Welcome to My Gong Show, Friend.

Today was a day that was jam packed with a curiously disgusting and idiotic series of events. Were these occurrences not happening to me, they would have been spectacularly hilarious. Of course, since they were mine to savour in the moment, they were not helping me get to my happy place in a hurry. The old adage that things happen in threes applies here, in spades.

Morning Has Broken…My Spirit

In the still of the night, I was roused by the manic giggling and squealing of my daughters who had apparently decided to liberate the puppy from her kennel. This untimely playdate jolted me from my bed, which was, in my opinion, the most comfortable place on earth at that moment. Of course, a free-range puppy that has been cooped up in a crate all night spells disaster on the elimination front, so I had to fumble around in the dark to deal with the situation before it got worse. Annoyed that the kids were playing in the dark with the dog when it was clearly still time for slumber, I chastised them, retrieved the fully-loaded dog, and sent them back to bed. Because I was contact lensless and not wearing glasses, I was nearly blind. The pitch black didn’t help. I stumbled down the 88 year old Staircase of Doom and escorted Daisy Von Pom Pom outside for her morning constitutionals. When I was satisfied that she was done her business, I thumped back up the stairs, bitching vehemently about the ungodly hour. After returning The Pommunist Dictator to her crate, I stole a glance at the alarm clock while slipping into the bed.

It was quarter to eight in the morning. School? 60 minutes until start.

Much swearing and cursing ensued. Children were sent downstairs, where I fixed them a hearty breakfast of Mini-Wheats, and ran back up to the top floor to shower.

Upon finishing my shower, I grabbed one of my good navy and white striped bath sheets, and wrapped it around my body. I called the kids back upstairs to get dressed. The Baby emerged from the lower floor, so I accompanied her to her room to get changed. Someone had let the dog out of her box, so she was skittering and sliding around the room while I tried to dress The Baby without getting her soggy from my shower.

Which is when I spotted the dog doing the circle-bend-squat pre-shit ritual.


My options:

a) let the dog crap on the floor, deal with it after.

b) grab the dog, run like a maniac down the stairs, and take her outside while wearing my towel

c) seek out a house training pad and have her do the doo on there.

So I grabbed the dog while she was mid-squat, wrapped my towel around her body (effectively rendering me nude) and dashed for the nearest house training pad.

This was good, in theory.

In reality? It was too late. The contents of the dog cannon balled out of her at high speed, soaking through my good towel, and covering my hand and naked torso with the foul, foul dung of a dog on worming medication.

That is right, friend. I was naked, holding a shit covered puppy, in my now destroyed towel.

Now I needed another bath. The dog needed a bath. My good towel went to the trash.

Suffice to say that The Big Kid was more than a little tardy when she got to school.


First Impressions are Lasting Impressions

At five in the evening, the District Sales Manager for Avon Canada came to my house to set me up with my sales starter kit, literature and related processing. We were deeply engaged in conversation regarding commission structure, when my children and puppy invaded the living room. They had been quietly watching crappy cartoons in their playroom up until this point, and the dog had been in their company. Apparently they sensed that adults were having normal conversation without them, and they felt the need to intervene. The Big Kid was decked out in a too small purple fairy costume, and The Baby was wearing a Bumble Bee tutu. They proceeded to re-enact their warped version of The Nutcracker Suite for us, culminating in The Big Kid pulling a Tawney Kitaen on the area rug, sliding on her belly, scissoring her legs.

She was not wearing underpants.

I was mortified, but the Avon manager thought this was hilarious. When I managed to shoo the naughty buggers off to put real clothing on, the dog decided to steal the show.

Huge. Steaming. Pile. In. The. Middle. Of. The. Carpet.


a) leave it and keep on with meeting

b) stop and preform neurotic disinfecting ritual

I elected to stop and disinfect/scoop/destain the rug, all the while discussing the subtle nuances of the Avon direct sales plan. I win at multitasking.

Or something.

Can You Smell What The Rock Is Cooking?

Finally, by quarter to seven, I wrapped up my meeting and found my way to the kitchen to make dinner for my kids.

Natchos were on the menu, and I decided to spread my ingredients on the ceramic cook-top stove where there was empty space.  I decided to pre-heat the oven, so I opened it up to make sure nothing was being stored in it, and turned the dial.

Phone starts ringing. It’s my husband, calling from Thunder Bay to discuss the Avon meeting. We start blathering away when I notice that something smelled burn-y.

*sniff* *sniff* Plastic?

I ran back to the kitchen, expecting that I had missed something under the broiler. Nope. Nothing there. What the hell?

*Look up at the cooktop, genius woman*

Oh. Dear. God.

The tube of toothpaste that I had bought at the grocery store with the nacho ingredients?

En flambe.

Plastic tube melting EVERYWHERE.

Toothpaste bubbling mintyly all over the ceramic surface, comingling with the plastic packaging.

I quickly turned the cooktop off, and realized that the fatal mistake was turning the dial.

The oven is digital. The cooktop is dial.

Friend, you have NOT lived, until you try to clean an entire tube of flaming, cooked toothpaste off of your stove.

The kicker is that I have nobody to blame but myself.

This concludes the Sourpuss Gong Show Chronicles for the day…I hope.


2 thoughts on “Welcome to My Gong Show, Friend.

  1. So, which one of us won the shitty treasure for yesterday? I nominate you. Nothing unexpected happened in my world, at least.

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