My day sucked. You may have grasped that by the title. Although I suppose to be clear I should say my day that sucked actually started the night before. I promise I will get back to my regular program of exploring the fun that is bipolar disorder, reactive attachment disorder, neurotypical childhood and the Mom trying to keep everyone alive, but today I am writing about suckage.
I like to stay up late. I have always been a "night" person and have gained a multi- state reputation for my violent opposition to mornings. I putter around the house enjoying the quiet and the dark. I sit, undisturbed, reading web sites and blogs by the hundreds while my cats fight over who is going to get the coveted position behind my head. It was about 11:30 this particular evening when I decided to wrap it up. I had retrieved my sippy cup (so the cats don't drink my water in the night), my supply of butter pretzels to snack on while I watch a little go- to- sleep- tv and Marlon Jackson, my beloved hot water bottle for my bed. (I have to thank kate for that hot water bottle suggestion. Marlon has changed my life and I love it more than beer. I owe you a bunch kate!).
Anyway, I progressed into my bedroom and started to set up my little corner. I smelled something. However, anyone who has ever shared a bedroom with a man who has the flu already knows those, er, *unusual* smells. So the funk did not surprise me and I just sighed and expected I would probably get used to it in a few minutes. I did not.
As I was pulling my sheets and blankets and bedding around to where I like it all, I noticed the smell was much more pervasive than I originally thought. In fact, I was starting to wonder if I could sleep in a room where that smell was living. My brain was collecting information from my senses and providing me an answer that I did not want. Poop. The smell I was smelling was poop. And I should point out right away that the smell was not emanating from The Husband. Thankfully. But where?
Ugh. I discovered as I was nesting my bedding a small turd patty clinging to the edge of the main blanket. Horror. Sheer horror. The screenwriter for the movie Saw is likely to steal this storyline for Saw37. Sleep standing next to your bed or sleep with the turd. My cat had squishy poo that day and I can only imagine how that dingleberry must have clung to his butt up from the litter box and into my bed. HORROR!
By now I am so tired. This is how it goes. I stay up late and leave a bunch of tasks to the last minute, for which I have to stay up longer to complete. Then I am exhausted and I start to shut down quickly. So I actually thought for a few minutes that I could relocate the offending turd and get back in my bed. It did not work. While the turd was gone, the funk was not. So I began a sniff test on other parts of the bedding. Yep. Poop smell. Right up top on the blanket that I pull over myself. Dangit. I was still in denial though and thought I could remove the offensive blanket with the poo residue on it, run it and it's stink down to the laundry and still go to bed, eat my pretzels, play angry birds (I am freaking STUCK on 7- 11) and go to sleep. I collected (stole) some of the girls clean bedding and proceeded to make myself a new nest. I pull those blankets back to get in the bed and by bloody jingo, the smell is back! WTF?
I have these pretty white flannel sheets with black and gray snowflakes on them. It is notable that there are no brownish- yellowy snowflakes. So when I saw a brownish yellow stain I knew this ordeal was not over. For the love of purina man, what was going on here? And more importantly, now what the heck was I going to do? I have poo stain on my bottom sheet and it is oddly positioned exactly below the place where I put my head on the pillow. Options run through my brain, options designed to save me from having to wake up my sick husband who was sleeping like a slashed Redwood tree. Nothing. There was nothing I could live with.
Now debilitated, I unraveled the fitted sheet from its corner and rolled the whole thing away from myself. I then covered and covered until nary a speck of poo dust could spring loose. I glared at my cat and stomped all the way back to the laundry room again. Finally I could settle in and be done.
I am using this event to pinpoint the beginning of my day that sucked.
Next morning, I have salt face. You know, where you ingest way to many salty foods and your eyes get puffy. Nice. My eyelids have already collapsed over my eyelash ridge due to years going by and my Dad's genetics, now they are going to obscure my vision. Yes I know I should have learned by now not to binge when I already have PMS. What I learned is that I don't care all that much. Salt face is a small price to pay for the enjoyment of a pile of butter pretzels right before bed, when one is suffering from PMS.
I go to Target to pick up a few essentials. Something really strange happened. I mean, weird. I decide to grab some vitamin water to drink right then and there, since I am wicked dehydrated. There are rows and columns of the brand I like but, and this is so bizarre, the kind I wanted was gone. Like a vitamin water tornado had come through and annihilated every single bottle of only the kind I like. They were fully stocked on the other types. However, I did not need all those silly ones like "positive attitude" or "make nicey nice". I needed the dang energy kind from being up late changing bedding. Gah. Nothing. Not one bottle.
I moved on to the cookies. As noted in a recent post, there is a particular type of cookie that I love. I don't remember what it is called but it is like a double chocolate chunk brownie cookie. Mmmm, Pavlovian drool response right here and now. Ok, so here is the thing. Rows and rows of every type of stupid cookie the brand makes, except the one I want.
Wha' ? The fu'...?
I am now irritated and pissy on top of being exhausted and dehydrated. I stomped off to the breakfast food-impersonation aisle and aim for the toaster tart sort of things. No I am serious, it is like someone who hates me went in ahead and cleaned out the store of anything good. No brown sugar and cinnamon flavor tart thingies. Huge empty spot on the shelf. Should I be looking for camera's? Has someone got ahold of my receipts from the past 15 years and collected everything I like off the shelves? Is Ashton here? (heh heh, that would be just fine, bring it on big boy!).
No Ashton, and this really sucks. I move on to the aisles with the other stuff I need. Plenty of contact lens solution. No lack of dish detergent. Tissues in all brands. Sure.
Once home I checked my email right away as I always do, to see if anything nice is in there.
Nothing. Nice. At. All.
Teacher email. Need I say more? Well, as to the contents I do.
It was noon when she wrote. My daughter had already gone through the clothes she wore that day, the extra clothes I sent with her, and a set of clothes the school keeps for emergencies. Pea. I indulged in some self pity. Then I indulged in some pity for her. The other kids have caught on and in fact have reported incidents to the teacher. This is a stigma she may never shake and she just a little 7 year old girl. I can't take it and I almost vomit thinking about her rotten choices as an unstable child that will surely stick with her for years. There is no medical problem if anyone is wondering. She has had UTI's in the past, but I keep home tests and take her pea to the doctors lab often, and that is not what this is. I decided she is getting some value out of this at school and yanked her out of class towards the end of the day. I can't and won't do that every time, but she just cannot go pea-ing on the school. There are other students to think about too. I have consulted her psych, her pediatrician, her former therapist, the school and anyone else that may have an idea. They do not have any better idea's than what we already do. Back to plan D.
Of course, my dear daughter is not about to accept my decision for her without some wango tango. More suckage.
BUT THEN....... wait........ it's Tuesday! Tuesday night of the Knitting Kninja's and I get to see my little friends and vent and freak out and they will get it and they will pull me back from the edge! I left the house and may well have broken 9 or so traffic laws getting away from my house! I don't have anything to knit! I don't care! And because it is Sarah's birthday, our beloved Angie made her a cake! And I tell you, if Angie makes you a cake you should just go ahead and wear your expandable pants.
Ahhh. So my day ended well, if you were to count a 24 hour rotation as a day even though the night was sort of in the middle and not an anchor at the beginning or end. Cake, friends, coffee drinks and knitting. The day repented. No turd patties on the bed when I got home. No unusual, or permeating- but- usual, smells. Today, so far so good.