Nothing really big going on around here, except for the fact that The Fat Man is coming in a week and I still have stuff to get. And no, when I refer to The Fat Man, I'm not talking about my father-in-law, though he definitely qualifies.
I keep hoping we make it to 10 years so I get half of everything
I love my husband. Seriously, I really do. But he drives me up the wall sometimes.
Like Wednesday nights. Wednesday nights are traditionally Hell Night at my house, where I'm madly catching up the laundry and putting things away so Reyna can actually clean instead of spending most of her time dodging piles of crap. So why, every freaking Wednesday night (or even worse, Thursday morning when I'm trying to run out the door to work), does my dear husband decide to open the mail that has been sitting on the table for at least three weeks?
This morning, we were late getting up due to numerous trips upstairs to Coughing Boy. I was pulling myself together when Joey asked me if I'd mind getting Monkey Man ready for school this morning.
Why, you ask? Because today, of all days, he decided it was time to change the lightbulb over the shower. That had been out already for three fucking weeks. Which then made all of us 20 minutes late leaving the house and me ungodly late for work.
Men. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em when you're done with 'em. It's a good thing that he's cute or he'd be toast.
Speaking of shooting people...
I should just shoot EPOD and put him out of his misery. The bastard called in sick last Friday with a sinus infection, and this morning at 7:45 when I finally wandered into his office, I asked how he was doing. "Terrible!" he shouted at me. So I promptly skedaddled back to my office. I mean, at 7:30 in the morning, how bad could things really be? Oh yeah, we're talking about EPOD here. Never mind.
SG came by to see me today and give me an invitation to an open house at his new palatial estate later on this month, and I was telling him about EPOD's newest crabby streak. I think we both agree that we wish that FTD had a "Get the Fuck Over Yourself" bouquet, because we'd send it to him.
The plumbing ain't working so hot
Well, it seems that we won't be getting together with Cat Door M and the Mrs. before the end of the year. Between our crazy schedules this week and the fact that the lucky bastards are off for Vegas for a few days at the end of the month, we'll have to put off the Christmas gift exchange/drunken fiesta for January. Which is not a bad thing because I found out that apparently my dear husband absconded with part of Cat Door's Christmas present (the pimento cheese I made at my mom's this weekend) and his office staff demolished it. Oops.
Anyhow, last year Cat Door developed some bad acid reflux problems along with the beginnings of an ulcer thanks to the stress of working with that jackass Napoleon on that big job we were on for two years. Things were under control, but recently he's been having problems again and will have to get some horrible procedure done when he returns from Vegas. He admitted today that he's scared what they will find, so he's planning on living it up in Vegas knowing that he may come home to have the procedure and live on canned broth for several days.
It's kind of funny though - he had two missions in mind to do out in Vegas. One would be riding his motorcycle in the desert (surprise, surprise), and the other would be to go to the topless pancake house. Well, Joansy was right - it is a total urban legend. It was on the show "Las Vegas" back in October and apparently NBC has been totally flooded with calls wanting to know where the place is. Folks, it ain't real. And I can't tell you how disappointed Cat Door is to find that out. At least I hooked him up with a few good places to eat out there that we've been to and loved. If he can't see boobs, at least he'll get to eat well.
I am a hypocrite
Well, yesterday was a clear case of "I really need to shut the hell up sometimes."
Remember how pissy I was about Monkey Man's birthday party and the RSVP situation? Well, I had a lengthy discussion with his best friend Q's mom both before the party and then also brought it up with some of the moms at the birthday party itself.
So last night, I'm going through the mail pile around 9 PM when I discover to my horror that we missed Q's birthday party completely. It was yesterday at 10 AM - we weren't even home, but I have been like a whole week off mentally for about three weeks now (like I still thought there were 2 weeks until Christmas).
I left a long, grovelling message on her voice mail today, complete with "I'm an asshole, I hope you'll accept my apology." Yes, I am an asshole. And she was nice enough to leave me a message saying she appreciated the call (and laughed about my ranting on the voice mail about my assholishness) and suggesting we get the kids together one night this week to do something for Q's real birthday.
Thank God. She's part of my badass neighborhood crew that keeps me sane when the Stepfords get all high and mighty. Not to mention that she's a shitload of fun. And Monkey Man adores her son Q.
But I'll say it again. Not only am I an asshole, I'm a non-calendar-keeping, senile asshole.
G'night. The cough fest has begun already started so I better catch some sleep while I can. Blech.