Monday, April 19, 2010

Oh. My. Good. God.

First off, I couldn't weigh myself this morning because before I could, the toilet overflowed.

Mike gets up earlier than me (at 5am, which is plainly ridiculous), and this morning he took the opportunity a dark, quiet house offered him and spent some time on the toilet doing whatever it is men do in there for sooooo long.  After he left (5.30am: still ridiculous), I slept for another hour or so, then got up at 7am to start my day.  I went in to the bathroom, lifted the lid of the toilet, and noticed that Mike either hadn't flushed when he'd finished, or our toilet was clogged.  So, because it was 7am and I'm not at my most coherent at that time of the morning, I decided to give it another flush to *ahem* help things along.

Oh.  My.  Good.  God.

The toilet literally vomited out its entire contents on to the bathroom floor, including everything Mike had deposited there earlier.  I think I screamed, or whimpered, or did something fairly sissy-ish, and then grabbed some old towels and literally threw them on the floor, thinking this would somehow help.  It did not.  To use the term "chunky water" is not something I do light-heartedly, but I feel it's appropriate in this instance.  It was brown, yellow and had dark chunks of godawfulness floating in it.  I then jumped over the towels on to a dry patch and chucked down the pan some de-clogging gel we have in the cupboard, shut the door and scarpered.  This, my dear friends, is MIKE'S FAULT, and I am fully prepared to sacrifice some towels and bathmats if it means I don't have to *literally* clean up my husband's shit.

I did tell him about it though.  I didn't let him discover it for himself at a later time.  That would have just been cruel.

So, after this incident at 7am, I realised I was running late.  Owen had to up, changed and eating by 8am, and I had to have the house clean, myself dressed and him done with refluxing by 10am because the Occupational Therapist was coming over for an assessment.  I think Owen knew how stressed I already was, because halfway through his feed he took supreme pleasure in doing one of the largest dumps he's ever done, and it exploded out of his nappy on to his back, legs, highchair, blankets and, once I got him on to the floor to change him, the carpet, his hands and some of me.

Oh.  My.  Good.  God.

I got him cleaned up, met with the OT, fed Owen again and made it to CHOW with about ten minutes to spare.  Met with his Craniofacial doctor (the one we don't like) and his fabulously glam new nurse (whom we do), and left CHOW feeling much more upbeat.  So upbeat, in fact, I turned up the stereo and put my foot down on the motorway.  The speed limit went down to 55mph at one point due to road works, so I natually slowed down a little bit, then when it changed back to 65mph, I sped up to 73mph.  This is the speed I normally do on the motorway, and as I'm constantly being overtaken my other vehicles doing in excess of 80mph, I think nothing of it.  Today, this was not the case.

Oh.  My.  Good.  God.

Not ONLY did I get my first ever speeding ticket, but because I sped up to 73mph coming out of a 55mph work zone, my fine was doubled..  DOUBLED!!  I have gone from having a clean, perfect driving record to points on my licence and a $236 fine.  I was gobsmacked.  Well behaved in front of the police officer, but gobsmacked.  And I'm too ashamed to tell Mike.  I may have seen his shit, but telling him I have a speeding ticket is cheek-burning embarrasing because I'm always crowing my superior driving skills at him.

After all this nonsense I decided to call my sister in the UK to find out about her weekend under some Icelandic volcanic ash, and whether or not she made it to her friend's wedding out in Ireland, but our sodding phones kept disconnecting and I only got as far as Owen's blowout.  This is too bad, because I really, really, REALLY need to vent.

They say things come in threes, but my day has already had so much crap in it (literally!), that I'm just expecting more of the same later on.  What a disasterous Monday.



  1. Oh nooo!

    It sounds like Owen takes after Mike...

  2. I've just noticed how many times I've used the word "liteally" in this post.

    Now I hate myself, as well as my Monday.