Blogging from the Safety of Under the Bed

I am not a superstitious person. Or perhaps, wasn't is a better description.

I didn't have to be to work until a bit late this morning, so after waking M up, I headed back to bed until it was time to drive her to school. A nice extra hour of sleep that I deserve, if I say so myself.

When 7:30 rolled around, I shuffled into some pajama's and slippers and grabbed my Blackberry, wallet and phone. Only, curse of curses, that damn Dingleberry was stone dead. So, I think, it's not big deal, I'm only going two miles what could I possibly need a phone for? I plug it in, grab the kid and head out the door.

The Juice, my belovedly hated Bronco, starts just fine, I drop M at school and head back home to shower and change. Only, of course, because it's Friday the Fucking Thirteenth, the damn check engine light comes on, the engine cuts out and I coast to a stop in a somewhat seedier than my own neighborhood. Fantastic.

Now, I'm a bit mechanical, which is to say that I know where to add fluids and I know which belts are meant to be where and that kind of thing, so I hop out, pop the hood and balance on the tippity top of my froggy-slipper clad toes and peer into the engine, where everything looks just fine. It's not hot, it's got water and oil and nothing is smoking or dripping. Back into the car, turn the key, no go. No big deal, I'll just call someone to come and fetch me and wait a fucking minute, that damn phone is at home. Shit. Shittay shit shit.

Back out, under the hood, jiggle some stuff, get honked at, into the car, turn the key, nothing.

FUCK ME.

I'm on the side of a busy, major road, in pj's with little puppies frolicking about on giant green pants and wearing froggy slippers. I am also two miles from home with no phone. Now, of course, you're thinking, just find a pay phone. Only, peeps, in the ghetto, we ain't got no stinkin' pay phones. They were taken out as part of an anti-drug measure a few years ago. Not that it matters, because in this age of speed dial I don't know anyones damn number anyway.

A few more minutes of the turn the key and pray act and I give up. Fine, I think, I'll just go and catch a bus. I fish the appropriate amount of change out of the ash tray, lock up the car; Don't want it to get stolen after all, and start off down the street with my huge puppy pants flapping around my ankles where they have shrunk to from repeated washings. At least I am wearing a bra, I tell myself, because damn, wouldn't THAT be embarrassing?

One block down, I find the bus shelter, only, of course, there are no posted schedules. No! That would just be silly! Although, it's not like I knew what time it was anyway, so I think, okay, I just saw one go by when I was sitting in the car, it'll be a bit before the next one, I'll just start walking and when I see the bus coming I'll dart to the nearest stop and hop on! Brilliant! So, I'm walking...well, shuffling, because of course, froggy slippers aren't made for long distances, and I've gone a block, then two, then a half mile and let me fucking tell you a half mile in slippers, in your pajama's on a major street with bed head is a long fucking way. Before I know it, I've walked all the way to the corner I turn to head down to my street when what to my wondering eyes should appear? That muthafuckinbus, bleching it's way past me.

Now, I could be irritated, but really, I'm with in sight of my house, so I laugh it off and let myself in. I call my husband, the mechanic, who doesn't answer, then call my office to say, SO SORRY, NO Kiki today! Again!

I turn on the shower, because after walking 2 miles, in slippers with no underpants, I'm feeling a bit swamp-assy and frankly smelling about the same and of course, the damn shower door falls off the tracks and I'm standing there in the flooding bathroom deciding, do I follow doctors orders and NOT lift ten pounds, or do I just fix the damn thing. I opt to fix it. Shower is lovely and I'm dressed and awaiting further mechanical like ministrations so I think, what the hell, I'll vacuum. Half way through the house the acrid stench of a burnt out belt billows from underneath the vacuum and I think, okay, fine, fuck you too, house work and put it away. Half a house dog hair free is about the same as not at all, but you know, what ever. So I sweep and mop the kitchen and throw the rugs into the washer for a quick go round and whip them out and hang them on the line. Might as well make use of the nice weather.

Only, when I go out to check them, what do I discover but the clothes line snapped and my freshly laundered rugs on the ground with dogs laying on them.

AWESOME.

Fine, universe, okay, I fucking get it.

Wonder of wonders though, my long walk and resulting frustration has worked loose my bowels and I think HOORAY! My car has taken a shit and now I get to also! I do my business and reach to flush and oh, yeah, you guessed it. No flush. Off with the tank lid and into the icy water, because of course the flush handle is broken and the little chainy thingy is sunk to the bottom and I have to stick my arm in to fish it back out.

Then, I think, you know what? Lunch. That's what I need, a little nourishment. So I grab the can opener, spin it round the tuna can and start to squeeze out the water, only, NO SHIT, the lid bends and instead of squirting away from me, tuna juice arches back and sprays all over my damn shirt.

Just when I think it's not going to get any worse, I mean really, how much more can the Universe do to me? I realize; It's only fucking noon.