It’s been a real Eeyore meets Daria kind of day.
It escalates in it’s wretchedness, so bear with me.
It begins with my husband waking me with his Cuban whisper, which he got from his mother. I promptly muttered an F-bomb and asked what time it was. 5:55 a.m.
That meant he was heading to Naples and it was time for me to get up so I could faux bathe, slap on a couple barrettes, slam on clothes that don’t need to be ironed and wake my miserable children from what were probably lovely dreams.
Shockingly, Alma was a delight this morning. Which is probably why her little brother was a doddering little terror.
He got apple juice all over his shirt after we were ready to go. When I went to change his shirt, he refused to give up his death grip on a cereal bar. This sent him into a hysterical crying fit.
He was still crying when we pulled into the day care parking lot. I took him out and went to set him down on the ground and he refused to stand. You know that thing toddlers do where they scrunch up their little legs in an air squat so you CAN’T put them down?
He promptly plopped his bum down in a dirty puddle.
Inside the day care, his crying escalated to ear-piercing, purple-faced shrieking.
The day care worker watched as I struggled to change his shorts and keep him from punching me repeatedly in the face. She had a look that could only be described as disdain.
Even after I said loudly, “Huxley, I’ve got to go to work now. I’m late already”… said day care worker continued to stand arms akimbo with no intention of coming to my aid.
I left him bawling and ran through puddles to my car, only to realize he had smeared juicy, drooly cereal bar gunk on my shirt and mysterious white kid goo on my pants.
Gotta keep moving.
Got to work a half an hour late. I proceeded to stack a newscast as quickly as possible, while considering that my anchor prefers me to write everything from scratch and fill an entire hour with compelling content.
Boothing the show, the sound was bleeding through someone else’s mic in the studio so I had the joy of overhearing her complain about my complete incompetence and infuriating inability to produce for the entire hour.
That was enough to crush my spirit for the day and make me weep off all the eye makeup I put on at red lights on the way to work.
During my break, I went to fill up my tank. While I was trying to get the handle to slip into that “hold it while I do other things” clip, the pump shot out of my car spraying me with gasoline from my feet to my chest.
I was soaked in the shit. All I needed was jilted lover with a lighter and I would’ve become a great lead for the 5pm show.
I rushed to Target to spend 60 bucks on an entirely new outfit for the day. When I went to try on the clothes, the woman at the dressing rooms made a stinky face, like… “What on Earth is that ungodly smell?”
I said, “You smell gasoline?” She said, “Yeah, a customer just came up and said she smelled it in another section.”
I said, “Yeah, it’s me. Bad day. That’s why I’m here.”
Bless her heart, she let me change into the clothes and take the tags off and pay for them while wearing them.
I got back to work and had to skip the afternoon meeting in order to eat my lunch. I tried to cover the stench with perfume, but ended up smelling like gas and vanilla.
The pants are cute, but I need a belt. I’ve been showing off my ass crack all day. Not hot, trust me.
People at work were surprised to see me in an entirely different outfit. When I mentioned the gas, they asked if the noon show was really that bad.
“Yeah, I totally doused myself with gasoline and considered lighting myself on fire but then decided to go on a 3-minute shopping spree that nearly ended with a call to the fire department by customer service.”
This, my “friends”, was a very bad day.
It can’t even be resuscitated with a Coke Slurpee. Unless I add Rum.
Living The American Scream 
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