I'm not writing much lately. Something will strike me as noteworthy and then it slips my mind by the time I sit down to pound it out. Or, like the partly finished post about my trip to SF, it requires too much attention and I can't focus to finish it. Why? Work. I'm swamped. Too many evenings obsessing over work email, too many weekends checking stats and following up. If my job involved an actual grindstone, I'd be without a nose by now. But trust me, soon I'll have a clearer head. (And I still have a nose, thought I'd clear that up since I put it out there.)
Anyhow, sometimes the out-of-the-house crazy is matched by in-the-house crazy. Like yesterday evening. I got home to find a giant pool of dog pee in the entryway and my poor husband trying to wrangle the dogs out, but just a moment too late, apparently. Seeing his frazzled state, and being a good and guilty wife (great Danes make truly giant puddles) I offer to clean it up and let him take the dogs out. So I mop. Then when I unload the dishwasher I find it hasn't fully drained. Again. So I investigate. I force it to drain, clean the filter then fish around in the trap just under the filter to find the cause. And I do. Shrimp tails. Old, slimy, smelly-but really clean, shrimp tails. See, last time we ate shrimp, they were peeled, no tails. The last time we ate shrimp with tails, can't remember. But obviously we did, because I have a nice little handful of these bad boys. And I have serious issues with old food, so I'm trying not to vomit. Luckily this does the trick and the dishwasher starts working again.
I make dinner, we eat, we chat and later in the evening, Mr. Dog heads downstairs and the cursing begins a new. Why? Because he's stepped into a fresh pool of pee. This time I suspect our other dog. And I also suspect they're trying to teach us some kind of lesson. And because Mr. Dog now has a soggy sock and the mouth of a sailor, I clean it up when he takes the dogs out once again.
Finally after the boys go to bed, after I have to nearly force Little Dog to shut his eyes and drift off to sleep, we get to rest. For a little bit at least. About an hour after falling asleep, Little Dog is yelling for us. And he's covered in vomit. So we do the clean up, the comforting and the getting him into our bed for the night and spend the next 7 hours being woken up every 20 minutes to give him the puke bucket (aka my largest mixing bowl. Yuck, right?). When morning rolls around, I'm wasted. I can hardly pull myself out of my blanket nest to face the day, which will now be faced from home with a sick child while I keep on top of my meetings, stats and emails.
All I can say is thank heavens for DVDs. I may not have enriched his mind much, but he was happy. By the late afternoon, he had eaten a toast sandwich and two glasses of water. By the end of the day he was on my lap interrupting my phone calls.
Tomorrow he'll be back at school and I'll begin the countdown as I wait for Big Dog to get this tummy bug. Maybe just once I'll luck out and he'll skip it. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?
Pasta ala Fridge
5 years ago