Comedy of Errors in The Devil Beneath My Feet

Oh, fuck today. It’s two minutes before ten in the morning and I am already about 745% done with today.

TMI warning. Lots of blood and absolute insanity.

When I woke up this morning I felt groggier than usual. I whipped the covers off and discovered that from the top of my thighs down to my knees was essentially covered in blood. Thanks, period, for showing up in the middle of the night with no prior warning. The dog was immediately put into distress, he assumed I was dying, naturally. In a situation that could only be described as utterly miraculous, there was not a single drop of it on the sheets. How in the fuck I managed that, I have absolutely no idea. Still though, underpants ruined. I didn’t bother trying to save them, into the trash they went.

So I went downstairs and got in the shower, obviously. As I got out, my nose itched, so I rubbed it. When I took my hand away, blood. What the fuck. So I look in the mirror, sure enough, nosebleed. A real gusher, too, no little tiny bit of blood, this was pouring out of my nose. So now I’ve officially got blood on my towel, on my chest, all down my face, on my hands, all in the sink, and the dog is now thoroughly convinced I will keel over at any moment so he’s reacting accordingly by crying and trying to rip my towel off.

So I stood there in the bathroom, naked, wet, a wad of toilet paper jammed into my left nostril while the dog licked the water off my feet, rinsing spots of blood out of my towel with hydrogen peroxide and cold water, trying in vain to hurry so I could could finish getting ready.

I threw the towel in the washing machine and finished my morning routine, hair done, makeup done, and 99% dressed but for socks. Where are my socks. Cannot find socks. I hurry downstairs to go check the dryer and immediately step in something warm, wet, and chunky.

Thank you, Bitch Cat, for barfing as strategically as possible right at the bottom of the stairs. Fuck. You.

Proceed to one-legged hop to the bathroom. The dog, now assured that I am not going to die at any moment, thinks this is an invitation to a very fun game wherein he is supposed to jump up and try to bite my raised pant leg and try to wrestle my pants off of my person. A short and curt “DARBY.” Got him to stop, this time.

Rinsed my foot in the shower, put on socks, fast shuffle to the mudroom for shoes, stepped in the same pile of cat vomit.

Son of a fucking whore. At this point the annoyed mumbling that has been the running soundtrack to this morning has turned into full on strings of curse words. Take off socks, wipe up barf, change socks, shoes on, coat on, car keys, phone in pocket, purse, all set. Out the door, into the car, down the road, realize at the very end of my road that I have forgotten tampons for the day.

%{%}#^£¥•!’!!!

Turn around, run back inside, grab tampons, stomp outside, into the car, race to work, still late.

Get inside, first thing I hear for the day, “Phones aren’t fixed yet.”

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