Evidently, she can, but it causes a huge mess.
So the day started off well. I had my interview, I did well, I got a job offer... my period stopped. It should have been the best day of the month, right? lolyeahright. With the stress of being more or less unemployed off my shoulders, you'd think I would finally have a good day. And I did, for all of five minutes. Then I started worrying about the fact that I'm taking a two dollar per hour pay cut, going from a guaranteed forty hours with frequent overtime to twenty with strongly-discouraged overtime, and probably losing my insurance. Somehow, my car came into all the worrying, and next thing you know I'm retching out my girlfriend's car window the whole way home. Ole.
Now, my interview was at nine in the morning. I got home, and the girlfriend was still in bed. She's able to get right back to sleep after I tell her the good news, and I lay there for like two hours staring at the ceiling, wondering if the monsters were going to eat me (figuratively speaking). I juuuust get to sleep, and she gets up. And then here come the cats. Once the cats get involved, there's no trying to press on and sleep in. There are six of them. Four of them just want to snuggle and cuddle, and the other two want to kill anyone that comes close. The only thing that kept me from just giving up and storming downstairs was the moose in the cat suit sitting on my chest. (He's like, half Maine Coon. He's a fucking moose.) Getting next to no sleep because of alarms, phone calls, and anxiety might have been okay...
...if I'd been able to come downstairs and give the couch surfers the good news. Only as I'm getting up, I hear the girlfriend telling them ALL about it. Great. Because the brief rush of "look what I did!" excitement wasn't, you know, an emotional high that I desperately needed. It's cool.
Then the sink backed up. Or rather, I went out to take my small pile of meds and noticed that there was water sitting in the sink under the dishes. It was okay for a little, because I promptly forgot about the fetid lake when I popped my birth control out of the blister pack and it bounced across the counter and down between the cabinets and oven.
"Oh fuck!" I yelled, dismayed and already starting to freak out that I could potentially fuck up my entire hormone schedule because now my birth control will be a day off.
"What'd you do? Shit, don't tell me the cats got at your Zoloft," I hear from the living room.
"No. I dropped my fucking birth control."
Silence, followed by raucous laughter. Apparently, a lesbian on birth control is the funniest shit since +1 dead baby flails for raising vile xp.
Which reminds me. I should really call my doctor and find out if (a) I'm going to have my uterus explode out my vajeen now because my birth control is off by a day and (b) if she's figured out how to get me my damn mood stabilizers. Because shit. Any more days like this and I'm going to be back in the ER screaming about wanting a pudding cup and a padded room. In that order. After the thing with the meds, the couch surfers and my girlfriend decide they want to go out for lunch. I spend most of my time worrying about frigging money, and they want to spend it on fast food when we've got perfectly good spaghetti and cereal and stuff here. My diplomacy check whiffed or something, and I ended up popping a couple stomach pills and nerve pills and stuff, and off we went.
And then the fem-surfer's dad calls while we're stuffing our faces with soft serve. He's got a job offer, and we have to make a big decision: are we moving into his house together, or not?
Well, fuck.
I didn't want to move. I really didn't want to move. After the last month of relationship roulette with the couch surfers, and all the shit I've been going through at work and with the doctors, I really didn't want to add the chaos of a move into the mix. The girlfriend and I talked it over a bunch, and we decided that since I wasn't comfortable with it, we'd stay in our place. Which was fine by me.
Three hours later, we've got two plungers and a couple notebooks from WalMart, and we're on our way to see this house I said I don't want to rent, and to talk to the new land lord I don't want. It won't hurt to hear him out, they say. I'm just glad I wasn't driving, because I was pretty much shaking and gnawing on my bottom lip the whole ride there. We get there, and I get to meet the fem-surfer's dog (I am terrified of dogs), and see the house. It's a nice house. Really nice. But it's filled wall-to-wall with twenty-plus years' worth of her dad's stuff, and her stuff, and even his ex-wives' stuff. Every place I've ever moved into has been completely empty. How in the hell am I supposed to envision someplace as MY home, when it's clearly someone else's? Cue the first crying jag.
