Bad dog. Bad day.
You know it's going to be a bad, bad day when it starts off with this:
"Mom! Truman ate Roman's LMAX."
And sure enough, the day continued as the early morning predicted. I couldn't find Roman's swim trunks so he had to wear a pair two sizes too small. The van was on empty and, in fact, still is. And the interior of my house is entirely yellow, with the exception of my pink bedroom. It just pisses me off.
Woe to the few people that called me today and attempted to lighten my mood. I argued against my own statements... within five minutes of making them. And bit the head off of anyone who tried to agree with me.
And I'm sick of stinking. It's like being stalked by an old sweaty dairy farmer who had to milk the whole herd single handedly in scorching heat and then threw up on himself. Every where I go, there's that smell... because, well, that smell is eminating from me. Showers do little to help. Ah, yes, envy me.
I washed just about every single dish I own today and somehow still have a stack in the sink. And my kids toss their garbage on the floor all over the house like they're starring in a PSA on littering. Laundry, I'm convinced, procreates on its own which is kind of disturbing as it's being done in my kids' bedroom while they sleep. I miss Almin.
The worst part of the day is that that damn, fucking dog ate a fucking hand held video game and made it through without even so much as a stomach ache. Fucker.
"Mom! Truman ate Roman's LMAX."
And sure enough, the day continued as the early morning predicted. I couldn't find Roman's swim trunks so he had to wear a pair two sizes too small. The van was on empty and, in fact, still is. And the interior of my house is entirely yellow, with the exception of my pink bedroom. It just pisses me off.
Woe to the few people that called me today and attempted to lighten my mood. I argued against my own statements... within five minutes of making them. And bit the head off of anyone who tried to agree with me.
And I'm sick of stinking. It's like being stalked by an old sweaty dairy farmer who had to milk the whole herd single handedly in scorching heat and then threw up on himself. Every where I go, there's that smell... because, well, that smell is eminating from me. Showers do little to help. Ah, yes, envy me.
I washed just about every single dish I own today and somehow still have a stack in the sink. And my kids toss their garbage on the floor all over the house like they're starring in a PSA on littering. Laundry, I'm convinced, procreates on its own which is kind of disturbing as it's being done in my kids' bedroom while they sleep. I miss Almin.
The worst part of the day is that that damn, fucking dog ate a fucking hand held video game and made it through without even so much as a stomach ache. Fucker.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 7:42 PM
3 Comments:
I cannot believe that dog ate that. It's as big as his head. Poor Roman he loved that game. I feel for you.
My co-worker in hell! Yes, other than the L-max eating dog, you just described my life....down to the stinkfest!
At least you had Almin for a while. Be thankful for the brief respite you enjoyed. (ducking now while you throw something....dirty laundry? dirty dishes? at me)
Amy
Even though you don't sound mahvellous I'm sure you loog mahvellous. And trust me dahling, there will come a time when you will be coating Roman's video games with bacon grease and HOPING Truman will eat them.
Post a Comment
<< Home