By all accounts, I pretty much have my business together. My car is clean, my desk is clean, my papers are graded, and my pens all face the same way in my desk drawer. I'm a yes person - need me to do something? I'm happy to -- honestly. My dishwasher is unloaded each night and loaded, waiting patiently, for the morning dishes, and my socks always match.
Shit = Together
And then, there was The Frappe Incident of 2013.
Sunday evening, The Husband asked ever so nicely for me to get him a frappe on my way home from the grocery store. Of course I said I would.
Well, I didn't.
I totally forgot. Which is becoming the norm. Which is annoying the holy crap out of me.
When I finally realized that I forgot the friggin frappe, I was in bed and it was almost eleven o'clock. I shot out of bed and panicked. And then - whoa - the waterworks ... waterworks that rarely happen in my world ... the sputtering, hysterical, why-can't-I-just-stop-crying crap. And my poor, poor husband - the one who bought donuts on Sunday morning, who washed my new shirt for Monday, the one that lets me sleep in and the one that walks the dog when it's too cold for me - stood next to the bed with his eyes as big as saucers and asked what he could do ... all while desperately trying to stifle a laugh at his obviously batshit crazy wife.
Turns out you can't reason with a pregnant woman when she forgets her husband's friggin' frappe. ESPECIALLY after she sees you trying not to laugh at her.
Ever since The Frappe Incident of 2013, The Husband has been walking gently around here.
This morning was a typical Tuesday morning. Until my alarm didn't go off.
The Husband gently woke me up about forty-five minutes later than my alarm typically sounds. I was annoyed in a why-is-there-still-a-friggin-decorative-bench-at-the-end-of-our-bed-that-I-hit-my-shin-on-every-single-friggin-morning kind of way.
And then, I almost burned my house down.
My head was bent over, and I was blow drying my hair like usual. I pulled out the plug when I was done and wrapped the cord up. And then singed my thumb on the hottest prong in the history of hot blow dryer prongs. After several looks and fiddles in an I'm-totally-an-electrician kind of way, I decided I probably needed a new blow dryer (my patient mother concurred). Crisis averted and Casa de Thumann will live another day.
And then, the dog needed fed.
I opened then new dog food bag and spilled it across the entire kitchen floor. My wet hair fell into my face and the dog licked her chops in an I'm-gonna-get-me-some-o-that kind of way. I scooped up the super great smelling dog food. I washed my hands, which burned my super great blow dryer prong burn. I took a fortifying breath and I remembered Evi Steffens.
"Becky, you don't have a good day - you MAKE it a GREAT day!"
Things were going to look up - I was determined - and The Husband even remembered to start my car. Assuming there wasn't a Criminal Minds style serial killer sitting in the backseat of my car waiting for me to leave, of course ... That wouldn't necessarily be a better day ...
After that, my body decided it didn't need bacon anymore - which is practically a damn sin.
I threw up my breakfast in a bag west of Ames. I'll spare you the details, but it involved an odd texture, and a super fantastic snow plow with lights as bright as the July sun (which I'm actually surprised didn't cause me to have some kind of epileptic seizure on the side of the road). It was a good time.
And then, a heating panel in my room fell and whacked my face.
Odd that my trashcan was so far away from my desk and odd that I had to lean down to pull it away from the wall heater. When I did, all hell broke loose and I'm basically lucky to still have my front two teeth.
Okay. Maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but it was enough for me to text The Husband that I was having dessert for dinner.
Moral of the story: Pregnant shit = decidedly less together.
I don't even know what color socks I wore today.
I love you like I love the Miller Lite that I can't have,