Since we returned from vacation; everything at home has hummed along happily – groceries in supply; meals made without rushing; cat’s behaving and even telephone conversations with my own mother have been calm and tranquil. In short – I’ve
had nothing to blog about.
“Even the cat hasn’t yacked,” I whimper, blowing my nose into an Aloe coated tissue. Crap; we even have the perfect tissues lately. When did I go Stepford shopping? “I have no conflicts or complications whatsoever. I feel like I’m being jinxed.”
“It’s not so bad. Something will come up,” husband assures me, continuing to wash the dishes. Wash the dishes? WTH did this start?
“You’re not even making a mess in the kitchen anymore.”
“And you even made the bed.”
“Well, it is our second anniversary and I wanted to make you happy.”
“Thanks a lot. At this rate, I'll be editing dictionaries.” (Insert more blowing of nose into horrifyingly clean/soft tissue here.)
“Look, if it’s any consolation – we could move, right? Haven’t we been going to all those open houses?”
I dabbed my eyes. “That’s true.”
“And I’m a terrible packer. I’ll probably shove our tax papers in with your bras and the ketchup, right?”
“Oh yes!” I brightened a bit.
“And the movers could break things – or even take our stuff to the completely wrong house! Or – not even show!”
I hugged him. “I love you. You’re the best.”
Husband hugs me back, then saunters down the basement, exceedingly pleased with self.
“You’re not doing any laundry, are you?” I call after him, dreading more good things flung my way.
“Only my chef clothes. But if you want, I’ll make sure to pour bleach on something of yours and ruin it.”
I sigh with relief, and finally enjoy a sip of - albeit perfect - Pacific Blend. But what the heck.
“Hey, honey!” he calls up from the basement.
“Yeah?” I shriek back down; wondering how much more of our laundry has aired through the neighbor’s walls.
“You’re in luck – the washer’s broken!”
"Yep. Looks like we'll have to buy a new one. It could take days to deliver, too."
Oh happy days!