The Throat Of Death And Misery is still kicking my ass quite heartily even as I type this. I managed through about four hours of work on Friday and then threw up my arms in surrender and whispered, ‘Home. Now.’ to my poor beleaguered coworkers, who had been covering for me for the past week, then went home and passed out in a drooling Vicodin cough syrup bliss for several hours.
The only thing I could manage was about an hour of Sims. They are on vacation right now, thanks to a windfall of $30,000, thanks very much to my rampant guiltfree cheating. I’m not even sorry, y’all. I took a page from Mopie and made a Diarist family. Everyone has exceptional jobs but poor little Weetabix Diarist. She’s a dog walker and just can’t seem to climb the canine corporate ladder, no matter how much she babbles into a mirror or makes friends or potions or wooden trolls, she still makes a paltry $160 a day. It’s a glass ceiling, apparently, in the dog walking industry. Whereas Genghis is doing quite nicely as a computer programmer and UncleBob is a secret agent for the military, both raking in $500 per day. Pete is a rockstar and Marn is apparently so important that I don’t even remember what she does but she brings in a whopping $650 and has to get up uber early in the morning. And even still Weetabix walks dogs for chump change. It’s a cruel world. I’ll bet she has a damn Sim degree that is going to waste too. That’s probably what those $2000 bills are that come every three days. Student loan payments for the Bix. So basically, I cheated because Sim reality was making me depressed.
Speaking of life imitating computer games, Ward and June are vacationing in Cancun for the next few weeks, thus the responsibility of watching their dogs falls upon us. But that’s a different entry. Because I’ve got pictures. Oh yes I do. PICTURES! Because some things you just have to see for yourself to believe.
Roughly 8 days after the inception of the Throat of Death And Misery, I was starting to feel a bit of energy, so on Saturday, I endeavored to do something about the many hampers of clothing that had been stored in the drawers of the waterbed. The plan involved plastic storage bins that would slide under our new regular bed (which, by the way, I so love. It does not jiggle. It does not burp. It does not leak. It’s lovely. Esteban, on the other hand, detests it for being cold and ‘unyielding’. After listening nicely to his complaints, I promised, ‘Well, dear, in nine years and 50 weeks, we’ll switch back to a bed of your choosing, hmmm?’. I think that is fair, since I had to put up with the waterbed, which was too soft and too wavy and too hot for ten years.) and possibly two smaller bins for the head and foot of the bed.
Thus, I declared I was going to run to Target as I needed the bins and some toothpaste. Esteban requested a case of soda. Fine. This is fine. I made a quick detour to my favorite little independent art store, as I was feeling the need for some lovely handmade paper for my Valentines cards. However, I was denied, as the art store was closing in five minutes and already I was in a mood where being rushed would make me cranky and unsettled. Well, ok, MORE cranky and unsettled.
I got to Target and proceeded to walk about in a delirium. Throughout the store, I was harranged by screaming children. Someone’s shoes were squeaking and it wasn’t mine. My nose decided that it wanted to try out for the Boston Marathon right then and started on a warm-up 5k run. I was sweating. *squeak squeak squeak* About an hour later, I located the bins, *squeak* but they were too large to fit in the cart, *squeak* so I set them on top and then pulled the cart in front of me, as I could not see around them. People walked in front of me. *squeak squeak* I did manage to find an acceptable tailored dust ruffle, which was nice, but apparently it was at the cost of my sanity.
I trudged with a thousand yard stare up to the check out counters and wrestled with the storage bins. The cashier placed them under the cart, but they didn’t really fit. However, they would stay as long as I didn’t jostle them too hard. With great trepidation, I navigated the automatic doors, certain that the sensor would not register until the bins hit the door, which would then loosen them from their precarious perch, however it was success! I wheezed a sigh of relief.
But then’ (cue ominous music of impending doom) there was the slight incline from the store down to the parking lot. I carefully edged my cart down the incline, only to watch as the two five-foot-long bins went skittering across the parking lot, the lids both taking off in the opposite direction. I scurried out to fetch them, defying the oncoming traffic to hit me and put me out of my misery. After retrieving them, the wind threatening to catch the bins and sweep me away like some kind of Rubbermaid Mary Poppins , I plopped them atop the cart and pushed it across the busy parking lot, with one hand on top to steady the load. I reached my car and put the two largest bins into the trunk, essentially filling it. I stuffed a few bags around it, but the five smaller bins (I also wanted to organize my shoes’ I’m a terrible overachiever) would not fit.
I wrestled the cart over to the passenger door, accidentally bumping the Ford Probe parked WAY TOO CLOSE to the Monte. Immediately, the air was filled with the cacophonous sounds of an Anti-Theft Warning System. Every head in the parking lot turned to see which idiot would be so destitute as to break into an aging Ford Probe. I managed to prevent myself from fainting by pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary and continuing to wrestle the various bins and cases of soda pop into the front seat through the door which could only open about four inches.
It’s a very good thing that I was in such a weakened condition. Otherwise I would have reared back and kicked that damn Ford Probe. Instead I uttered a curse under my breath that the driver would leave this mortal coil due to a collision involving a Chevrolet Celebrity and would have to explain the incident to St. Peter, that s/he/it died by rear-ending a Celebrity with his Probe.
But that would probably be too much to wish for.
And you already know that I forgot the toothpaste.
