So last week was a pretty disastrous week all around. I can’t say this or that happened, thus making it such a horrible week – it was just a bunch of little things compounded. I suppose my personal worst was when I almost lost my shit at M&S (Marks & Spencer). Picture me in downtown Liverpool with the Henbot in tow. What was suppose to be a quick trip to pick up a couple photos turned into a downpour with no rain gear, a hungry baby, IBS rearing it’s ugly head (pun intended), and a bunch of inconsiderate fuck nuts who think their choice of the red or purple sparkly silk scarf supersedes common courtesy to a pained women with an awkward stroller and a screaming infant. Obviously I was at the end of my tether once I stopped into the Marks & Spencer’s “café” but really -M&S, please train your café staff how to use a fucking cash register.
Part of my bad week as well was that I threw out my back. I seem to pull out my back about once a year and the initial cause of it can usually go on my Stupid Injury List. This recent pull was no exception. Are you ready? No, seriously, are you ready? OK, get this….I sat on the floor. I didn’t sit on a nail on the floor and I didn’t sit on a floor that was covered in Jell-O causing me to slip and slide and break a toe as well as throw out my back. No, I just sat on the floor. To be fair, it was really just sitting on the floor too long. I had been to baby massage in the morning sitting on the floor and then in the afternoon I sat on the floor for general baby play (I really should find an activity outside the Children’s Center) and finally when I got home, I sat on the floor while I put together the chairs of our new dining table (one has to know how cheap we got our dining set if I have to sit on the floor and put the fucking thing together). By the time the 2nd chair was done, I got up to get a drink and…I couldn’t move. I managed to get up but my legs wouldn’t move. Henry, of course, was crying at this point and I cried right back at him because I COULDN’T FUCKING MOVE.
It’s weird when you find yourself in that spot – standing, crying, looking at your child, looking at the cigarette you wish you could reach, thinking about the toilet you need to get to, wondering for a moment if you’ll ever be able to move again. Your mind goes to this strange place where you see yourself being carted around on a dolly for the end of time, pushed by two Hungarian men with terrible mustaches, one of which always tries to touch your butt when you reach for something, the other who tells you that you look like his mother and you know that can’t be a compliment.
My back felt better in a couple days but I’m still having nightmares about mustaches.
Anyhow, by the time our day off arrived, I think both Andy and I were done. All our willingness for intelligent thought was gone. All our efforts to remain upright were stolen. We get precious few hours away from the child each week. Our hours this week were spent at a pub staring into nothing for an hour, then at home where Andy slept and I watched the most boring movie ever and was entertained just because there were moving pictures. It was a really bad week.
This week, thus far, has been much better. So far the worst that has happened to me is that ASDA failed to bring me the grapes I ordered in our weekly delivery. Oh, and I dropped my child. It happens. What’s more important is that we really need to get a campaign together to get those fucking M&S cashiers trained. Who’s with me?