I Wish I Liked Coffee

Sometimes I wish I drank coffee. Because it seems to be, like, this magic cure-all for people who have trouble in the mornings. Like, "Man, this morning sucked until I got my grande mocha roast."

(...Or whatever the coffee-drinking terminology is. I don't know.)

Anyway, if coffee is such a cure-all, I wish I had some this morning. Because seriously? Today has started out crazy, and I'm hoping it isn't a predictor of the rest of the day. I'm trying to be all, "Today is what I make it!" and look on the bright side and everything, but man. It seems to be one of those days when stuff is just stacking up against me faster than I can take care of it.

Case in point: Cameron. The good news is that, at 19 months old, he has finally started sleeping in his own bed. The bad news is that "his own bed" is actually a bunk that he shares with his brother, Crack-of-Dawn Colin, who inevitably feels the need to wake Cameron up. So they've been awake and raring to go at, like, 5:45 every morning. And this morning was no exception.

I heard them get up, but for once - oh, blessed day - they didn't rush right into my room demanding something. So I figured I could just lay there and listen to make sure they didn't get into any trouble. But then I heard it: the piano. Which is downstairs. Which is dangerously close to the dog food, and the cat litter, and all the various nasty stuff that Cameron enjoys flinging all over the place. So I had to heave myself up and trudge down the stairs to retrieve them - because while Colin will come upstairs with a yelled threat, Cameron will not.

Surprise of surprises, Cameron was already in the dog bowl, the floor around him strewn with kibble. I got him out of it and directed him to the piano, where his brother was plunking out a deafening beautiful tune. I figured while I was down there anyway, I ought to tend to some stuff - feeding and watering the animals and scooping out the disgusting litter (it's amazing how much two cats can crap). I plunged the scoop into the catbox to sift out the poo and stood up to take my first load to the trash can - but when I did, one of the turds fell off the end of the scoop and rolled across the floor, where it wedged itself under the corner of the washer. Stooping to retrieve a litter-caked cat turd when you're hugely, grotesquely pregnant = fun times!

Once I had that taken care of, I started re-filling the dog bowl and cleaning up the surrounding area. When, even over the wretched noise of the piano, I heard the stomach-turning hork hork hork sound that can only be made by a barfing cat.

Sure enough, Thurman was barfing. On the laundry. It was dirty laundry, mind you, but still ... I don't want cat yarf on my stuff, y'dig? (And yes. I'm a lazy-ass and instead of a hamper, I throw my dirty clothes on the stairs leading to the laundry room. If you want a visual, look here.)

So I momentarily abandoned my task of feeding the dog in order to tend to the cat and the grossness at hand. That's when I saw it: a spider the size of effing Manhattan on my stairs. (Yes. The same stairs that, just recently, housed a horrible and disgusting cicada. I'm thinking we need to get an exterminator all up in this piece, yo.)

Wayward cat turds, scattered dog food, vomit, and a massive spider. All with a soundtrack of plunk plunk plunk on the piano. All within five minutes of getting out of my nice cozy bed. And all before the sun rose over the horizon.

And now - sniff, sniff - there seems to be a poopy diaper waiting for me. Joy and rapture!

Can you see now why I wish I drank coffee?

(Amused post-script - allow me to share with you a direct quote from my last post: "...the 'something yucky' is usually a pile of cat barf or a random turd or something that I do. Not. Want. To deal with."

Is it sad that such things are a part of my daily life?)