Last Friday I had enough.  Enough crying.  Enough barking.  Enough cleaning.  Enough playing house.  When I was a child, playing house was nothing like this.

It was more like:

Wifey – “Welcome home honey!  I baked you some fresh bread and started a bath for you.”

Hubby – “That’s great! But before dinner, let’s feed the kitty, walk the dog, and churn some butter.”

And we all lived happily ever after!

On Friday, the proverbial shit hit the fan and the real shit hit the carpet.

But, let’s start a few days prior.  Enter Wednesday, the hors d’oeuvre.

I thought I had everything under control until my back went out on me.  Yep.  Kaput.  I couldn’t stand upright, sit down, or lay down without sharp, searing, nauseating pain.  (It was three orders of magnitude worse than giving birth, ok?)  My entire lower back was as hard as steel.  (Why can’t my abdominals be like that?)

We added a third dog, Looney (aptly named), to the house just after my back fell apart.  (Steph and I had agreed months ago to pet-sit a friend’s dog for four days while they were on vacation.  It just so happened to start today.  Seren-f-n-dipity.)

And since the gods weren’t quite done pissing on my mortal soul, they plugged up our kitchen sink.  We tried Drano as if, just this once, it would actually perform as advertised.  (Does Drano ever work?  The foaming version?  Nope.  The gel version?  Nope.  The extra strength version?  Nope.  The mystical, magic crystal version?  Nope.  Drano only seems to open the drain in my wallet.  I digress.)  Naturally, the plumber couldn’t come out until Friday morning.  (Do you sense a bit of foreshadowing?)

Thursday was hellacious, but nothing like the day after.  Enter Friday morning, le plat principal.  (In case you were wondering, entree doesn’t translate to main course anywhere except for America.)

The plumber is coming this morning.  I go to the kitchen to clean up before he arrives.  The dishes from the past two days are piled next to the sink and as I get closer, the backed up drain smells faintly familiar.  Oh yeah!  It smells like a dumpster in here!  Super!

Worm is still in bed sleeping (off some vodka cranberry we goosed last night), so I take the opportunity to pick up toys off the floors.  Every Friday is vacuum day.  (I vacuum in Speedos the color of my vacuum cleaner, if you’re after some mental eye candy.)  I look down at the carpet in the front room and there’s quite a few new stains showing.  They must be fresh because I don’t remember them from yesterday.  I look closer.  Oh, they’re chocolate stains.  Which one of the damn dogs smeared choco-noooo!  This is dog shit!  And it’s everywhere!  Double super!

I’m irate.  How stupid can these dogs be?  There’s probably 3 piles of shit in the whole backyard.  WTF?  Aren’t dogs supposed to smell shit a mile away?  How could they step in it?  Don’t they look where they’re walking?

I go to the living room to ponder what to do next.  And what do I see in the living room?  (You know this is not going to be good either, right?)  It’s a large puddle of yellow-orange vomit on our awesome leopard print rug.  Triple super!

At this point, we’re only 7 hours into Friday and I need a drink.

The plumber gets to the house around 8 and Duncan starts barking his head off.  The baby wakes up from the ruckus crying and screaming.  Looney sneaks outside to fence fight with the neighbors’ dogs.  So, I’m screaming at Duncan to stop.  The neighbors are screaming at Looney to stop.  The dogs must have sensed my weakness because they just looked at me and laughed.  The chaos went on until the plumber left an hour later.  To make a long story short, I spent the entire morning scrubbing, washing, cleaning, bleaching, steaming, fuming, panting, bitching, moaning, screaming, and almost sobbing.  I even missed my stay-at-home dad’s day at the tavern, which I’d been looking forward to all week long.

Last Friday, I was pretty damn close to spontaneously combusting.  If I had, I’m sure the gods would have surely pissed on me then.

Worm, I Am NOT a Disney Land Ride!