If Life's a Bowl, Mines a Toilet

*warning: adult language, human poop, and rotten fruit ahead. read at your own risk*

I’m done today.

My puppy, while exhibiting signs of Seriously Icky Tummy - aka Giardia - threw up on the floor, the stairs, and my least favorite, in my shoes. Thankfully, not my good ones. Not even ones I wear. Regularly. Or now, at all. There was the Dread Gas, the lack of lunging for people food - a sign, in beagles, of imminent demise. Only, after an expensive visit to Dr. Cutiepants, did we rule out anything of the Nasty Variety growing in her intestines.

Yes.

Pucker’s great. She’s simply working the crotch of all of my fucking panties through her system.

Nothing to worry about. Except maybe what to wear under my clothes.

Fox? Has been complaining for weeks of a tummy ache, and honestly? I figured it was your classic I Don’t Want To Go To School variety. So I sent him. Ignored all the calls I got from school, (except, naturally, the one that included actual vomit) rolled my eyes to the very back of my head when he started whining. Everyday. During meals. After meals. Cramping. Nausea. He didn’t want to go to football; but then again, he hates transitions. Like getting dressed right after school to go knock other little boys down.

The turning point? It wasn’t Puckerbreaking wind to the tune of singing my eyelashes, curling my hair or forcing me off the road. It was Fox. Blaming it on the dog. Turns out that yes, Pucker could’ve gotten something gross by eating Goose Poop (I kid you not) but more than that? Fox could. He plays football on a field loaded with it. The drinks lay on the ground, surrounded by grass, visited by geese, that eat nasty fish, and shit all over creation.

So I’ve gotten the wrong freaking child tested.

And worse? I’d had to fucking pay for it.

Trust me, today I can overlook how badly I should feel getting Pucker violated for no reason.

We went to Dr. Z’s. We got poked, proded, looked at, and I got sneezed on. Decided that lingering cold of three weeks with wet chesty cough needs meds - (no shit, really?) but, we need to test his Icky Tummy for all sorts of gross things. Like E. Coli. Giardia. Salmonella. Etc. How does one do this, you might ask. I did.

And fell over when I realized I needed to head face first into a bowl lined with Saran Wrap.

Not a jello bowl either. A toiletbowl. The Great Throne, in the Halls Of Horrendous Aroma’s. I’d draw a veil over the rest of this experience, only to say, I’d rather try to sneak up behind one of the great danes and get a urine sample than this. I got peed on during that one.

We drop at the hospital; and I get an email.

From Fuckhead, the Wonder Ex. In glowing terms he comented on my Mothering Skills - see, Fox, who has had several cell phones, as he fucking loses them no matter what I do keeps losing the Goddamn things when I’m not home, and he has a sitter.

“You’re a manipulative bitch. He will hate you when he realizes that you are alienating from his father…”

Really. One does wonder with love like that, why I divorced his fat, stupid, lazy ass.

And you know what really frosts my hide? Last night was Know Your School Night, and not only didn’t he go, he’s accused me of lying about going.

I would never miss out on the note that Fox left me at his desk that brought tears to my eyes; or how they do their work; or how the brand spanking new reading initiative works. I wanted to read his journal, laugh at the parts of his weekends that make it in there, in order of importance.

Like the fact that I burned scrambled eggs while getting Pucker to poop outside trumped us renting a movie, and spending all night laughing.

I’ve stayed calm with FLSX (fat lazy stupid X, lest you wonder) reminding him that Fox couldhave called him on my phone; but he (while not really paying child support) manages to pay to have my number blocked from his phone. That this is foolish and dangerous; how when I’ve needed to reach him for medical things, i”ve been unable to, and, he can’t talk to Fox if he loses the phone.

(I do soooo love this) -

Evidently Foxy doesn’t lose the phone with he’s with his Sperm Donor Of a “Father” - I should be as responsible as he is. I’m not at all surprised that it’s not lost -as he’s with him a mere THIRTY HOURS A MONTH. By his own choice. I’ve offered extra time. He doesn’t want it. But I’m alienating him.

I vented my wrath on the poor unsuspecting potato patch at the grocery store, ran over an egg with my cart, just for the hell of it, and when Fox dropped a yogurt, at five past six tonight, and my hair caught on fire? Because normally? I’m a good shopper, and would pay for this? I fought the urge to let loose a primal scream, and instead, yelled down the way to the poor butcher who actually knows me “CLEAN UP IN THE DAIRY AISLE”.

He, bless his heart, took one look at me, eyes popping, hair a mess, grabbed the carmel apple remnant Fox had left out of his mouth as he’d just picked it up off the floor by the freaking meat case.

Really. What day isn’t complete with rotting fruit, a saran wrapped bowl full of shit, a vomiting dog, and several work deadlines barreling down on me topped off by watching your already ill son pick up food off a floor that is no doubt loaded with bacteria?

I need a drink.

But I don’t want to get shitfaced.

I already did