When Monday Lives Up To It's Rep

(*Author's note:  The following blog contains TMI and the F word.  Read at your own risk.  If I offend you, it's your own damn fault for reading beyond this point and quite honestly, you can bite me.)


It's 12:19 in the afternoon and thus far I have gone to the store, unplugged the toilet, cleaned the house, vacuumed the dog, and baked cookies. 


Productive day, one might say... but I have one thing left on my agenda:


Kill my husband.


I love it when Dan leaves for work in the morning and the last thing he says to me, before he shoots out the door like there's a firecracker tied to his tail, "Okay, baby, love you, have a good day ohbythewayIpluggedthetoilet  BYE!"  


Me:  "Bye baby!  Have a good d... wait, what?  What?"


*VROOOOOOOOM* roars his truck, as he hauls ass down the road.


I turned towards the bathroom with a feeling of dread.  I'm thinking to myself, "Oh no he dittent..." but I know damn well he did.  


"Mother FUCKER!" I screamed, to the dogs, the walls, the ceiling, and most likely to Mr. Awesome, who hadn't left for work yet.  


When you only have one toilet, this right here?  Is a problem.  Especially when it's 7:30 in the morning and you've been so busy chugging coffee that you can feel nature counting down to an inevitable blast off.  


I put on my faded, holey, bleach stained, University of Pink sweats, a black wife beater, Dan's Mets hat, flip flops, sunglasses, and stomp down the stairs and out to my car.  I'm chanting, "FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK" to myself (and anyone who crosses my path who might happen to be able to read lips) as I drive down the street to the Big M, where I hold the title of Queen of Bad Ring Tones and Overly Friendly Conversation.  I grab one of their stupid little double decker shopping carts (seriously... what the fuck?  They're like two itty bitty little Fisher Price pretend shopping carts stacked on top of eachother.  LAME) and careen viciously through the store, grab my two purchases and hit the check out.  My toilet is plugged, I have to pee, and I'm really, realllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy angry at my husband.  REALLY angry.  Like turning green and ripping my shirt angry.  


Like running him over with my car then backing up to see what I hit angry.


The evil little old lady who works as the cashier and has never, not once, not even by accident said to hello to me, chooses this morning to pull the stick out of her ass and ask me how I am.


Oh, I don't think so, New York.  You've rejected my overtures of small talk and friendly chit chat until now, this morning, when I'm so irate that I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire?  


NO.


Me:  "It's 7:45 in the morning and I'm buying a plunger and Drano.  How do you think I am?"


Checker:  *dead silence*


She finished ringing me up and said, "Have a good day!"


To which I replied, under my breath, "Bite me."


Long story short, I came home, looked at the instructions on the Drano, and discovered the very first sentence says, "Do not use on toilets."


I plunged my little heart out, to no avail.


I flushed and suffered the consequences.


Finally, after about an hour and a half of plunging, mopping, sweating, and swearing, I went back to my grandmother's old remedy for plugged potties:  Dump in boiling water.


It's a thousand degrees outside and humid as hell but I boiled pot after pot of water on my stove, hauled it into the bathroom, and dumped it into the toilet.


Five pots (and a little crying... okay, a lot of crying) later, everything went down.


I've never been so happy in my life.


Dan has four hours to redeem himself if he chooses to live until tomorrow.  


Also?  He's not allowed to use the toilet at home EVER.  AGAIN.


Mark my words, yo.