File this post away for when you think you’re having a bad morning.
First, read this. I copied and pasted this straight from a Facebook post from my personal page this summer:
June 6 at 10:38am
Dear Mr. Man three streets down, I'm sorry I lost my sh!t in your front yard.
You see, I was already fighting the clock to get the kids to daycare and get myself to work on time when my dog (who is in SO much trouble right now) got out and decided to go on an adventure.
So, by the time I got to him in your yard, I had two crying kids in the car (convinced that certain death was about to descend upon the dog), had already gotten out of my car 126 times to try to lure him to me with Brutus’ peanut butter sandwich (which, by the way, ended up smeared all over my shirt) and was covered in sweat and melted make-up with my hair plastered to my face.
Those weren’t really horns growing out of my head and my pupils aren’t usually red. Thanks for grabbing him for me (when I ordered you to with the authority of a prison guard) as he tried to run into your house. All 120 pounds of him. At full speed. Knocking your coffee all over your lovely blue robe.
So, yeah, sorry about putting a choke-hold on him in your driveway while simultaneously yelling, “You are a BAD dog!” 47 times in a row and dragging him bodily like a drowning victim.
You’d think a person would only have to endure a morning like that once in a lifetime. But you’d be wrong.
This is how my morning went today:
Woke up at 5:30 like I always do and started my routine. Then I realized that I must have been smoking crack the night before because I’d done none of the things that needed to be done: fold the laundry in the dryer, pack the kids’ lunches, pack Angel Baby’s practice clothes and read through and sign off on all the homework.
Needless to say, I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
I got myself dressed with everything except my pants which were fluffing in the dryer. I was all kinds of sexy rushing around in a black top and mid-calf length black trouser socks.
I finally get everything together and decided to run out and start the car so it could warm up a bit. I heave myself out of the car to see that my neighbor’s adult son is standing in their driveway looking at me.
Neighbor’s Son: Oh, God.
Me: Good morn…. What?
Neighbor’s Son (turning purple from the neck up): Oh, God.
Me (taking off in his direction): Hey, are you choking?!
Neighbor’s Son (holding up his hand in a ‘halt’ motion): Oh, God.
And then it hits me. I don’t have any pants on. I’m standing there, about to charge this dude wearing nothing but super sexy black socks, a shirt and a big ole pair of cotton draws.
I drew myself up, held my chin up high, turned around and marched my big cotton covered behind up the steps and let myself inside.
I get the kids packed up and start to head out the door (with pants on this time). Out of nowhere my gigantic golden retriever comes barreling through the kitchen, hip-butts me out of his way, knocks Brutus on his ass and runs out the door.
There is no greater sin at my job than to be late. It doesn’t matter that I handle a million dollar product line corresponding with customers all over the globe (have you ever tried to negotiate the terms of a nuclear coded product with someone in
?). It all comes down to whether you arrive on time. My entire professional existence is reduced to the minute hand on a clock (that’s fast). Budapest
Fast forward 45 minutes… I might have actually crossed over to the dark side because it’s all really kind of a blur and I don’t remember anything except that my vision was in red.
I got to work at 7:59 and 47 seconds.
The school calls at 8:35 to tell me that Brutus has a sore throat and I need to come pick him up.
As The Bloggess would say, “Perspective. Now you have it.”
This is not a flash issue. This is a dog possessed by Satan and these eyes are the portals to Hell.