Do Over!

No seriously. I want a do over.

I should have known this day was going to eat it, when Evil (official eldest feline of Special Sauce) decided to wake me up at 2, 3:30, 4:00 and 5:00 AM. (She has this little trick of finding whatever piece of paper, plastic baggie, or clotheshanger that will submit to her willing little claws, and pick at it until I wake up and pet her. Sounds minor, but Sweet Fancy Elvis it's annoying.)

It was raining and my gas tank was practically empty, but I had enough time to stop and get gas, AND coffee (where they replaced my beloved holiday spice blend with Caramel Delight. I'm happy to report Caramel Delight is even better than holiday spice, so chalk ONE good point up). Double bonus, I get to work early.

Unfortunately, when it rains, the yard becomes a sodden, disgusting mess. Generally, to avoid messing up the boss's lawn, and my shoes, and probably my outfit (knowing my propensity towards falling), I tend to walk across her deck, and onto the sidewalk leading to the cabana when it's raining, instead of cutting across the yard. This morning, however, the dogs were out.

I may or may not have mentioned previously that my boss has three demonic Papillion dogs. One almost tolerates me, one barks in my general direction, and one hates EVERYBODY. Now, normally, one would think "tiny dog- no big deal". Well, you would be wrong. I must have accidentally sprayed my jeans with Mutton Scented Febreeze. Two of the dogs just barked their asses off at me, but the third, Mike Tyson, decided to bite me. Often. HARD. And it doesn't register that he's biting me. I mean it does- in the "Ouch, what the fuck was that?" sense, but not that "Yo, Sauce, pick up the pace, and get out of leash range, dumbass" sort of sense. Once I finally get out of dog-range, I realize the little bastard has bitten my calf (right below the back of my knee) but good. All the while, my boss is yelling "Oh god, I'm so sorry! Don't walk through there next time!" and I'm reassuring her I'm fine, but let me tell ya- that hurt like a bastard all day! Broke the skin, THROUGH my jeans.

So I think, at this point, it can't get any worse, right?

HA!

I put up with the minor nuisances of rain, and forgetting that downtown traffic, on a Market Friday, before Christmas is kind of like rush hour in Los Angeles. And G. Monkey's street was closed so I was late getting to go to lunch with her. And the restaurant we wanted to go to is apparently closed on Fridays now. So... we go to the diner of... the incredibly s-l-o-w service on the corner. Where I have a tasty tuna melt, and got to wear my neighbor's iced tea all over my leg.

Did I mention we had to keep running out to feed the meter, in the pouring rain, because the only spot I could find had a 30 minute limit, and it would have been just my luck to get a damned ticket?

So I go to Office Max (when will I learn?) to pick up our indicia stamps so I can finish the mailing I've been working on all week. The good news is that they're cheaper than I thought they would be. The bad news is that they refuse to take my Temp check. Luckily, I had enough petty cash to cover.

On the way back to the office, my odometer rolled over. Whee!

Did I mention it's pouring down rain, and my car now smells like wet dog?

I get back to work, and slog across the yard. The evil yapping bastards aren't out, but I'm not taking any chances. I manage to work for about 45 minutes, when I start to feel really sick to my stomach. I can't tell if it was the grotty iced tea, coupled with the coffee and the weather giving me a migraine, or if I got a bad tuna melt. Either way, Things were not swell in Sauceland.

So, good employee that I am, I pack up half the mailing (packed in two, three-foot trays), and one indicia stamp, and gingerly wind my way down the world's narrowest spiral staircase. I made it to the car (in the pouring damned rain) without incident, and age approximately 30 years waiting to turn onto the main road. Mercifully, I got home without hoarking.

I get home, and perhaps things are looking up a bit. I decide to snag a gatorade out of the downstairs fridge, to settle my stomach a tad. (Don't know why, but it works.) I make it 2/3 the way down on my feet, and go the rest of the way on my ass. Yep, I capped my day off by falling down the damn stairs. (And yes, I do fall down a lot. And not in a "my boyfriend beats me" kind of way. I'm either going to break an ankle or my neck one of these days.) Did I mention that I was barefoot at this point, so it's not like I can even blame my shoes, and there was nothing on the floor? I've decided to just stay down here, until such time as it's officially Saturday, or I am granted a Do-Over for Friday.

Just to recap for you-

1 mauling
1 fall down the stairs
1 iced tea all over my pants
1 decade aged at each of 3 intersections
1 mystery ailment which had better not impede my weekend plans (if I make any)
1 set of hellacious bruises
1 hundred thousand miles on my car
1 supremely ass-like day.

Here's hoping tomorrow is just a bit better.