When I really really really wish I had woken up with an infectious disease that would force me to stay home.
Firstly, my wake-up. A package came in the morning, which required me leaping out of bed when the doorbell went and flying down three flights of stairs, detouring halfway to grab a dressing gown, standing on A.B's little plastic octopus of EVIL, screaming 'FUCK FUCK FUCK OWWWING FUCK!' while trying to wrestle the dressing gown on (one of the sleeves was pulled inside out. Of course.) AND grab my keys (my house is a fricking fire hazard, you have to lock yourself in at night, with KEYS. One day we WILL all die at the bottom of the stairs) AND hope that A.B didn't decide to crawl out of bed and wasn't at this very moment in time lying bleeding on the floor. I got there in the end though, dropped the keys, picked them up, found the right one, opened the door to my postman's right arm, the rest of him already being halfway to the next house. But it was ok, because in this package was clothes I had ordered. My first Maxi dress, a HOODSCARF with EARS and button-eyes (pretty sure Jae will divorce me, but that's ok. I'll have my hoodscarf for comfort), a very cute tea dress, a nautical headband (thick horizontal navy and white stripes with a matt gold helm! So cute!) and a pair of those shoes that are supposed to be small enough to fold up and put in your bag.
I get upstairs and A.B had NOT crawled off the bed. This was the high point of my day.
First of all, the shoes. I bought them in a 6. This was taking into account that I was a 5 and that my feet grew a little while I was pregnant. I figured a 6 was generous enough. I figured wrong. They weren't even big enough for me to get on properly. I screeched 'I AM NOT A FUCKING SEVEN!' at them. They looked back at me silently, as if to say 'Hey lady, if the shoe fits...oh no, wait! BURN!' It is a bad day when you get zinged by your shoes.
Then, my outfit. When we got up and I got dressed, it was SUNNY and WARM, so I basically built my entire idea of what I would wear around that. Then, 20 minutes before we had to leave, the sun is all 'Nah, I'm going back to bed, Laterz.' and I am Fucked. I managed to just about figure out another outfit, but I'm one of those people who cannot tolerate last minute, unexpected change. I don't mind EXPECTED spontaneity. I don't mind if I KNOW I'm not going to know what's happening. But if I plan something and then something comes along and messes it up completely, I get twitchy like a crack addict without a fix.
Then I leave the house and we're running late so despite knowing I should really really really really take the bus, I don't. I get in my car and I decide to drive to the coffee date with the aforementioned mom-friend who isn't actually a friend, just a mom I know. We have literally nothing in common besides the fact that we were both pregnant at about the same time. Almost immediately, I find myself either directly behind or directly in front of a police van. Awesome. Because I'm not a nervous enough wreck, what with the plan-switching and the shoe-mocking and all. No. I need to have a Police Presence. I am, in fact, so busy trying to drive carefully around the police that I fucking crash my car. Ok, I didn't. I dinged it on a width restricter and you can't even tell. But my heart stopped beating and I was roughly 300% positive I'd written my car off. Because I'm an optimist like that.
Next, I didn't have enough change for the meter for very long, so I put in everything I have with the intention of asking for change once I get inside, but they won't give me any and then my 'friend' turns up and I forget about the fucking parking meter in favour of making chit-chat (are you seeing where this is going?). An hour later I realise, and jump up and rush to my lovely beautiful wonderful brand new car to find a bright yellow envelope stuck to it.
Oh. Oh, oh, OH, BUT IT GETS BETTER. Because not only was the ding and the outfit and the parking fine and all that enough, no. But as I'm sitting in my care trying to pay the fine I get a tweet through on twitter (no, really? A tweet on twitter? Say it ain't so) telling me that I'd been caught doing something that I technically should not have been doing, and I was in Big Fucking Trouble.
So basically, I had the day from hell and I wish I had woken up on Thursday covered in spots and chosen to spend my day quietly erasing all evidence of my wrongdoing and NOT driving, or parking, or getting dressed. Because that really would have been preferable to the rain of shitness that I was privy to instead.
And I am sending those asshole shoes back and asking for a pair in 6+1. Because I'm not a fucking seven.