Insert Good Story Here

Today is the kind of day where everything is going badly.

Littlest is sick. Again. This time it is a fever and cough. Which is less messy than the fever and vomit of last weekend but no less difficult.

Last night while cleaning out the fish tank I did something horrid to my back. Yes, I know all about back safety but I hurt it anyway. Leaning over the tub, dumping out a bucket of water I felt something like an ice pick in my lower spine. Then, it was like a bubble was growing in my lower back, expanding pain up and through my spine. Yep, it was marvelous. Managed a few hours of sleep on ibuprofen and an ice pack.

Then today, I started my day in my usual way. Well, that’s not true. Littlest got me up at 4:30. But when I gave up trying to get him back to sleep and got up at 6:30, I started my day my usual way…checking email, Facebook and then Twitter. No really pressing or interesting email aside from the usual opportunities to enlarge my male member or cash in on my dead Ethiopian family member. On Facebook I read a post about books which depict teens killing other teens and if novels on such subject matter have merit. And within ten minutes of that I read on Twitter that there had been yet another high school shooting. So far, one boy is dead and 4 others are wounded.

I’ve tried and tried to write anything of substance. But all I’ve got is:

“Blagity blah mushu bwhahaha gurgle glah.”

So feel free to insert a good story here. Find something that will make you feel uplifted or challenged or intrigued or just more.

And it would be better than what I’ve got right now.

Some days are just bigger than me.

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5 thoughts on “Insert Good Story Here

  1. Oh, hon. I’m sorry you’re having such a suck-tacular day. I hope Littlest–and your back–are feeling better soon. *hugs*

  2. I don’t know if this is an “uplifting” story, but it’s a story about our daughter (from the days of the hippie era about 40 years ago) that might bring a smile to your face, I hope, as you are working through a bit of a “bluh” day.

    When our child (now in her mid 40s and undergoing an endless slog through graduate school), was about 3 years old, we took her on her first trick and treat one Halloween. I have to admit that her babysitter was a flaky hippie in the Wallingford District of Seattle. Thinking back on it, I wonder, “What were we thinking?” but that was in the early 70s, my wife and I were young, and our hair was pretty long and we dressed pretty funny, even if we weren’t full-out hippies ourselves.

    Anyway, our daughter, very excited about going on her first Trick and Treat session, wanted to be a kitty, so my wife improvised a costume out of our child’s “bunny suit” PJs, drew some whiskers with some grease pencil on the face of our “Little Bippy,” as we nicknamed her, and presto – a little kitty cat. We walked through the chilly October night from house to house each of us holding a little hand. Clutching her bag, she would ring the door bell, mutely hold out the bag, and the kindly residents would drop some candy in the bag and exclaim, “Oh, my, what a cute bunny.”

    At that point, Little Bippy spoke up indignantly, “I’m NOT a bunny. I’m a kitty!”

    Eventually, we got up to the baby sitter’s house. Karen (the baby sitter) invited us in for hot cider and for our daughter to sample a few candies with Bauco, her son (slightly younger than our daughter). As a flaky hippie, Karen was always engaged in feuds with her conservative church-going neighbors. At that time, Karen was not speaking with an older woman who lived across the street.

    In a snide, catty way, Karen asked us, “Did you stop at the old bitch’s house to trick and treat?” No, we had not stopped at that house, we informed her. “Do a favor for me. On your way back, stop at her house and then stop here one more time and tell me what the old bitch is giving out for Halloween.” Our daughter was not saying anything, but as the saying goes, “Little pitchers have big ears.”

    We knocked on the door on our way home, but there was no answer. We had no information for the disappointed Karen and set out for home with a very tired three-year-old child, who was half stumbling and half being carried. As we got within about two blocks of our apartment, we encountered two grandmothers with a convoy of about 10 little children.

    Spotting our little child, one of the grandmothers exclaimed, “Oh, what a sweet little bunny! I hope you got some wonderful treats!”

    Although our daughter was now so exhausted she was practically asleep on her feet, she snapped awake at this final indignity about her costume. Drawing herself up to her full three year old height, she loudly and clearly announced, “I am NOT a bunny. I am a BITCH!”

    My wife and I said nothing. We just kept walking, trying to pretend that the little girl holding our hands was a little stranger whom we had never seen before in our lives.

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