Lying on the floor of the expansive bathroom I whimpered and held my ear.
This is not my night.
“Jacob,” I finally said to my charge when I stumbled out to the living room “I need to go to urgent care. Something is not right with my ear. And where the HECK is my stuff? What’d the cleaning people do--- eat it?”
In addition to having a mansion with a tiered backyard and a stone stairway that leads down to a fence with no gate (huh?), Mr. Kinda Crazy has a remarkably, annoyingly thorough cleaning team. After searching every crevice of the house, holding the side of my head in massive pain, I gave up.
An hour later the doctor shoved a thing in my ear to look at it and it actually felt better:
“Oh wow, yeah, that’s bad. You’ve got a really bad inner and outer ear infection. Has it been hurting for a few days?”
“No. It just hit me about two hours ago. I was completely fine before.”
I thought something had crawled in there and died. I wanted to ask him to look again and see if maybe some sort of jack-hammering elf was in my ear but I refrained.
Since I didn’t have any clothes or bath products or nigh night (my...uh...blanket) at the house now, I had to go to my apartment and pick up clothes for the next day.
“Oh you poor thing,” Des said when she saw me still whimpering and holding my ear. “Here—have a fruit roll-up. I opened them all but just to see what colors they were," she said with a sweet smile.
You are going to have lucky, lucky, kids, I thought.
Back at the house I was still in pain, still missing clothes, and had forgotten to get a top to go with the jeans I picked up at my apartment. So today I'm wearing the camisole I slept in. Special.
“You know they could prescribe you some weed for that,” Jacob said when I explained that my ear was still throbbing.
“He just gave me Vicadin,” I told him as I climbed up to the top kitchen cupboards to see if maybe, just maybe, the cleaning people thought “hey, let’s stick this blankey and these clothes in with the pots and pans.”
“I have an insane pain tolerance level,” Jacob said. “Ok ready? Watch this.”
And then he started beating the heck out of his leg.
“What are you doing?” I managed to choke out laughing.
“I can’t feel my leg any longer, but there is absolutely NO pain.”
Forty five minutes later we were still looking for my missing stuff and wound up in the garage.
“I’ve never, ever, opened this cabinet,” Jacob said intensely while holding the door of a large, wooden cupboard. “What if it’s TOTALLY filled with weed? Ok ready?”
He sounded extremely excited. I shook my head.
“It’s totally arrangeable for me to get you some pot for your pain by….tomorrow.Yeah. Totally arrangeable.”
Wow. Thank you. You’re so helpful, Jacob.
“Maybe we could get you a spiritual license for it.”
Amen.
“Would you quit with the weed?!” I finally laughed out at him. “I can’t find nigh night!”
“What’s nigh night?”
Crap.
How to explain my little blankey to a fifteen year old. Or to the cleaning crew when I call them today for that matter?
Hiii...sooo...on the bed there was this thing that looks like a silky cleaning rag...but it's not...yeah...it's for....it's for...ehh....can you tell me where you put it?
To be honest I was more concerned about nigh night than I was about my clothes.
“You’re HOW old?” Jacob said when I told him what it was.
“Oh shut up.” I answered, disgruntled as I looked inside the massive hollow coffee table.
After finding a few more Emmy’s ("how many of these does your dad HAVE?") and other awards stashed around in various nooks and crannies. We gave up and I came to a very disheartening conclusion:
My grandma was wrong. I do have fashion sense. So much so that the cleaning crew took my clothes over the mass amounts of money and valuable awards lying around the house. And they're probably using nigh night to clean someone's toilet right now.
It’s tough to be me.
This is not my night.
“Jacob,” I finally said to my charge when I stumbled out to the living room “I need to go to urgent care. Something is not right with my ear. And where the HECK is my stuff? What’d the cleaning people do--- eat it?”
In addition to having a mansion with a tiered backyard and a stone stairway that leads down to a fence with no gate (huh?), Mr. Kinda Crazy has a remarkably, annoyingly thorough cleaning team. After searching every crevice of the house, holding the side of my head in massive pain, I gave up.
An hour later the doctor shoved a thing in my ear to look at it and it actually felt better:
“Oh wow, yeah, that’s bad. You’ve got a really bad inner and outer ear infection. Has it been hurting for a few days?”
“No. It just hit me about two hours ago. I was completely fine before.”
I thought something had crawled in there and died. I wanted to ask him to look again and see if maybe some sort of jack-hammering elf was in my ear but I refrained.
Since I didn’t have any clothes or bath products or nigh night (my...uh...blanket) at the house now, I had to go to my apartment and pick up clothes for the next day.
“Oh you poor thing,” Des said when she saw me still whimpering and holding my ear. “Here—have a fruit roll-up. I opened them all but just to see what colors they were," she said with a sweet smile.
You are going to have lucky, lucky, kids, I thought.
Back at the house I was still in pain, still missing clothes, and had forgotten to get a top to go with the jeans I picked up at my apartment. So today I'm wearing the camisole I slept in. Special.
“You know they could prescribe you some weed for that,” Jacob said when I explained that my ear was still throbbing.
“He just gave me Vicadin,” I told him as I climbed up to the top kitchen cupboards to see if maybe, just maybe, the cleaning people thought “hey, let’s stick this blankey and these clothes in with the pots and pans.”
“I have an insane pain tolerance level,” Jacob said. “Ok ready? Watch this.”
And then he started beating the heck out of his leg.
“What are you doing?” I managed to choke out laughing.
“I can’t feel my leg any longer, but there is absolutely NO pain.”
Forty five minutes later we were still looking for my missing stuff and wound up in the garage.
“I’ve never, ever, opened this cabinet,” Jacob said intensely while holding the door of a large, wooden cupboard. “What if it’s TOTALLY filled with weed? Ok ready?”
He sounded extremely excited. I shook my head.
“It’s totally arrangeable for me to get you some pot for your pain by….tomorrow.Yeah. Totally arrangeable.”
Wow. Thank you. You’re so helpful, Jacob.
“Maybe we could get you a spiritual license for it.”
Amen.
“Would you quit with the weed?!” I finally laughed out at him. “I can’t find nigh night!”
“What’s nigh night?”
Crap.
How to explain my little blankey to a fifteen year old. Or to the cleaning crew when I call them today for that matter?
Hiii...sooo...on the bed there was this thing that looks like a silky cleaning rag...but it's not...yeah...it's for....it's for...ehh....can you tell me where you put it?
To be honest I was more concerned about nigh night than I was about my clothes.
“You’re HOW old?” Jacob said when I told him what it was.
“Oh shut up.” I answered, disgruntled as I looked inside the massive hollow coffee table.
After finding a few more Emmy’s ("how many of these does your dad HAVE?") and other awards stashed around in various nooks and crannies. We gave up and I came to a very disheartening conclusion:
My grandma was wrong. I do have fashion sense. So much so that the cleaning crew took my clothes over the mass amounts of money and valuable awards lying around the house. And they're probably using nigh night to clean someone's toilet right now.
It’s tough to be me.
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