Can this day get any fucking worse?
I wake up, get dressed. I clean the bathrooms, then make the boys get up and help me pick up their stuff, as it’s been sitting around in here for days. They grouse and grumble, but I stand firm and they get it done. I wash the dishes, then sit down and plan my strategy for tomorrow, if I can get what I need to get.
After a bit I decide to wash my clothes, so I put them in the machine and start it up. It fills…and nothing else. Okay, this has happened to me before. I rearrange some things, then restart the machine. It fills–and that’s it. Getting frustrated now, but I rearrange the clothes and restart the machine again. It fills–and stops.
I kicked the machine once or twice–not hard–then took my clothes out and washed them all by hand. I did the best I could, but I have no idea how clean they are. I do not need the washing machine to stop working. I already don’t have money for simple, basic things; I have absolutely none to go to a laundromat. My friends are already on edge with me; they don’t need this either.
The clothes are in the dryer now. I want to wash what I’m wearing later, so I’m going to have to do that by hand too. I have to decide what to do about this new obstacle.
By then, it’s time to get dinner up for the kids, so I reach into the freezer and pull out the wings they said they wanted. Remember that, okay? There aren’t a lot of wings to fill up the stomachs of three kids, so I pull out some taquitos to supplement. I get the wings done and the taquitos, then fix plates.
The boys come back after three minutes, say they don’t like the wings. Their father bought them, so I’d figure he knows what they like to eat. By this time, I just don’t care, so I split the wings with my goddaughter and make more taquitos for the boys.
Then the older boy comes in the kitchen. He wants to throw some taquitos in the trash. They ate them just fine yesterday, so I ask him what the problem with them is. They have sauce (from the wings) on them, he says. At this point, these kids have eaten no dinner at all; they throw those taquitos away, they’ll be left with just three. I know these kids–they’ll be looking all pouty and starved in two hours or less if I let this happen. I tell him that there are six taquitos frying now–three each for himself and his brother. Once those are gone, there aren’t any more. He wants to throw those away, fine, but don’t come looking at me when he’s hungry in two hours. He says okay and throws them out. I tell him to wash the plate and get ready to put the other taquitos on it. Then he says that’s not his plate, it’s his brother’s.
I asked him why his brother couldn’t come in here and tell me himself he had a problem? He’s 6, but still old enough to tell me what he doesn’t like. I tell myself to breathe, and take some deep breaths. I tell myself that this too shall pass. I give the older boy his taquitos, and tell the younger one (who’s suddenly full, even though he’s eaten nothing) that his taquitos are in the microwave, and can be warmed up when he’s ready for them.
Then I called Volcano to wish him happy father’s day. I was annoyed and pissed off, and he heard it. He asked me about it. Gave him a rundown and my mother heard it. Don’t get me started about what *she* had to say about it.
This weekend has not been fun. Today has not been fun. What am I doing wrong to have all this happen to me? Is this some kind of sign?