August 1, 2010

I demand a do-over for this week.

Let’s start with Monday night.

At a friend’s house we inadvertently eat a gluten-filled biscuit. Purely accidental. Gawd, wish it had been a donut. Filled with cream. And frosted. And the size of a freaking watermelon.

It’s now Tuesday. Where I’m bloated and gassy.  Things everyone wants to know. It is, however, a simple fact of gluten-intolerance. I’m also a little loopy this day.  The kid and I go visit people we love. The highlight was grabbing the wrong Trader Joe’s bag (the reusable ones) and taking it to the visit. It was filled with bras that no longer fit.  Filled.  The-laugh-till-I-hurt moment here was when my friend, H, put one boob cup over her head, and literally, I shit you not, could have simply snipped the other boob cup away and had a hat. Rather, skull cap. Boob cap? There is something inhumanely wrong with my boobs.

The kid and I go home. She’s having a hard time sleeping. One of the effects of gluten exposure for her. If gluten had a neck, I’d strangle it. And I wouldn’t even apologize to all of you gluten lovers. Which is ironic since I”m a gluten lover. It’s the pure kind of love though since I can’t eat it anymore.

After she’s finally in bed, and sleeping, I get started on some paperwork.  At about 2am, I hear:  “Mooooommyyyy, my nose is bleeding!”.  Not an uncommon occurence for a 4.5yo that likes to pick her nose like it’s a medal-awarding sport.  I grab a washcloth, wet it down, and head upstairs. To a bloody freaking crime scene.  She’d gotten up out of bed, dripping blood, to yell for me from the doorway. She’s still dripping blood. It’s on the sheets, her t-shirt, the floor. I just stand dumbfounded for a moment. Then it’s “Go sit on your bed and lay your head back to slow down the bleeding.”   She replies “But I already bleeded all over the pillows.” Of course you did, you little blood pouring machine.   I should totally hire her out for zombie slasher flicks.

Clean up crime scene. Change sheets. Clean up kid. Put kid in clean clothing. Get kid a snack. I mean, I wasn’t surprised she was hungry. Blood loss like that? Should’ve stuck an IV in her. After snack, it’s, oh, about 5am?  And then. Of all things. She. Cannot. Fall. Asleep. She does. Finally. At 7am. I pass right the eff out with her. Only to be shaken awake, at the EVIL!!!! hour of 9:15am to the wails of “Iiiii’mmmm huunnngrryyyyy.”

It’s Wednesday. I proceed to magically not kill a kid, make some sort of what I can only assume to be an edible item (please, don’t ask, I have no idea), than pass right the hell back out. To an endless loop of Diego. Let’s just say Wednesday?  It was a goner.

How an almost-five-year-old  can survive on a sum total of 5.5  hours of sleep is an unsolvable mathematical mystery.  How a mother of an-almost-five-year-old doesn’t employ an entire roll of duct tape and a locked closet after 2 hours of sleep with a child hyped up on 5.5 hours of sleep is simply a godly miracle.

Wednesday night I go to bed with my daughter. Obviously. Wake up two hours later. Obviously.  Check email. Obviously. Fall promptly back asleep on the couch. Obviously. Wake up again, around 11:30. Obvi-WHAT THE HELL?  The only way to share this joy is to make one of my bff’s suffer through a mostly incoherent phone call. Okay, completely incoherent. She loved it. Moments like these give friends ammunition for a lifetime.

The rational part of my brain that somehow was still functioning kept reminding me that I had dyeing to do the following day. So went back to bed.  That sleep lasted until 3am. Which deity did I piss off and what animal do I have to sacrifice to appease it? I did get myself back to sleep around 6am in the morning. Which an over tired kid then interrupted at about 8:45am. Duct tape is too good for her.

All the morning stuff  for Thursday is slogged through. I take the kid to V’s house since it’s a work day for me. Then jet off to pick up a friend so he can fulfill his personal laundry needs at my house. I pimp out my washer and dryer all the time. They love it.  I work on some sewing. And here’s the coup de gras of this week – I go to pick up the fourteen fat quarters of fabric I have ironed and laying flat, and it’s wet. Hmmm. How’d that happen? OMFG. What is that smell? What. Is. That. Smell?

