A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood

The day hadn't turned out quite like I expected. When I woke this
morning, excitement bubbled in my chest, threatening to break free in the form
of song and dance. Song and dance are not generally my thing, so the very idea
that I could feel like doing that meant it had to be a good day.



I rolled out of bed, smiling at the brilliant expanse of azure that
filled my dusty window, almost blinding in its brightness. Not one cloud dared
to mar its beauty.



Humming a little melody, far too early for outright singing no
matter how good my mood, I headed downstairs to make coffee. Not even a perfect
day could make my sleep deprived brain admit that I was awake. Only copious
amounts of coffee could achieve that feat. The clothes and dogs scattered
across my bedroom floor made anything more graceful than stumbling impossible.



The morning passed pleasantly. I waited for the momentous thing I
was sure would happen to hurry up and do so. What else could occur on such an
awesome day but something life changing and wonderful?



I'll tell you.



I think things took a downward turn when I went outside. Trudging
down the narrow sidewalk that I often believe was put in as an afterthought as
it was more of a curb than a sidewalk, my foot slid and suddenly I lay on my
back, staring up at what I previously thought was a beautiful blue sky. I
scrambled to my feet, hoping no one saw my clumsiness, and a sweet, awful, and
familiar odour wafted to my nose. Dog shit. Judging by the warmth seeping
through the ass of my jeans, it was fresh too. Fucking lazy pricks. How hard is
it to take a tiny black bag and pick up after your wretched little dog? There
are signs, for crying out loud.



I looked down and fury rose, burning my throat as I stared at the
little brown balls of pooh left by, I was certain, the yappy little rat dog
from three houses down. Mrs. Thompson, for all her money, couldn't seem to
afford shit bags. The temptation to scoop up the tiny pebbles—which,
considering it was such a small dog, seemed rather numerous for one offering—and
take them to her house so that I could shove them into her preachy,
charity-loving, church-bake sale-organizing, I'm-so-much-better-than-you,
hooker-red-lipstick-stained mouth, was overwhelming.



But I did not do that. I went home, as any mature adult would do.



At my house, safe from the perils of the sidewalk and my lazy
neighbours, the day continued to spiral into a pit of blackness.



The hot water tank decided to go on strike, or rather, it just quit.
The bottom gave way and flooded my newly renovated basement, ruining my pretty
beige carpet. I did not call my husband. I tried to fix the problem before he
came home. I would have done it too, if the dog hadn't eaten an entire box of
tampons and started coughing and gagging with alarming intensity.



I rushed the moron to the vet where they performed some miraculous
manoeuvre that brought said tampons back up in an interesting pile of
white-yellow slime. Five hundred dollars later, I went home with the dog whose
life hung by a string, almost literally, and found that I'd left the stove on.
The house was full of smoke, burning my nose and causing my eyes to tear up,
although I suspect the fact that I was crying could have accounted for the
tears. The alarm screamed for me to do something about it and the idiot dog
barked back, eliciting a stabbing pain behind my eyes.



Apparently burners spark and blow up if you leave them on and forget
to move the plumber's receipt away from the stovetop. Who knew?



Now, I lie in my bed, yellow ball squeezed tight in my hand. If I
open it, the ball will bounce back to its former roundness, but I'd have to
stare at the black smiley face that I'm positive was put there to mock me. Why
do they make stress balls with smiley faces? Whose brilliant idea was that? I
will not open my hand. My eyes remain glued to the breathtaking sunset that
fills my window.



My husband is downstairs muttering about how the house depreciates
every time he leaves me alone in it. My daughter is practicing her newfound
vocabulary which she learned after my husband and I “discussed” the stove and
the water tank, and she's sure to show it off at school. I am afraid to get out
of bed. The sky is brilliant lavender streaked with amber, promising another
beautiful day tomorrow. Fucking perfect.



Another beautiful day just might kill me.