Major suckage

Today has been one of those days where it just wasn't worth getting up. I almost didn't...I stopped in at work last night at 7:45 to check email and make sure no bills were due. I left at midnight and still barely accomplished anything. Which meant I didn't even go to bed until 1:30, and the alarm went off at 6:15. The first thing I saw when I woke up was Beaker standing next to my bed, staring solemnly into my face from about six inches away.

"I can't go to school today, Mom. I have a cough."

"Unless you're dead, you're going. I have to work; your brother has school, and I have an appointment."

"Mooo-ooom! I'm siiiiiiick!" [followed by sounds of the sort of cough only produced by stubborn, allergy-stricken children who REFUSE to learn to blow their nose, and therefore have a wad of snot running down their throats.]

So I dosed him up with all his normal stuff plus some Claritin plus a hit of albuterol. I'm such a meanie. As we were walking out the door, he suddenly had a screechy fit because he wanted to take lunch and not buy it as previously planned. By the time I slapped together a pb sandwich and side items, we were almost late.

It was Pigpen's first day, and he seemed in a good mood until I wanted to take his picture. I got the sad mouth. He was so clingy when we got there, which is uncharacteristic for him. The teacher had to peel him off me so I could leave. All the other 4 year olds were playing happily and waving goodbye to their parents.

After a therapy appointment with Beaker's psychologist, I went to work. Where I was greeted by open doors, sweaty coworkers, and a foul, rotting smell. My boss asked if I smelled anything funny last night, and I said yeah, it smelled like bug spray, which I did not find unusual because Terminix just sprayed and I have the world's Most Sensitive Nose. But this was horrible. I think there might be a body under the crawlspace. (Did they ever find Jimmy Hoffa?) We called Terminix to come investigate (there's a job you could not pay me enough to do--if someone tried to force me into a crawlspace at gunpoint, I'd have to let them shoot me.) So it's HOT with the AC off and all the doors open, and of course the window in my office is caulked shut [Let's give the fat sweaty girl the office with no ceiling fan, one vent, and a sealed window! hahaha!]

While I was on eterna-hold with Verizon about getting a new phone for one of my employees, and fanning myself with a stack of timesheets, my cell rings. I look at the number, don't recognize it, and think, oh great, which one of my offspring has done something horrible this early in the school year. But it's just the driver from the Purple Heart, telling me they'll be at my house in 20 minutes to pick up our junk. We've been cleaning the basement, and culled a lot of old toys, an old TV and ancient refrigerator left by the previous owners, and a skanky sofa and loveseat. The truck pulls up and it is only one guy, and a pretty scrawny looking one at that. I have everything in the driveway except the refrigerator, which is still in the garage, and the furniture, which is in the basement, accessible through the garage. The guy is not happy about coming into the garage and flatly refuses to come into the basement. Says it's "against the rules." The lady who phoned to schedule the pickup didn't have a problem when I told her some of the stuff was in the basement and garage.

I decide I am going to drag the furniture out myself, and after a lot of heaving and flipping the couch on its side, manage to get the damn thing stuck in the doorway. Luckily there is a second exit in the basement or I would have had to climb it to get out. Scrawny Guy produces a dolly, and I try to help him get the fridge on it, but no go. He calls for backup, and while we're waiting, I notice that the entire paneled wall next to the fridge is warped and covered in disgusting, hairy mold. I stab at the wall with a screwdriver but it appears solid, so I decide it can wait for The Man to come home, because dealing with hairy fungi is not in my job description. [If you are wondering why my garage is paneled, all I can say is the house was built in the 70s, and probably we are lucky they did not put paneling in the shower stall and build a mailbox out it.] Finally Scrawny Guy's buddy shows up and they load up the rest of my junk, just in time for me to go pick up Pigpen. His teacher reported he was tearful for only about 15 minutes, but defiant and grouchy after that, which is pretty typical for him.

I think I need a nap now.