Now that a little more than a week has passed, I’m ready to share with the world the sh** show that was my life last Monday. Bear in mind that this post is long, has no pictures, and involves animal excrement, as well as a trip into the insane world that is my mind. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Most of last Monday was a bit of a blur. Alarm went off at 5:10am. Up at 5:15. Out of the house before 6:10 and in to work before 7. Woooooork. Drive to the city. Workout. Drive to Oakland. Off to Michaels and Target. Home at 7pm.
Take the dog out — nothing. Back inside to start dinner. Prepare and roast a chicken with carrots and potatoes. This takes more effort than dinner usually does because I’ve only roasted a chicken twice before. (One of those times I actually roasted the chicken upside down on accident. I’m a genius.)
Take the dog out again — success! #2. (Sorry, I know it’s TMI, but it’s all part of the story.) Back into the house, where she promptly pees in the kitchen, partially on the rug I’ve JUST washed the day before. Clean that up, toss the rug downstairs for laundering.
Dishes, more dishes, Windexing countertops because I’m terrified of getting salmonella from the raw chicken. Two trips downstairs and outside to take the garbage out because it’s garbage day.
Finally a moment to think. Set up flowers purchased at Michaels around the house. Try out some of the Target makeup I’ve purchased — the lipstick is hideous and makes me look like a clown. Sigh.
Clean up the house a bit. Feed the dog. Feed the cat (she does not come down from her perch on our bed upstairs). Fine.
9pm: Chicken’s done. Dinner in front of the TV as Penny (the dog) whines at me through her crate.
9:30pm: text KC. He’s working late, won’t be home til probably 11pm. Pack up the leftovers from dinner. Deglaze the roasting pan on the stove to make it easier to clean. Do MORE dishes. Set up coffee for tomorrow morning.
Finally, it’s time to get ready for bed. Crate the pup again, she whines. Set up the dishwasher to run overnight (since it’s portable and hooks up to the kitchen sink.) Trudge upstairs and hop in the shower.
All showered, I put on PJ’s, plug in my phone, then remember the dishwasher. Back downstairs to turn it on. Back upstairs.
10:30pm: “Good for me,” I think, “getting to bed before 11pm. I’ll get at least 6 hours of sleep tonight.” I climb into bed.
Not one second after climbing into bed, I realize the sheets are… wet. I jump out of bed in horror and start peeling back blankets. Sure enough — CAT PEE. EVERYWHERE.
Seuss (our cat), who is both pissed at and terrified of the new puppy, has decided to turn our bed into her personal litterbox to express her displeasure at KC and I adopting our newest family member. OH. MY. GOD. I grab my phone and call KC in a panic. He’s somewhat sympathetic, but is on his way home from a 15 hour workday in Menlo Park. There’s nothing he can do; he won’t be home for close to an hour.
Our house is cold at night, so we’ve got sheets, 3 quilts, a comforter, and a top blanket on the bed. I rip the top blanket and comforter off first — they’ve probably had the worst of it. I gather the three heavy quilts and take three trips running them down to the basement laundry room, cursing because I JUST washed them. They only fit one at a time in our washer, so in goes the first one, along with a healthy dose of bleach. Back upstairs, I pull off the sheets and ball them up. They’re new, but they’ve started pilling, so whatever, I’ll just toss them.
I feel around on the mattress pad to see if this mess has soaked through. It has, but just barely. I rotate the entire mattress pad (it’s made of memory foam and quite heavy, so frankly, it’s a feat for someone of my size), so the offending area is near the bottom of the bed. Then it’s back down to the basement to retrieve a rag soaked in bleach — I use this to blot the area on the mattress pad in the hopes that whatever insane chemicals make up bleach will kill any memory of what has happened here tonight.
It’s now time to assess the damage. The comforter is probably salvageable; but it was cheap and it’s not worth cleaning, so I decide it needs to be thrown out. I can’t tell if the top blanket was affected yet, because it doesn’t cover the whole bed — ugh, yes, it was. I grab it to take down to the trash, but somehow manage to grab it right in the wrong spot. Suddenly I’m aware that the side of my hand is touching something that’s… not cat pee. OMGSHESHITONOURBED.
Cut to me screaming obscenities followed by enough hand washing that I could probably have performed surgery afterward. Another call to KC to scream about how Seuss has sh** all over our life. (I’m super calm and rational when I’m pissed. Clearly.) He’s still driving, but do I want him to stop and pick up a new comforter on his way home? Looking back, I see that this is a very nice gesture, given the circumstances. In the moment, however, it just pushes me further into my cat pee-induced rage. My head is spinning, “Where the $%#& does he think he’s going to get a comforter at 11 o’clock at night on a Monday? Is he INSANE?!”
I scream into the phone, “No! Just get home! I gotta go deal with this!” and hang up. (How awesome does being married to me sound right now? Super awesome.)
I storm back into the bedroom, where I carefully fold up the offending blanket and cart it downstairs and outside to the trash.
“Omgomgomg this is so disgusting. Thank God we do not have kids yet because I CANNOT deal with anymore sh** tonight!” <– literally the only thing going through my head besides an unending string of curse words.
Back upstairs to gather the stupid pee comforter. Back downstairs and outside to the trash. Back upstairs to gather the sheets now. “How many times have I been up and down these stairs since I got home?” I think. “Too godd@#$ many.” Back downstairs again, sheets in hand, I open the basement door to the outside to find… a giant skunk in our backyard, not 10 feet away.
I slam the door (I mean, obviously), and then wonder momentarily if it will cause the skunk to spray the house.
“That’s JUST WHAT I F$%&ING NEED RIGHT NOW!”
Fine, leave the sheets to be taken out later. Whatever. The house already smells like cat pee. Who cares.
Into the living room to retrieve a set of sheets I had just washed and folded (thank goodness I was at least on top of that). This, of course, riles up the puppy whose been crated for the night and was calm before this. Awesome.
Back upstairs to put the sheets on the bed. A single set of sheets isn’t going to keep us warm, obviously, which means I need to go scrounging for whatever blankets we have around the house.
Back downstairs to the living room — the puppy is whining with fervor now and pawing at her crate, desperate to be a part of what must look like a tornado of fun to her, rather than a sh**storm of anger. I ignore her and go through the trunks — an old twin quilt with flowers on it, a small Christmas blanket, a small brown blanket, a full-size matelasse quilt — none of it will really fit our queen-size bed, but it’ll have to do. I rip the Costco blanket off the couch for good measure.
Back upstairs with my haul, it’s like a puzzle, laying out these mini-blankets to ensure we’ll be covered for the night. After some strategic layering, I throw the pillows on the bed and stand back to take in my handiwork.
11:30pm. Not a moment after I’ve finally finished cleaning up the pee fiasco, KC walks in. He can’t understand why I’m so worked up — it’s over now, isn’t it? I’m regaling him with the story of the last hour, but he’s tired. He can’t understand why I’m so mad still, and he’s clearly exhausted from his 15 hour day. “Why don’t you just go to sleep?” he offers.
“I’M NOT MAD AT YOU, OK?! AND I DON’T NEED YOU TO TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD DO RIGHT NOW, I JUST NEED YOU TO LISTEN BECAUSE CLEANING UP CAT PEE AT 11 O’CLOCK AT NIGHT IS BULLSH**!!!” I screech at him.
There’s something about screaming, “I’M NOT MAD AT YOU!” at someone that just doesn’t really translate the way you want it to, y’know?
And that’s how my Monday went.