The way the morning starts decides the day.
This just can't be true, because my day started out great, with some delicious dreams that I was able to stay in bed a little longer than usual to enjoy today, because I was asked to come into work late. Don't have to ask me twice, so I lolled about with my best boycat for an extra hour, eventually falling back asleep.
I woke to hear Matt say Cops are here, something about a check.
Believe me, nothing will get your pulse pounding faster than hearing something like that, fresh out of a deep sleep involving a languid, delicious dream or three.
Turns out what he really said was Your Pop's here, he's on the deck.
This, this was the true portent for the day.
So I chased some cold water down my face, smoothed down my hilarious bedhead, and invited Dad in for tea. We had a lovely visit, and I believed that the equilibrium of the day had been re-established. Dad left in due time for me to make a trip to the bank to deposit my paycheck before getting to work, so I pulled it out of the envelope to endorse it before leaving the house, since I can never find a pen in my car.
The heart that had so recently been pounding suddenly stopped briefly... when I saw half my usual pay on the check. I raced in to work to find out WHAT THE FUCK, and discovered it was due to an accounting error that absolutely, positively couldn't be fixed for another two weeks. My household had already been planning on two weeks of ramen noodles and gruel (yes, cats included, everyone has to do their part), and now it looked like we couldn't even afford that.
Thus began the more nightmarish portion of the day, in which my already tightened belt threatened to strangle me, and things were said, and tears were shed, and clothing was rend... ed.
Then I was already red-eyed and fragile, so I couldn't concentrate on much of anything except my inner mantra of now I'm fucked, now I'm really fucked, so I gave myself an assignment that required leaving the premises and driving around for a bit, so I could be alone and cry and pound my steering wheel and holler GODDAMMIT!!! every few minutes.
I should mention that one particular reason, though by no means the only one, for all the goddammitting is that my birthday is this week, and this truly meant there would be no Christmas in Whoville. At. All.
Then I reminded myself that it couldn't possibly be worse than when I owed six months in back rent to the landlord of the nightclub I owned, and lived daily with the constant gnawing pit of dread in my stomach that today would be the day I would go to work to find a "condemned" sign on the front doors of the 150-year-old brick warehouse it was housed in, or that the soundboard would get fried during a show thanks to the frequent electrical storms in the area, or simply that the beer and liquor sales from the night before would finally not be enough to make three register drawers for tonight's show...
And all of those things did happen at one point or another, but that's the point. When I was a fancy-pants live-music nightclub owner in my twenties I somehow overcame such unbelievable stress, and such unbelievable bills, and oh my christ the crippling debt... and let's not forget that awful stench of stale beer and cigarettes...
that two weeks of ramen noodles and inexpensive evenings at home with cats sounds pretty wildly okay in comparison.
And then I composed myself and went back to work. And was told that the problem was solved, or at least would be solved on Monday, when I would get paid.
Later, one of my idols from my youth snapped at me during an evening meeting and this caused me to cry in my car again, but I think that was just a residual, and totally not his fault. So I came straight home and made a huge batch of chicken noodle soup and you know what? That shit really works.