This has been a dog shit day. The Partner is mad at me again. The Boss was in hysterics from the moment she woke until I strapped her into her seat in the pre-school carpool. Later, I drove around in a completely useless 5 mile circle when I couldn't remember at whose house I was supposed to drop off the sweet potatoes for the Thanksgiving baskets my mother's group is donating to some families in town that need them.
Lest the previous examples lead you to believe I am being overly dramatic with my use of the term "dog shit," here's the chocolate icing on the cake of my day: our dog pooped in my car.
It's not the pit bull diarrhea that's bringing me down. It's not the wasted gas or The Boss's tantrums. Mainly it's the fact that The Partner and I can't get along. Our moments of harmony are random and fleeting. It's always been that way. I could say that maybe we're the kind of couple that thrives on dischord, but that's probably just more dog shit in the steaming pile. The truth is I don't understand the motivation either of us has for living the way we do, for not doing anything about it, and for having no plans to fix ourselves. Maybe we're too focused on blaming each other to work on our own contributions to the dynamic. Maybe I'm too lazy. Maybe he's too busy.
Really, today's been a day like most others. That's what a new friend of mine didn't realize when she saw my frazzled state, compared it to the similar look I've exhibited so often this month, and suggested that maybe December would be better for me. I told her I doubted it.
The only difference between today, last week, and three years ago is the literal manifestation of my dog's intestinal distress. In spraying it all over the floor of my car, she gave me the perfect metaphor around which to frame this post.