Meet Cornelia. Mama cat. Stray rescued from a tree and given to daughter. Stray gets pregnant. Has kittens. Five. Stray cannot, will not use litter box. The bathroom sinks, bathroom mats, any towel on the floor, bath tub, and my closet are all fair game for little piles of poo and urination. The only thing this cat had going for her at this point was her kitties who still needed her crazy mama cat milk.

It’s urine. Most likely two or three passes at that. There are silk wine gift bags that are also wet. A baby gift. Three patterns that I’d just cut out of tracing paper and fabric. And some folded fabric that was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I hear some inhuman growling sound and realize it’s coming from me. It’s at this point I shriek. Who shrieks anymore?

I text V. I sit down. Cry for a few moments. Pick all the stuff up and stuff it in a box so I can wash it later. I mean, who interrupts their gay friend from doing laundry? I’m not that mean. I figure out what time I can drop cat off at shelter. I go pick up the kid, come get friend from house, take him home. Come back. Put kid in bed. Tell her she can read, play, whatever, but if she leaves that room there will be consequences. Dire.  “Mommy, what’s dire mean?”  “Certain death, baby, certain death.”

Put everything that’s been urinated upon in a soak. And then wash it. Cut out another baby gift. Well, cut out two. I feel weird giving a friend a gift for her baby that my cat peed on. I mean, after I’m assured it’s clean, I don’t mind selling it to a complete stranger.

I’m going to lose my business, aren’t I.

Check laundry. Nine. Nine! Silk bags do not make it. Cat pee is like this not awesome form of weak bleach. I think everything else is fine. I stick it in for another wash, and go watch True Blood and try not to think up recipes for baked/roasted/fried cat. Fail.

Fall asleep on couch. It’s Friday morning. I wash everything again. Get cat carrier. Put mama cat in cat carrier with lots of treats. Kid and I take her to shelter. Before y’all think I’m a total failure as a mom, I did ask the kid if she wanted to go or wait until she was at her papa’s. She wanted to go.

I surrender cat. Cry. 80% of those tears are because I know this wild cat is slated for certain death.  The other 20% is knowing the next day I won’t hear “Moooom, Cornelia crapped in the sink again. It stiiiiinnnkkkss.”  Kid wants to visit every other animal at the shelter. Which makes it all the more difficult to not weep incoherently.  The obvious answer to all that crying is ice cream. If only the heads of state would recognize ice cream’s ability to stop war. To Jeni’s we go. I drop her off at her dad’s. Go play Pendragon. Soothing to the soul. Return home. Iron fabric. Sew. Cry. Dote on five baby kittens who are very, very lonely.

Go to bed. Wake up four hours later. Go straight to work Saturday morning. Dye fabric. Usually a time of rejoicing and dancing to random muzak. Yeah. No. Urine + synthropol + soda ash + dye = failure. I manipulate, cajole, straighten fabric out, make sure I didn’t get something under fabric. No. I can tell where the cat peed. No flat dyeing here. It’s done. Pee dyeing? Can’t beat it. Can’t take it to client. Call client. Weep after call. Pack up and head to a friends’ house for a special doohicky that I can’t talk about. It’s, like, beyond awesome though. And if I don’t stop typing, I’ll say something that’ll leak the whole shebang.

Go to friend’s house afterward to say good bye to friend leaving to go back to Florida this morning. Bad friend, BAD!  Give her gifties. Succeed in not crying. Barely.  I was too poor and too flea-ridden to go see her the first two weeks she was in Ohio. Which sucked. And I’ll miss her. Even though she’s my internet chat whore buddy.  Succeed in not giving her a hug due to my fantastic I didn’t shower to make it to friends’ house after spending twelve hours dyeing body odor. I’m an awesome friend. Manage to not die during the 35 minute drive home.  Manage to not fall asleep until 5 am. Wake up at 10 this lovely Sunday morning. Beg the universe to give me a do-over. The universe chortles and then flat out almost collapses wheezing with laughter.

Sorry I almost killed y’all.

I think I’ll go take a shower now.

12:54 pm