Bah.
That’s how I feel today.
Bah.
I almost had karmic clothing justice for my Chocolate boob incident. This morning, I wore a white $7 t-shirt and came into work and found that someone had brought Mr. Donut doughnuts. Which Mr. Donut treat is my all time favorite doughnut? That would be the Vanilla Angel, which sort of like a jelly doughnut, only it’s filled with a vanilla amalgamation of frosting and whipped creamy goodness. And covered in powdered sugar.
If I eat this culinary wonder, I am left with cleavage that is finely dusted in confectionary white. This is fine if one is going to an 18th Century ball dressed as Marie Antoinette, but when I’m attired in my normal somber tones, it leaves for a impression that I’ve either been shedding dandruff from only my bangs, or have indulged in a little sloppy nose candy.
Neither impression, I assure you, are acceptable.
However, today I am wearing a white t-shirt, so I munched away happily on my Vanilla Angel, gloating over the Gods of Boob Spillage. Until a drop of Diet Coke besmirched my pristine white t-shirt.
It’s not good to gloat. No good comes of it.
My own hubris, I’m certain, is to blame. I was taunting the Gods of Boob Spillage. They showed me.
Bah.
Buffy will be on F/X starting September 24th. They’re starting at the beginning. If you haven’t ‘gotten into Buffy’, I want you all to watch. This is your assignment.
Think of it like Oprah’s Book Club, only with television, not pseudo-literate trash.
My husband redeemed himself again yesterday. He phoned me in the early afternoon and asked what I wanted to do last night. I’ve spent every evening thus far in the hospital with Betty, and there was no change, so I was going to spend the evening at home last night. I told him that I was hungry for steak.
‘Going out steak or staying home steak?’ He asked.
‘I don’t care. Either.’ I said. I really didn’t care.
‘I could take you out somewhere.’ He offered.
‘Whatever.’ I’m having a hard time caring about such things right now.
I assumed that we would be going out to eat, since Esteban just finished the dishes on Wednesday, and in effort to keep the kitchen clean for as long as possible, he generally doesn’t like to actually cook in it.
I walked into the house and the oven was on. I could smell the unmistakable smell of potatoes cooking.
‘Are you cooking something?’ I asked from the door.
‘Yeah. Potatoes.’ He said.
‘I thought we were going to talk about dinner?’ I said. Did. Not. Compute. I had assumed that if there was steak to be had at home, I would be in charge of wrangling the steak and putting together the side dishes.
‘We did. We talked about it. You didn’t care. I decided to make it.’ He said.
Stunned. Stunned I was.
‘So you bought steaks?’ ‘Yup’ ‘Tenderloins?’ ‘Yup’ ‘Baked potatoes?’ ‘Yup’ ‘Sour cream?’ ‘Yup’ ‘FAT FREE Sour Cream?’ ‘Yup.’
Could someone be any more perfect? How lucky am I?
See. It’s all karma. Get a big snotty chocolate mark on your shirt, have your husband cater to your every whim. It all evens out in the end.
