I Should Have Stayed in Bed

Saturday morning, I got up, filled with hope that it would be a good day.  Not.  Even.  Close.

Tim is addicted to Starbucks coffee (okay, I am too, but I settle for the home brew, his highness has to have the real McCoy), so since he is recovering from knee surgery, I decided to raise his spirits by running out and getting a couple of ventis.

As I headed down the steps into the garage, I half-turned to talk to the dog (I know, I know, but these days, she is the only one who will listen to me whine) and slipped down the last two steps, landing right on my butt on the 2x4 that makes up the one side of the stairs.  Not.  Good.

As I sat astride the plank, educating Chloe to every swear word I know and wishing that I spoke another language so I could teach her even more swear words, all I could think was:  Unless Chloe can carry me into the house or dial 911, I am going to die here.  In the garage.  Sitting on the steps.  In my PJ top, sweats and Tim's jacket (hey, it's a look), while Tim mummifies up in the bed, just steps away from the phone he can't reach.

Days from now, someone will say,"Whatever happened to the Sinclairs?"  and then a neighbor will call about a bad smell and an unusual amount of flies swarming around the house.

I began to wonder if I could teach Chloe how to bark, "My mom has fallen and she can't get up" in Morse Code, but then I realized I didn't have any treats, so...that wasn't going to happen.  Besides, I don't actually know Morse code, so it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.

As I moved on to more positive scenarios in my head of Tim and I side by side in bed (like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber), splitting a bag of ice and alternating the use of the heating pad, competing over who can do more leg lifts in PT, battling for control of the remote, fighting over whose turn it was to use the walker, and duking it out over the last Percoset, I realized that I was not only going to survive, but that I could actually walk again. 

I grudgingly decided to forge ahead with my mission, and drove to Starbucks where I ordered three ventis. (Hey, I not only needed two, I deserved them at this point).  The woman poured one , plunked it down on the counter and walked away while the other woman rang it up.

"Venti?" she said.

Duh.  A.  You were standing six inches away when I ordered it, B.  If you work here and don't know which cup is a venti, then you are probably too stupid to even be breathing, and C.  (this I said aloud) "Yes.  Three."

I even held up three fingers which she ignored while she blithely rang up the one.

"Twelve thousand dollars," she announced (This was Starbucks, after all)

"I need three,"  I reiterated, but made the mistake of handing her the money for all of them.

"Oh.  Uh."  She looked from the money to the register as though I had handed her a Rubik's cube and asked her to solve it while simultaneously explaining Einstein's theory of relativity in German.

"Why don't you just charge me for the one, then ring up two more," I suggested, almost, but not quite able to stop rolling my eyes.

"Um..."

Apparently, my suggestion was not computing in her razor-sharp mind, but like a dog with a bone, she was not going to give up. (If I wave a white flag, will you do the same?  Pretty please with cream and sugar on top?  How about if I just cry?)

Fifteen excruciatingly painful minutes later, I stumbled out of the Starbucks with my three ventis, and maybe the correct change, but I couldn't see past the tears in my eyes to count it as I wept for the future.

Thinking that taking the dog for a nice long walk would clear my mind and help me shake off the morning's events, I grabbed her leash and we headed out. (Okay, I actually thought that crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head would help, but I was guilted into the walk by a pair of big, brown eyes and a cute little button nose).

We got exactly halfway around the block when nature called and Chloe squatted in some leaves.  I leaned down with my little baggie at the ready, but couldn't find anything...because it was stuck to her furry little backside.  Eewww.

And to make the experience even better and more memorable, she plopped her little butt down on the pavement before I could stop her and I had a poopy puppy.

Somehow, yelling "NO!" For all that is holy STOP!!" after the fact seemed a bit useless, so I settled for pounding my head against the pavement and ripping out significant chunks of hair.

After carrying her the rest of the way home in order to limit the damage (to her, but apparently not my sweatshirt), I plunked her in the tub to try and scrub off eight pounds of dog poo (Seriously, how can something that small poop out that much?).  I had barely begun when the phone rang.

"Can you get that?"  Tim yelled in to me.

Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.