Urban Anti-Dotes

Shout out to Bed Head by TIGI for transforming my weak, brittle hair and also, my soul.

I’ve been teetering on the edge of real jail time for a few weeks. Wednesday all hell broke loose in our house. Let me tell you about it.

It’s only fair that I start off by giving you a good sense for where I was at with my mental stability.

I’m currently managing 3 companies. I’m being monetarily compensated for 1 of those 3 and being paid a customer service position’s wage for 1 other. That wage would be sufficient if I were 17 and lived at home with mom and dad and ate Cheetos for breakfast, or if it were a part-time position. It’s not.

3 management positions simultaneously. That’s correct, it’s a bit like taking it in three different holes all day long for less than 50 bucks an hour. It might make you a little sore, too.

I’m fucking tired. There, I said it. I’m not Superwoman. I can’t do it all. I needed help and I asked for it.

I discussed with my husband on my way home from work that night how I needed his help taking care of dinner. Being pulled in 117 directions all day, the last thing I was able to contend with was dinner. I had been telling myself that if I were a real woman and a good wife, I could do all the things, all the time.

I was bankrupt. He told me, “I can do that.”

It’s not like there was any ambiguity about dinner plans. I didn’t do that coy, “Whatever you want for dinner is fine,” bullshit. No, I told him exactly what we were having and where to find it in the fridge. So, when I got home late that evening and he was sitting on the couch watching television and jackshit had been accomplished, I began wheezing and could feel my organs begin to turn themselves inside out. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead as I told myself over and over to keep my inside thoughts inside.

I’m pretty goddamn sure we just had a conversation about my feelings of being overwhelmed. I don’t have feelings so when I tell you about them, take fucking heed.

I decided to walk away; I was certain to say something he’d regret.

I went to use the restroom. Much to my dismay my son had conveniently forgotten how to use his penis – the same one he’s been familiar with working in conjunction with a toilet with since he was two. There was piss everywhere! I’m used to it being at the base of the toilet, but for the love of god, how is it on the toilet seat itself?! Did he stand on the counter and just piss in the general vicinity of the toilet? Disgusted, I left for the sanctuary of my own bathroom.

That was my second mistake.

My husband, the one I’m not speaking to, had DESTROYED our toilet. It was like Hiroshima in there. Or Chipotle aftermath.

Let’s play a game. It’s called Never Have I Ever. I’ll go first.

Never have I ever: HAD TO CLEAN A MOTHERFUCKING TOILET IN MY OWN HOME BEFORE I COULD USE IT *before Wednesday*

Now I’m searching for toilet bowl cleaner.

[banging cabinet doors while swearing]

[throwing around bottles of misc products under the sink]

[continued cursing]

Has no one seen the toilet cleaner?! Where the hell is the toilet cleaner? We had it when we moved!

Neither of you has cleaned a toilet since we moved, neither of you has seen the cleaner?

[complete silence]

Finally, defeated, I did what any other self respecting woman in my position would do. I grabbed the shampoo.

The label says for weak and brittle hair. I felt weak and brittle.

For what it’s worth, this shampoo works pretty well in a pinch. Smells decent, you only need a little bit, and it transitions well from the toilet to the shower.

I ended up locking myself in the bathroom for a long, hot shower until I could stop acting like a twat. That lasted 16 hours. I’m currently in another self-imposed time-out.

Stay tuned for more updates from this side of lunacy.