I spent all of today, and probably half of yesterday, thinking it was Saturday.
Yesterday was only Wednesday and today is only Thursday.
I made big plans for my Wednesday-Thursday-Saturday.
Mow the lawn, the lawn that I mowed only 10 days ago and which already looks like a dandelion farm. (I should probably make wine.)
Mow the lawn? OMG. That was back when I thought it was Saturday. And now it’s only Thursday. Again.
First thing in the morning (this morning, which is a Thursday that I thought was a Saturday), I walk into the bathroom to take a pee and brush my teeth.
The rug is wet. It’s the second time in three days that I’ve felt “moisture” under my feet. You really don’t want to know what the first time was, trust me. (Okay, since you asked, it was a slug. Which I stepped on with my bare feet. Twice. The first time I felt wet; the next time I felt pop,” a sort of mini-explosion. And there was “debris” to deal with afterwards, on the floor and between my toes. Trust me, it’s not on your bucket list. And don’t even begin to wonder how the slug got in my house in the first place, cuz I have no idea. Or probably I do…)
Anyway, I’m running late, because it’s Thursday and not Saturday. Truth be told, I thought for a minute it might actually be Wednesday. Wait, let me consult my work calendar: I might start at 9:00 am, or 10:00 am or 2:00 pm. and I might end at 1:30 pm, or 2:00 pm or 5:00 pm or 7:00 pm or 8:00 pm.
Today is a 9:00 am start day, damn it (but with an early end in sight: 3:00 pm. if I’m lucky, not including errands including an estimate on my totaled car), but my house might flood while I’m gone, because the (second) dampness I feel under my feet on my way into the bathroom is water leaking from my water heater. Leaking it is, crying it is, saying, “Please pay attention to me. Please take me to the doctor. I am not well.”
“Screw you,” I say to the water heater. “What makes you so special? Take a freakin’ number.”
Then I go to work, (9:00-2:00 yea!, but it is only Thursday). I come home to mow the lawn. I call the plumber.
The plumber suggests a $2.00 (band-aid [kind of literal]) solution (which may or may not work; the jury is always out, no?), but I’m pretty sure the lawnmower, after 15+ semi-successful attempts, is going to do me in, per usual. Mechanical bull, job incomplete, with ticks to boot. Neighbor on call, but at some kind of price, I’m sure.
Next up: a story about why my boobs keep falling out of my bra. Stay tuned.