess greeted me in her jammies and regretfully informed me that the party was the night before.

Wait . . . come again? I'mmmmm sorry? ::perplexed blinking and head shake:: Then it dawned on me. The last minute invitation she emailed me which said "The party is tomorrow night" was sent on Thursday night. My weird self, not bothering to check the date, read the email on Friday morning and assumed that it was also sent Friday morning. So "tomorrow night" registered in my mind as Saturday night.

I felt like idiota of idiotas and could barely staunch the deluge of manic apologies that came flowing out of my mouth, but she ended up inviting me to stay and she whipped up some lovely pasta carbonara and a salad, we sipped sparkling cider and finished things off with Boston Creme Cake. Um, all's well that ends well?