Bad News of the Trivial Variety

So Monday was not such a great day for me. Aside from going back to work, there were a few other unpleasant pitfalls that I endured. They weren’t serious, but they’ve created inconvenience. And if you know anything about me, then you know how much I despise humbug.

The self-loathing is strong.

The self-loathing is strong.

I didn’t eat lunch yesterday and by the time I was firmly entrenched in traffic my stomach was growling angrily. “I shall stop by McDonald’s to pick up dinner for Madison and I,” I thought to myself. I did just that. “Hey Mad, I bought you a Happy Meal,” I said. Mad had been bugging me all break to take her to McDonald’s but I resisted. I thought I would be treated as a returning hero. And maybe I would have been if I had actually brought the Happy Meal home. I opened the lone bag of McDonald’s swag to find my burger and fries but no Happy Meal. “Damn it,” I said. “Watch your language,” Mad said. “I forgot your Happy Meal,” I said. “C’mon, dad!” Madison said. This was not the hero’s welcome I had hoped for. As we prepared to leave for McDonald’s I arrived downstairs with my socks still on. I faced a critical dilemma. Do I take the time and effort to put shoes on or slide my socked feet into slippers (something I consider a crime against humanity). I learned that my laziness is greater than my morals. “Look, I’m an idiot,” I said before anything else when greeted by the cashier. “I drove off without my kid’s Happy Meal. Can I pick it up now?” I handed her the receipt. She was very accommodating. She also handed me an apple pie for my trouble. “Oh, I don’t think I deserve this,” I said. “It’s okay, just take it,” she replied. Fine, twist my arm.


That’s as far back as I can bend my thumb right now.

The reason I wanted to eat dinner so early in the first place was the looming 8:00 softball game. I wanted to eat, digest, and nap – though not necessarily in that order – before I had to leave the house. Mission accomplished, baby. Well, on the first play of the game the batter stroked a hot liner to me at third base. I caught the ball, but did so with my thumb. Any baseball player who has spent time catching knows that feeling of man-this-really-hurts-now-but-boy-it’s-going-to-suck-even-more-later. I threw the ball back to the pitcher and ripped my hand out of the glove. I shook it. “What, thumb?” Matty asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t rub it!” a player from the other team shouted. Of course I would not rub it and of course shaking it doesn’t count. As of this morning the meat at the base of my left thumb is swollen and my thumb does not have full range of motion. It also hurts when pressure is applied in random actions like turning the steering wheel and buttoning my pants after taking a leak. What did humans do before thumbs?

Spiteful, spiteful Abby.

Spiteful, spiteful Abby.

Finally, Abby has returned to her spiteful ways. Since the family was home quite a bit over the break, we were able to reward Abby for making good choices (any time she excreted waste onto her mat). I thought she had turned a corner. Well, it seems that Abby has taken umbrage with her masters’ return to work and her sister’s return to school. She is literally carpet bombing our house. She’s dropping 1-2 combinations like an in-his-prime Mike Tyson. “Why would you do this Abby?” I said when I returned home from McDonald’s to find her bad choices laying about the house. No answer. You know why, you fool. Do you truly think I will take this daily abandonment without a fight? Pick up my feces, human. Now, I am the master. 


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