Бытовой пиздец Со мной периодически случается какой-нибудь бытовой...

Household fucked

Some household fucking happens to me periodically when (as an unforgettable Surganova would sing) "cats give birth, children yell." Today is just such a day. It all started in the morning when, according to my husband’s special task, I started a laundry. The mise-en-scenes: linen sorted by color spectrum and lying here and there in multi-colored heaps, a small child sitting in a laundry basket, I am dosing laundry detergents with flasks and beakers. Here, a cat runs right past me and me with my belongings, strangely protruding our hind legs. Behind it stretches the flare of the result of the physiological process that she just finished in her tray. A vague guess ... I grab a cat, raise my tail, I see evidence of my bad suspicion. If directly: kakahi in wool. Asya, the creature! You are a cat living in a family of intellectuals of at least the third generation! You are a mature eight year old cat! How could one get to this?
Under the surprised look of my son, scraping the remnants of compassion from the bottom of my miserable little soul, I try to rid this shaggy ass of all the adhering shit in the least invasive ways. Dry wipes, wet wipes, very wet wipes ... No, the patient screaming foolish is hopeless! Only surgery! I’m going for scissors and starting to do what every owner of a shaggy cat did at least once in his life — cut out almost appendicitis. The child intensively encourages me in his childish language and sways in a laundry basket. It would seem that could interrupt this brilliant, almost completed operation? Fire, stsuko, alarm! She roared deafeningly, causing the three of us to jump in surprise. I dropped the scissors, the cat darted under the sofa, leaving claw marks on my hands, Max toppled over from the basket and landed in a pile of red linen. Literally after 10 seconds, the siren died out, the child sobbed, and I, whoighed, looked at a tuft of cut hair that fell exactly on a clothes pile with green and blue.
Do you think that's all? No guys! The alarm squealed once more when I put Max to sleep. They started again, roared again. But behind these screams, I did not hear one thud. It was the sound of a fabric softener falling onto the floor. The bottle, of course, cracked, and everything, of course, spread out. All over the floor. I discovered this exactly five minutes before leaving the house, when I slipped on a slush of sky blue. It’s strange that she didn’t fall. Even amazing. My hands have never smelled so good as when wiping the spilled fabric softener. Is the Scandinavian spring in all its glory? Or the freshness of the sea breeze? Before throwing away the empty bottle, I read the words "frescura primavera". Mmmm ... nevertheless, it was not without spring and freshness.
Having rejoined my long skirt (what the hell did I even put it on ?!) and having changed it to jeans, I belatedly advanced after the eldest child. Food, I try not to breathe, so as not to add more troubles. I look at the curb, there is an oil painting. Some Toyota flew off the road onto the sidewalk and demolished the fire hydrant. Water gushes like a fountain in classic Hollywood movies, pouring right into the trunk of a car. Around the muscular cops in good shape. Interview witnesses. Well, I thought someone had fucked worse than mine.