Moods and messes.
Thursday and Friday I wasn’t in the best of moods.
It all started when I awoke to the “aroma” of a sewer filled with throw-up and cat cr@p. Fortunately, I didn’t touch, step in, nor did my hair fall into the pile that was inches from my head.
Let me explain how my bed works:
Once upon a time, there was a 40 year old woman who laughed about the bed that her 3rd husband’s sister slept in. Basically, it was a piece of foam and a couple of mats on the floor. Oh…how funny! Why would someone do something that ridiculous…yada yada.
And then, one day she found that no mattress, regardless of expense, provided the comfort she needed. That was the day she was ever so happy that husband #5 needed the same thing — in another room — as both snored so loudly that they’d wake each other up.
So Karma’s latest victim grabbed several moving blankets, laid them on the floor, put a comforter on top of the stack, sheets on top of that, and had the best night’s sleep ever!
My hair is almost to my waist and it usually rests behind the pillow, exactly at the place where chunks of dog chow and what looked to be spider parts floated in an oily goo.
Oh, but it didn’t end there.
Nooooo. Karma has had her eye on me for months, waiting until the right moment to strike. Were it not for the smell, the pile in front of my doorway would’ve found my left shoe. Ditto for the pile by the bathroom door.
I looked at the Dingo Dog and asked, “What the hell did you eat?”
He looked at me like this and whimpered:
I stroked this bundle of misery, grabbed an entire roll of paper towels, wandered into the bedroom, and discovered a pile I missed that was running down the side of my bed.
The casualties included 2 blankets, and the sheets. Fortunately, I still had a plastic protector covering the bottom layer from the time Errrr dog was incontinent.
Living with pets is not for the feint of heart. If you can’t clean up 4 piles of noxiousness, scrape mystery chunks off the bedspread before putting it into the washer, and then make yourself breakfast…please! Don’t get a dog!
Next stop was the shower, and then to work. Nope. I was swatted by a cat — his way of saying, “My breakfast is late!”
Who do you think decided to stand next to me begging for food?
You guessed it!
By this time, I’m late for work. Then, I get to work and my appointment doesn’t show up. Three hours later, the next appointment doesn’t show up, either.
So I marched into the supervisors office and said, “She has rescheduled three times!”
The supervisor said, “She was here at 7:30am and told me she had a meeting with you.”
The “she” we were referring to, wandered into her bosses office and was asked , “Why aren’t you at her (finger pointing at me) office for your meeting?”
And I quote:“Meeting? What meeting?”
It was plain to see by the employee’s half open eyes, and an inability to put together an entire sentence, that she’s two brain cells away from becoming a zombie. That’s what happens when you have to work a 12 hour shift because the employee who was supposed to be there for night duty didn’t show up.
Part of me was thankful I only had to clean up dog vomit instead of working a 12 hour shift where I’d be required to clean up anything that residents expelled from their bodies.
For the entire day, I wandered around the office talking to myself, forgetting what I was doing — in the middle of doing it — and thinking: Why am I here?
It made me wonder what kind of toxic waste lurked inside whatever Dingo ingested and if, by any chance, Ms. Whatmeeting had a dogs at home, too.