Yesterday turned out to be one of those days.
More specifically, one fifteen-minute span of the day pretty much sealed the deal for me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
The day started out well enough. I had to go into the office and other than almost crushing a jay-walking fool who darted out in front of my car, I arrived without incident. By the way, despite sacrificing my lunch (which was crushed when I braked sharply to avoid this numb nut) the woman treated me to the ol’stink eye, because hey, aren’t people who are clearly in the wrong a delightful bunch?
In any case, all was well until the evening. And then as if by magic, nothing was well. It was like a reverse miracle, the anti-miracle, if you will, presuming either even exists.
I was dicing veggies like I’ve done countless times before, and not only did I slice my finger open, but I also managed to send the pepper flying, as it skittered across the floor. I ran after it, only to hear the distinctive sound of the cat’s collar and tags jingling. It could mean only one thing. That little bastard had seized the moment and was trying to make off with part of my dinner.
I turned on him and sure enough, he’s face-deep in the pot on the stove. You know, because he’s starving, having not eaten in a whole half hour. Or, maybe because he doesn’t get that the feta cheese is MINE. Mine, cat, mine! I bellowed, because that’s the level of agitation I need to be at for him to pay me any mind, and he leaps to the top of the cabinets where he likes to hang out taunting me most days. And by taunting, I mean he likes to knock cat fur and debris into my food on the stove and countertops from a place he knows is too high up for me to clean properly.
The fun didn’t end there, however, because the distinct smell of burning hair, or rather burning fur reached my nose next and I realized Dumb-Butt managed to get his tail too close to the flames as well. Except he’s now up in his little tower so I can’t make sure he’s not injured without climbing up onto the less-than-sturdy counter myself so that I can get a good look at the damage. While balancing precariously up there thinking the whole thing’s about to give way and why the hell didn’t I actually stick to my plan of losing five pounds by the end of the month, I accidentally knocked over my glass, which of course shatters on the floor, splashing sticky juice everywhere.
So then I’m barefoot and there’s wall-to-wall glass and stickiness and both Squeaks and I are staring down at it from above and I swear to you I heard him snicker at me. No lie.
Not to be outdone, I hear Snugs going crazy in the next room, because he spotted a bug on the window and is trying to climb the blinds to get at it, except he’s not tiny either and they are definitely giving way under his body weight. When I die and go to hell it’s going to be a glass room with thousands of those cheap-ass, plastic blinds with cords that require hours of untangling every damn day. At least I know whoever invented the blasted things will be in there too and it will be very satisfying watching them suffer right along with me.
Clean-up and cursing ensued, but at the end of it all we got it done. By “we” I mean me, because those good-for-nothing cats never help with anything. I was finally sitting down to eat when a slippery veggie dodged my fork and took out half the plate, and wouldn’t you know it? The red sauce managed to avoid every place on the floor, but the thin, white, accent patterns on my new rug which is now permanently stained in several places. Of course. And, I was out half my dinner which would make me super cranky on even a good day.
I’ve got a bottle of red in the house, but after yesterday I’m not sure opening it is a wise idea. That said, I could really use the drink. Oh, the conundrum.