Thank god it’s Monday. Jesus. What an ill-fated, hell-streaked, multi-kleenex weekend.
First, on Friday night, I saw a cat get hit by another car. The impact was hard and fast, and he never stood a chance. Sorry, I know it’s horrible and morbid, but it’s what happened. The good news, such as it is, is that I was able to get out of my car and say a few kind works to him before he passed. This was small consolation to me — or to him, I’m sure — but it was something. Overall, though, it was a dreadful, haunting, and absolutely heartbreaking experience. I arrived home in copious tears.
That was the low point. But Saturday and Sunday weren’t much better. First, it poured nearly continuously, which meant that all weekend rain leaked through one of our ceiling vents into the dining room. It always does this — Myra-Jean has become so accustomed to it that she reminded my mother to “go get the pot” as soon as she saw the inclement weather outside. Still, it’s a constant reminder that the house needs a lot of major (and expensive) work, so it’s depressing. Every drip from the ceiling sounds like a little, wet, pricey, failure bomb: “New. Roof. New. Roof. New. Roof.”
Then on Saturday night I came down with the flu. Mom was in town; we had booked her to babysit, and for once Mike and I were going to go out “for free.” Instead Mom and I stayed in and watched “The Ides of March” while I shivered and moaned under six layers of clothing. Turns out neither George Clooney nor Ryan Gosling emanate much heat when you have a temperature of 102.
I spent all day Sunday lying in a febrile state, muttering “help me!” and sweating. Occasionally I cried about the cat again. When I felt well enough I read a book about UFOs. It basically promised me that aliens — most of whom are apparently Hungarian — are coming to harvest my spleen.
In the background the whole time: a pervasive depression over the state of our house.
Thank God my mom makes a near-perfect chicken soup. Take that, ET!
I’m better today. A good thing, too: Mike had to go back to work, Mom is on a plane to New York, and I have a 2-year-old to care for. It’s still raining. Torrentially, in fact. The roof is still leaking. But I don’t feel quite so sad. For one thing, because of the weather I can’t do anything in the garden. Which is good. I probably wouldn’t be anyway, but this way I don’t feel guilty. MJ is sleeping. The dog has been walked. The dishes are in the dishwasher. Everyone still has their spleens, for now. There’s really nothing left to do but sit here and surf the net…
Where I’m going to look for a cat to adopt.