This past weekend was deliciously exhausting as we celebrated LJ’s 3rd birthday. It involved an entire Saturday spent with friends here
…followed by a Sunday in the neighborhood with the family. Both days involved absurd amounts of cake, cupcakes, grilled goods, sunburns and “mommy and daddy” juice. Oh, and party hats, of course.
Monday, though…Monday has already decided that too much fun was had this weekend. Monday has decided that my lazy days of lolling about in the sun have been too many. Monday is a total dick.
It started out lovely. LJ and I headed over bright and early to Baked in Red Hook for some chocolatey, sugar-laden goods for breakfast (because we didn’t have enough this weekend), and a latte the size of my face. Have you been there? If you haven’t, you should. Get the sweet & salty brownie. It’s one of Oprah’s “favorite things”, and I could eat 5678 of them. (Assuming you care what Oprah thinks. I don’t. They’re amazing, though. Eat them.) Also, if you watched Top Chef: Desserts, one of the pastry chefs was on it, and I saw him working in the kitchen this morning… so there’s that. Yay Baked!
It was about halfway through this gigantic latte, just when the caffeine was sending me into a full-blown panic attack, that I got the phone call from Carson’s playgroup. Carson’s my dog. Yes, I send her to a playgroup. Like a kid. It’s NYC, she has anxiety and needs the exercise and socialization: so we send her 3 mornings a week to play in the park with a zillion other dogs. Stop fucking judging me! I can FEEL you all judging me, and I don’t care. Her playgroup is a lifesaver for all of us.
Anyway, Eva (the owner) called and left a message that Carson had bitten her tongue while playing ball, it was bleeding a little bit but it was nothing serious, and she should be totally fine by the time her walker dropped her back off into the apartment. No big deal. LJ and I finished up our breakfast and headed over to Fairway to do a little food shopping before heading back home.
Sitting at a traffic light under the BQE overpass, waiting to turn onto 14th Street to head home, I was listening to some radio show talk about the “rape cop”, and how this epic scumbag lives in Park Slope (He doesn’t. 20th Street isn’t Park Slope, but whatever.). Apparently people are putting up flyers around the neighborhood with his picture, saying things like, “Rape Cop lives on this street”, and some guy on the radio was kind of defending him (and his trashy wife). Fueled by that soup bowl-sized latte, I found myself getting fired up and a little grouchy. As I’m sitting there quietly stewing, two things happen. First LJ suddenly shouts out, “I HAVE TO GO POOPY!!” to which I tell her she MUST wait, there’s just no other option. Then some unidentifiable black sludge falls from the BQE overpass onto my arm, which was resting on the edge of the door (my window was open). As it hit my arm it splattered the most vile, toxic-smelling shit all over my FACE and shirt. My face. A little bit even went on my lips. I can’t even imagine what it was, and I’m trying not to think about it until I grow a third arm and start hallucinating. (Note to self: keep the windows closed when driving back from Red Hook.)
We get back to Park Slope and start circling to find a parking spot. Usually this isn’t a problem. Today? TWENTY MINUTES of circling. Not good. ESPECIALLY when your preschooler’s shouts of “I HAVE TO GO POOPY!!” suddenly come to a puzzling halt. She had pooped in her princess skirt and started to quietly cry. I finally zip into a spot a block away and trudge home carrying 4 overstuffed bags of groceries, the weeping kid trailing behind me with a log of shit in her underwear.
I was SO UNPREPARED for the scene in my apartment. Remember the dog’s tongue? Yeah. It hadn’t stopped bleeding. Apparently not even a little bit. It was as if someone was brutally murdered in my home. Carson greeted me at the door, excitedly wiggling her butt and sending drops of blood flying all around her. The off-white walls, the floors, the rug, the couch. The COUCH!! Covered in about 3 dozen giant drops of blood. I throw the bags of groceries on the floor, grab sniffly LJ (with shit in her underwear) and SPRINT around the corner to get some hydrogen peroxide at the bodega. Five minutes later I burst through the front door again to find that my awesome, AWESOME bloody bitch had gone through the groceries, pulled out a box of chocolate chip granola bars, and proceeded to eat them ON THE BLOOD-STAINED COUCH. Now there was blood AND chocolate all over our less-than-a-year-old West Elm sectional. YAY! Here are some hints of the carnage:
3 pillows.
The rug doesn’t look bad here, but 500 of those drops make it pretty unsalvageable. Thank god it’s only from Ikea. (Please note the stray granola bar crumbs.)
Yes, that’s blood smeared all over the laptop. WTF?
Two hours later and the couch has been saved; the rug is on its way to the trash; the walls and floor have been scrubbed and the kid’s butt has been cleaned.
Fuck you, Monday!
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