The girlfriend gets me calmed down, I get my eyes dried and the snot gone, and Daddums comes home. (Late. Of course.) They start talking about stuff like rent and expenses, and the girlfriend and the he-surfer negotiate a little bit, and I'm just sitting there on the couch between them trying desperately to fall into the center of the earth. I don't want to move, remember? Change is bad. Why are we talking about this like it's going to happen? And why do I have to know right now? Don't ask me to decide something like this right now. I'm not in a good place right now to make snap decisions. Yes, when I'm on the upswing I do things like quit my job and move across country on a whim. When I'm three steps removed from suicide? Fuck no. I want to hide under my bed until the world stops being crazy at me.
Then he looks right at me and asks what's wrong. Cue crying jag number two.
Go outside. (There's a yard. It's nice and little.) Calm down again. Reaffirm terror of moving and change to the roommate. And then...
Then logic happened. See, if the four of us live in this house, it comes out to being as much INCLUDING utilities for the two of us as we're paying right now for the rent on our place. Given the pay cut and hours cut, plus my mounting medical expenses, it's a strong choice. And for some reason, when I'm crying my eyes out and terrified, I can't ignore good sense. My whole being is telling me not to go, and I feel like a cat being shoved into a carrier against her will, and there I am nodding and saying it makes sense. Because it does.
But shit, really? Why can't my brain and my gut just agree on things? Yes or no, motherfuckers? PICK ONE. I can't handle this "don't wanna don't wanna don't wanna...okay...don't wanna" bullshit. I don't think the rest of our little group can, either.
But whatever. We are now in some kind of informal agreement that when he starts this new job and moves out, we will take over his property and move our shit in. And our cats. But we don't know if he'll be starting in two weeks or six months. I shit you not, we could be waiting as late as December to make this move. And this is with us having to give our landlords a fucking thirty day notice before we vacate.
Four hours and a free sammich from Domino's later, we get home and the sink is still fucked. And I learn an important lesson:
Those cute little yellow sink plungers at WalMart are pieces of shit, and pretty much will implode the first time you use them. Yeah. And trying to use a toilet plunger on our sink is like shooting Bruce Banner full of gamma radiation. The damn thing kept slipping on me, and I was getting stanky-ass water all over me. Best part? As we plunge it, it just keeps pushing water from one side to the other. Hulk smashes, yells in the trying-to-be-helpful he-surfer's face, and runs outside. Calm down, get the "bitch, slow your roll" talk from the girlfriend, and go BACK to WalMart to get DrainO.
Yeah. Just because that shit says it's for completely clogged drains doesn't mean it's for completely clogged drains. Follow the instructions on the bottle and what happens? Fuck all. Absolutely jack shit. So, being the genius wannabe engineer that I am, I go back to plunging with my now decimated yellow sex toy/sink plunger. Squelch squelch, back and forth, and finally it dawns on me. The U bend.
Two trips to WalMart with matching temper tantrums, DrainO all over my goddamn hands, and all I had to do was unscrew the U bend and clean the damn thing out. -.- This is why I need... Whatever it is I need. Fuck if I know, at this point. Anyway, I figure I'll just unhook it with a bucket underneath the sink to catch the water that was SUPPOSED to make the DrainO work. (Sink clogged? PUT MORE WATER IN IT. Yeah.. But the bottle saaaaid...) The plan was awesome. Until the bucket was too big, and the SINK WAS FULL OF FETID WATER AND MULTIPLE DRAIN CLEANERS.
But hey, I guess at least the kitchen floor got cleaned?
The whole time I'm doing this, mind you, I've got a peanut gallery standing behind me going "This is why you can't tank, Roxi," and "So...is this what our progression raids are going to look like?" And singing the Bob the Builder theme song.
Fuckers.
But you know what? The sink's not clogged any more. Why does it feel like this is somehow an allegory for my life right now?
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