Last week was rather a shitty goddamn week.
Or rather, it wasn’t shit. It was just a full-on one. Very full on. Super full.
Alastair has been off in London for work during the weeks lately, so I am managing a 100 year old home, a job, two little people, and a dog and cat. It is ok when the scales don’t get tipped with further issues, but last week the scale wasn’t only off-balance it flipped off the damn table, exploded into the wall, and turned into a car-chase lawsuit by a hapless passerby who had also managed to see that ad that starts “Have you been injured in an accident?”
It started with the continuing drama of the allergies. I have turned into a giant snuffling, horrible monster absorbing levels of medication that are nearly toxic, all to keep me human. I keep hoping one more pill will result in my ability to rip my clothes off, turn green and bash tanks together (or at the very least to develop some kind of superhero power, like reading minds or climbing up walls wearing a red and blue leotard) but no. I just survive.
We had one mole in our garden. The mole catcher came round, caught him, killed him, and relieved me of £50. The very next morning I noticed a new mole had moved into our front garden overnight. I sighed out and dug out the mole catcher’s business card.
I had to spend two evenings battling with local councils (more on that later) while Melissa babysat the twins. I was exhausted and worn out but it was necessary. Some things were happening that I was not ok with, and although I dealt with them head-on it is, for some reasons, in those situations that I am painfully aware that this is my adopted home country, and I am not a native. The perk is the situation is hopefully headed in a good direction. Also, I learned the word “curtilage”. Turns out it has nothing to do with manicures.
My excess from insurance arrived. Surprise, they had raised it. I now faced a bill of £125, on top of the bill of £104 for an NHD prescription card, which I would need as my allergy medication was going to see me pay easily four times that amount a year. I hadn’t planned for those or the fucking moles this month, so I was delighted at the prospect of paying.
On Thursday the nursery called – Nora had taken ill during the day, throwing up in the front garden. I left work early (exiting one of those “must-do” meetings that had eyebrows raise because I was leaving it). When I drove up to the nursery there was a nursery teacher in the front garden next to Nora, who was passed out cold. We drove home with her puking her everlasting guts up in the car, into a plastic bag which I had the forethought to bring, leaking out of the bottom of the bag in a hole I hadn’t the forethought to check for.
She was fine within an hour, one of those mysterious child ailments that they have and bounce back from. But because she was poorly she had to be home with me on Friday, and a child who is energetic and recovered from illness is not easy to work from home with. I sat with her in the lounge, her watching TV and me working on my laptop. She bounced off to the toilet for a wee, and it was there I heard her shout.
“Mummy!” came the shout, and you can easily pick out the tone of voice your child has. You know when they are calling you because they can’t find their favorite headband versus the sound of you needing to rescue them from the pit of an erupting volcano. This sound was more volcanic.
I hung up on my conference call and raced into the downstairs bathroom, where I saw with horror about a dozen flies crawling out from one of the baseboards.
I buried my face in my hands.
Moving Nora to the sofa, I dialled back into my call while equipping myself with a crowbar from the garage. I got a flashlight, stuck the crowbar under the baseboard, and saw to my horror the delightful sight of two mummifying mouse bodies in there who had apparently had some mouse poison at some point and chose our house as the location to die from it.
The guys on the call asked what was going on.
I explained the flies. All of them immediately asked if I had found any dead bodies. I explained I had, of the vermin variety, and was treated to endless “That’s what happens when you live in the country” and “I can beat that, I had…” type comments. And I confess, my feminist kick-ass self simply thought: Fucking hell, I wish the man were here to deal with this. I really, really wish he was here.
I dealt with the mice. I dealt with the flies. I cleaned up and sorted the baseboards.
That afternoon Nora and I walked Gorby (which has to be done daily, and lately by me as no one else is home). The pollen was high, and my eyes were openly oozing as we walked, making me clearly the Sexiest MILF in a Semi-Rural Area. We ran into a neighbor whom, after salutations, started bemoaning his week. His biggest beef was that his missus hadn’t walked the dog all week.
