[But first! A non-sequitor! I am SO ENJOYING all of the angry comments/emails I continue to receive about this post, where I thought I was making fun of a commercial but APPARENTLY I was REALLY saying that I thought cancer was funny. Because that's the sort of person I am. The sort of person who thinks cancer is a laughing matter. That's me! Anyway, I've been so successful with that, I thought it was time to expand my campaign.
So, I ask you: Have you seen the commercial for Coppertone Sport Spray? The perky, happy people in the commercial assure me that it's the very best sunscreen EVER for their active lifestyles. Even the cyclist guy insists that it's ultra-sweatproof and won't run into his eyes no matter how much he sweats (and then they show him cycling, dripping in sweat). Can someone explain to me HOW the sunscreen doesn't end up in your eyes when your entire face is RUNNING with perspiration? I don't buy it.
And clearly this means I think blindness is funny. Commence with the hatemail.]
These are the sorts of deep thoughts I have when pondering my own life is too unpleasant.
Dude. Duuuuuuuuuuuude. This week. This past week will not go down in history as the worst of my life, but it is definitely up there on the Things That I Survived But Wouldn’t Go Through Again If I Had Any Say About It Whatsoever list. And me and my big mouth. MY BIG STUPID MOUTH. I just can’t stop joking that it can’t possibly get any worse. Because I am a moron.
Yesterday, the insurance adjustor came. Let’s call him Ramon. Because that’s his name. Ramon was very nice. And he had expensive shoes. I found it interesting that a man who’s making the rounds to a bunch of flooded properties would be wearing nice leather shoes, but this was because I was suffering under a misapprehension of what Ramon’s job actually entails. I thought Ramon was going to wade down in the basement! To assess the damage!
Ramon took some pictures outside (drainage hoses! spontaneous ponds! intact bulkhead!) and then came on in. I removed my socks and rolled up my pantlegs before taking him down to the basement. Down the stairs we went, and in a matter of seconds I was ankle-deep in water, expecting him to follow.
But you see, Ramon had those nice shoes. And Ramon, my friends, is no fool. Ramon stayed safely on the stairs. I slogged from corner to corner, pointing out various items of interest, while he snapped some pictures and stayed nice and dry. And he reiterated–as I’d already been told–that in the absence of a permanent sump pump, the damage sustained would not be eligible for coverage. If I’d had a sump pump, it would be covered as “equipment failure.” Without one, it’s uncovered as “shit out of luck.”
I was not feeling the love for Ramon and his nice shoes and his safe perch on the stairs.
And then Ramon made a critical error. Ramon surveyed the lay of the land… the soggy boxes, the splintering furniture, the still-an-inch-deep water, the running pump struggling to keep up with the seepage… and turned to me and said, “What you need to do here is get rid of the water and dry it out before the mold gets worse.”
I stared at him for a moment. I blinked several times. When I was certain that I hadn’t just hallucinated this missive, I answered him. “Really, Ramon? Is THAT what I need to do? Get the water out? WHAT A GOOD IDEA, I WISH I’D THOUGHT OF THAT!”
And then I clubbed him over the head with the sump pump, hacked him up into pieces with the various brooms and Swiffers and poles I’ve got down there, and buried him underneath the shed. It was remarkably easy, seeing as how the ground is still sodden and loose. His shoes are available on eBay.
Oops! I’ve said too much!
In reality, I fixed him with what I hoped was an icy stare and said, “Well I’m open to suggestions on HOW I DO THAT,” and then he chuckled. CHUCKLED. Because, you know, it’s FUNNY.
So yesterday was great. But it was okay, you know, because that was the worst of it. Things wouldn’t be getting any worse. Hahahaha!
This morning I woke up with a truck parked on my chest. It was (as you might imagine) rather uncomfortable. I spent a few minutes assessing whether or not I was, perhaps, having an infarction. Once I’d determined that death was (unfortunately) not imminent, I got up. Breathing was… laborious. But I would shake it off, and we would go to church! Because I am tough and it’s just a cold!
I was up for 15 minutes before I told the kids that 1) we were not going to go to church and 2) I was going to lay down just for another hour or so. I’d love to tell you how long that hour turned out to be but I don’t want to commit to print anything that might make it easier for CPS to remove the kids. (I like having them here, because Chickadee will eat my chicken soup when I don’t want it and Monkey lies down with me on the couch and then I don’t need a blanket.)
And logically I know it’s unlikely that I could’ve developed pneumonia overnight. I mean, yes, sure, I’ve been a little tired, and yeah, I wasn’t feeling so hot yesterday, and sure, my inhaler doesn’t seem to be helping and okay, I might be running a bit of a fever, but what are the odds? It’s just a cold. Or bronchitis. Or killer black mold from my swamp basement which is even now devouring my lung tissue at an alarming rate.
My money was on bronchitis until Joshilyn brought up the killer fungus idea. She’s such a good friend.
I would say that this coming week will be an improvement, but I’m afraid to tempt the fates. Let’s just think happy thoughts. Or something. I don’t know. I’m going to have another cup of tea and go stick my head in the oven. Just to dry out the fungus, you understand.