Saturday, July 18, 2009

The ways my horrible horrible day became so horrible, and how it turned out to be ok in the end:

Woke up. Showered. Perioded my underwear. -1

Made eggs, stale challah. +1

Argued with man in the basement, who shrugged when I asked if he could turn off the water for the dishwasher and switch the load of house towels. I thought about telling him to pull his weight, but decided against it. Today has the potential to be a good day. -1 for fighting, +2 for holding it back and being a good person.

Drive to Port Orchard. Speed the whole way.

Show the ladies the socks I've knit, proceed to sell four skeins of that yarn. +3

Eat cold pizza from last night. +1

During a slow period, take a shit. Don't think anything of it. I text once or twice on the toilet. And then I try and flush. Water rises to the top of the bowl, stops. -1

I can do this, I'm a warrior woman. +1

Plunge ferociously for 10 minutes. -2

Go inside, write a sign. "Out of Order," hastily scribbled, the most panic a torn sheet of notebook paper can hold. Tape it on the door. Continue to plunge. No result. -2

Use the toilet brush, see if something can loosen. No luck. Brush is now covered in poo bits. Funny, I don't remember eating corn. Try and wash the brush in the sink. When the undigestables get on the sink, throw it behind the trash can. -2

Poop splashes on my feet. -4

I resist the urge to set my foot on fire. My brain is buzzing. I can't think. +0

Wipe sweat off my brow. Go online, look up how to unclog a toilet. Come back and see the Very Nice Christian Owner of the restaurant next door. "Do you need any help?"
"No, I have it."
"Are you sure? I can do it if you need to."
I raise my hand. "Give me 10 more minutes."
I go back in, armed with a slightly flexible knitting needle. Can't push anything. Owner runs into me in the hallway, hands me a glove. -5

I put on the glove, face the murky abyss. Take off the glove. Take off my shirt. Put on the glove. I'm in the only public restroom in the building, topless, plunging. -5

I check back in the store. Not busy. I look up contraptions. "Do we have a snake? What about an auger?" I use the German pronounciation.
"No, but our superintendent might."
I ask next door, and am told that our super is only here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and would charge $300 to come out here. "Do you need help?"
"No, I'd rather not people see my poop today."

I start to pray. I don't do this that often, and am worried that I'm pulling out the stops for something so trivial. Tell God that I will never drink or have sex again, that I will become a nun, if I can go today without other people seeing my poop. There's poowater on the seat. -11

I leave the bathroom. When I come back minutes later, Owner and one of his friends are plunging my poop. "It's really ok, I've seen toilets before." He says this before he opens the lid. Out of politeness, he doesn't recoil. I've just shattered his and the world's belief that girls don't actually poop. I'm mortified. But he solves it, and I go inside and resist the urge to cry out of sheer relief. -4, bringing me 20 points below 0.

I drive home, thinking that things will be ok.

Then I walk into our kitchen. Sink is still on. Leftovers from last night are sitting on the table. The room smells of hamster. There are ants on our counter. Of course no one has done the dishwasher, there's trays and pots on the stove, and to top it off a stick of butter melted all over a burner. -10

I am about to scream. Instead I send a text telling everyone to clean up their shit tonight, but polite. Get a call back from Basement Man, yelling at me that it wasn't his fault. I'm in no mood. I tell him such. He says that he pulls his weight, that he does things around the house. And he does help around the house, but he doesn't pay rent and he needs to clean up after himself and turn off the water if he says he will. I yell back, telling him he's not on my side. I can't share anything now; it's a time where I would probably be best to have back-up but I can't stand the thought of having anything in common with them, it's the same thing with so many people that makes me only answer their questions in grunts and one-word replies. But this time it's anger. I hang up and yell "FUCKDAMNITYOUFUCKINGCUNT" loudly. -50

Put on a dress, leggings. Necklace from Croatia, pull my hair to the side, swipe on some lipstick. Eat sushi, head off to Maple Valley, where K has brought along 2 dates to a wedding where she only knows the groom. Date 2 and I make comments about how we're all cuter than the bride, steal the rubber ducks on the table [note: when typing this I accidentially wrote "rubber dicks." I should have kept it that way. BTW, you guys should be so excited for my future wedding reception. Sex toys?], and somehow get caught up with the people decorating the car. Best moment: the young retro mother in the high waisted pencil skirt and red lipstick who couldn't be older than me asking if she could tuck a "marital aid" (condom) into the windshield wipers. On the way back, stopped by a carnival, drunk off the thick air and uneven ground in four inch heels.

Things have since then taken a turn towards fucked up.

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