His wife hadn’t walked the dog all week.
He looked at me, expecting sympathy. Seriously. Crimes against humanity because the dog walking balance was off in the tilt of the married universe.
I went through the catalog of my week. Finances? Allergies? Council meetings? A car that still reeks of puke?
There was only one clear candidate. I mean, really.
“I found two dead mice and an infestation of flies under a baseboard today, and it took me an hour to scrub it down and eradicate it,” I said evenly.
He looked at me. Pursed his lips. Nodded.
“Yup, you win.”
“Oh yes I do, my friend. I totally do.”
-S.
363 days
Oh boy. Aren’t those weeks fun? I’m sorry you’ve had one and glad to hear that Nora is feeling better and that you quickly found the source of the flies. While the mole-catcher is on holiday spending your hard-earned money, I hope you can find sometime to relax just a little. I know Alistair is going to be incredibly busy for the coming month and a half or so (more?) and I hope that you have some pampering time on the books for when he gets back. Spa, pedi, maybe even an overnight at a hotel and one of your London shows all by yourself.
Hugs from across the pond. <3
Thought of you this weekend as I listened to a re-run of a story about allergies on NPR. It was a 2009 Radiolab story about a guy with horrible allergies and he cured them with hook worms. Obvious there is some debate about it, the FDA hasn’t approved it over here, but it apparently has some research backing it up, including a story originally aired on the BBC. Depending on how your medical trial goes and how willing you are to contract hook worms, this might be a solution…. you should listen to the story.
I had a breakdown over ants in my kitchen. Again. You still win, though.
Come on, don’t hold back. We know you totally want to turn into Wonder Woman.
In fact, you kind of already are.
I am relating this story less as a “well it could be worse” and more because it’s funny. My freshman year of college, I lived in the dormitory building that was universally understood to be just slightly above a dumpster behind a Hooters on the living spaces hierarchy. All residents were required to sign wavers, per state law, acknowledging that we knew about the asbestos and were cool with it. Four rooms were condemned due to mold. Our common area served the dual purposes of occasional napping space for homeless persons and repository of trash buckets filled with vomit. On the last day of school, I discovered a guinea pig living in there. There was the issue of ancient heating mechanisms with real live pilot lights, something that college students should really not be around, and the lack of air conditioning (in Southern California! In August!). But as it turned out, that paled in comparison to the reason behind the fifth room evacuation: behind the heating vent had lived a colony of rats. And then the rats kept staying there, but minus the living part.
If this does not at the very least make you pleased that it was only mice (I get the disgustingness, trust me – there have been two dead birds on the roof outside my office window for two months), I hope it gives you a delightful visual image of a bunch of barely-sober college students trying to figure out how to light a pilot light*.
*the answer was mittens and an incense stick
“The wife hasn’t walked the dog for a week!” in my universe, would be met with a, “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, my fist just buried itself in your newly mangled six pack abs, which clearly YOU HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO MAINTAIN BECAUSE YOUR WIFE DOES EVERYTHING ELSE ASSH*LE!”
Sorry. I think it’s one of those weeks for me too.
Oh.wow.what a week! Hugs and sympathy for you…it truly does pour sometimes! Here’s to a letup to the onslaught soon! Count blessings…
Oh God. You need a Mama Pants right there on call 24 hours a day. Hell – I needed one when I was raising my kids and my husband was traveling. You put some perspective back in my life – I was pissed because the housekeepers were late. You win.
Oh, ACK. Yukkity yukkity yuk. Vomit, flies and boiling corpses: what a horrendous trifecta. Sweetheart, you embody my idea of Hero Woman.
*blink* *blink*
Yeah, that’s a prime candidate for the award of Just One More Thing Week.
In regards to the dead mice, I was raking the leaves last autumn when I noticed a dead squirrel in amongst them. And I thought, “The sucky thing about being the adult is having to deal with dead critters.” Thankfully, there was a shovel readily to hand and the trash pickup was the next morning, so problem solved.