I Want a Mulligan
/It's been one of those days. You know the ones. They typically start with you moaning first thing in the morning about something or other and end with you begging for mercy and a mulligan by nightfall.
My dad is still in the hospital. (He's partially bionic now and grumpier than ever but he'll likely outlive us all.) My pit to Hell mocks me every time I look out the window, and my daughter woke up infected with what is surely bound to be the virus that starts the zombie out break.
Best of all, she keeps breathing on me.
I have to keep reminding myself that while it's totally legal and acceptable to beat actual zombies when they come near you, my daughter hasn't quite made the entire transition to soul sucking brain muncher. At this point in the game she's merely a snot monster who is intent on breathing her sick germs all over me and that I should just stick with spraying her down with Lysol every time she breaks the three foot invisible perimeter I've installed around myself.
Which reminds me, I'm running out of Lysol, tissue paper and while we are at it, I'm currently looking for someone who can back fill my pit to Hell. I have no idea which aisle I would find that in my local grocery store.
So here I am, feeling a little paranoid about getting sick, a little anxious about my husband's stupid garage project and more than a bit worried about my father and I'm wondering if maybe I need one of those little stress balls to squeeze so that the top of my head doesn't pop off anytime soon when the phone rings so loudly I almost crap my pants.
(Side note: I bought new phones last week and still haven't bothered to figure out how to turn the ringer down. Frac promised to help me but apparently he's either hard of hearing or sadistic because the ringer is still set at DEAFENING LOUD.)
It was the school. The last time the school called was when someone was bleeding. Thanks to my child.
As it turns out, someone was bleeding. Only this time it was my child. Specifically, the Jumbster.
There was an accident. It involved my kid in his wheelchair, sloped ground and a pothole.
Jumby stopped himself. With his face. After the wheelchair toppled.
He'll live. Kids are meant to be bumped and bruised, even kids who have wheels instead of working legs and my Jumbster is one tough little nut.
I'm gonna need a bigger stress ball.
My dad is still in the hospital. (He's partially bionic now and grumpier than ever but he'll likely outlive us all.) My pit to Hell mocks me every time I look out the window, and my daughter woke up infected with what is surely bound to be the virus that starts the zombie out break.
Best of all, she keeps breathing on me.
I have to keep reminding myself that while it's totally legal and acceptable to beat actual zombies when they come near you, my daughter hasn't quite made the entire transition to soul sucking brain muncher. At this point in the game she's merely a snot monster who is intent on breathing her sick germs all over me and that I should just stick with spraying her down with Lysol every time she breaks the three foot invisible perimeter I've installed around myself.
Which reminds me, I'm running out of Lysol, tissue paper and while we are at it, I'm currently looking for someone who can back fill my pit to Hell. I have no idea which aisle I would find that in my local grocery store.
So here I am, feeling a little paranoid about getting sick, a little anxious about my husband's stupid garage project and more than a bit worried about my father and I'm wondering if maybe I need one of those little stress balls to squeeze so that the top of my head doesn't pop off anytime soon when the phone rings so loudly I almost crap my pants.
(Side note: I bought new phones last week and still haven't bothered to figure out how to turn the ringer down. Frac promised to help me but apparently he's either hard of hearing or sadistic because the ringer is still set at DEAFENING LOUD.)
It was the school. The last time the school called was when someone was bleeding. Thanks to my child.
As it turns out, someone was bleeding. Only this time it was my child. Specifically, the Jumbster.
There was an accident. It involved my kid in his wheelchair, sloped ground and a pothole.
Jumby stopped himself. With his face. After the wheelchair toppled.
He'll live. Kids are meant to be bumped and bruised, even kids who have wheels instead of working legs and my Jumbster is one tough little nut.
I'm gonna need a bigger stress ball.