I had the weirdest day, y’all, and I swear I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I’d been meaning to take a pregnancy test today, to make sure I wasn’t harboring an alien (or, less likely, a fetus).
So there I am, half awake, peeing in a cup.
I realize too late, I don’t have a pregnancy test. Crap. It’s supposed to be the first urine of the day.
So I did the logical thing. It was to early for me to actually be awake, so I cleaned the bottom of the cup, and hid it behind some shampoo in the cabinet. Fingers crossed I won’t forget where I hid my pee.
I stumble downstairs in the dark, and curl up again with my husband.
Phone rings. Never a good sound to wake up to, right? Turns out it’s my boss, and they need me to open the store due to high traffic.
I mumble some semi coherent thing about bras into the phone, and roll out of bed.
At this point, my husband is already getting dressed, and had made his way up to the bathroom. All I could think was “Crap. Don’t find my pee.”
Rushing around the house to get ready, I then did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed a mason jar, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
“Hey babe? Can I come in and …grab something?”
He mumbled something like a yes, so I take it as permission to barge in.
He’s sitting there on the toilet, only half awake. Perfect. He won’t notice if I grab the pee.
Slight flaw in my plan. The cabinet is above his head. Despite doing my best sneaky actions, he did, in fact, with his extremely honed skills, notice that I was tiptoing and reaching over his head. In retrospect, I should have expected that one.
“…What’s that?” He asks, as I try to hide a red Solo cup behind my boob.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just pee.”
“Why are you making tea in the bathroom cabinet?”
I grinned, pouring it into the mason jar and tightening the lid, giving him a dismissive wave as I sauntered from the room. “No, no, not tea. Pee. Urine, darling.”
No other words, just that, and me and my jar of pee headed to work. Without, of course, my phone. Because I’m an idiot, and I’ve no way to reassure my husband that I have not, in fact, gone insane. Great.
Open the store. Finish my shift. Take pregnancy tests, by dipping them in the mason jar. Faint line. Great. So I head to the emergency room to get a blood test, and that was only horrifically anxiety enducing. Saw the three doctors who never remember me, frequently read tests incorrectly, and enjoy telling me that all my issues are from my weight.
Long story short, not pregnant.
I finally get home. This day has taken forever, and I swear it’s not even noon. Kill me. I say hi to my mom and flop into bed.
But, as anxiety often does, it had wildly different plans. So of course, in order to stave off a panic attack, I rearranged all the furniture. Two of the three cats made it their personal mission to attempt to kill me as many times as possible, as I moved the heaviest pieces. As cats are wont to do.
When my husband gets home, he finds me in a ball on the floor, tiredly asking the cats to stop trying to eat my sewing needles.
Cats don’t take kindly to direction, and tried harder to spite me. Rude.
As the chaotic mess of all of our possessions and cats began to sort themselves out, as one by one items got put away, I guess the cats decided it was too clean?
Ollie, the black and white furball from hell, somehow remembered that we have cat treats somewhere in the room. Apparently in cat logic land, this means it’s totally acceptable and even encouraged to destory everything that is not a treat.
And holy hell, he is too good at that task.
Things are flying off shelves, drawers are being opened by his overly skilled khajiit paws. He’s training the kitten to do the same, and in short moments almost my whole days work is ruined.
But a miracle. Just like that, the calm in the storm. The cats were asleep.
I went upstairs to pee, fooled by this ruise, foolish troll that I am.
I didn’t even make it to the bathroom, when everyone in the house heard the sound of glass smashing.
We run downstairs, to find that he had not only jumped into a cabinet taller than me, but he’s shoved the jar of treats down onto the ground, where all three cats now stood amid the shards of glass, sniffing at the treats.
I shrieked, and grabbed the cats up in my arms, tossing one to my husband. Barefoot. In the glass.
Hey, at least we get to test our new vacuum.
After a freaking half hour we got the glass cleaned and let the cats back downstairs. They purr innocently, knowing if they are cute enough we will forgive them of all wrongs.
But here’s the thing, folks. When I am this stressed, and this anxious, I forget to do things. Eat, drink. Breathe properly. It’s rare that it gets this bad. But one of the things I forgot to do, was pee.
I hadn’t peed since very early that morning.
And that’s when it happened. Ollie knocked over something I had just carefully organized.
I let loose a rather blood curdling yell, before having one of my seizures that no doctor fully understands. It fades quickly, and I turn away from my poor husband (who honestly deserves so much better oh my gosh) to glare at the cat.
I had been unknowingly clenching to keep from peeing. But in my rage, and the silent battle of wills between my cat and myself, I forgot to clench.
I got so angry that I actually peed a little
“Shit.” I hissed under my breath.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” So loving and concerned.
“I got too angry.” I squeaked, barely audible.
He almost fell over laughing right then and there. “Rowan, what?”
“You don’t understand. I’m so angry I can like, hear fucking color.”
Its so obvious how he is barely holding himself together. “What is it doing? Do you see green, and…it just starts yelling “Green! Green! I’m green!”?”
Being the mature adult I am, i stomped my foot. “Yes!!”
He burst out in a cackle, unable to contain it anymore, and literally fell to the floor, shaking with laughter.
Suffice it to say, I’m lucky my husband puts up with all my crap.