The power is flickering, people.
I just got out of the shower and I have wet, frizzy hair and no makeup on and the power is flickering.
If it goes completely out and I have to do my makeup in the dark and greet my husband with frizzy hair, I will just tell that plane to turn around.
They can come back tomorrow when I look fabulous.
It’s 8pm and Isaac’s flight has been delayed so I have several hours to kill.
I’m so nervous excited that I’m ready to throw up.
And I think time is moving backwards right now.
If you get a wireless internet connection, your husband will want you to make it secure.
When you finally get around to it, it will probably be midnight.
You’ll want some hot chocolate to give you strength.
With all your chocolate induced strength, you’ll probably visit the Microsoft page.
If you read the Microsoft page at midnight you will get very confused.
You’ll want some more hot chocolate to make you feel better.
After you’ve made more hot chocolate you’ll visit many more web pages.
After visiting many more web pages, you’ll remember that your new modem has a user’s manual.
You’ll read the user’s manual.
You’ll probably want some more hot chocolate to go with it.
The user’s manual will direct you to the online settings.
You’ll go online to change your settings and accidentally lock yourself out of your own network.
You’ll try to change your settings only to realize that they’re online, and you have locked yourself out of your network.
You’ll probably curse and cry and get some more hot chocolate.
You might try to use someone else’s unsecured network.
Then you’ll use the reset button on the modem.
You’ll probably lock yourself out of your network and have to reset the modem two or three more times.
And chances are, if you make your wireless network secure, you’re going to need some hot chocolate so you can blog about it.
Or David Arquette.
Or Jeff Daniels.
Because I need to go up into the attic, and I know with absolute certainty that there is some sort of freaky, giant, woman-eating spider that is going to get me.
And I don’t know how to turn the light on up there.
Because we all know that turning the lights on keeps the bad things away.
Just like keeping your arms and legs on the bed and under the covers keeps the monsters that live under your bed from being able to get you.
And yes, I do realize that I’m 30 years old, and not, you know, 8, but I’ve been sleeping next to a pile of laundry instead of a man for the past five and a half months, so I am understandably twitchy about things that go bump in the night.
And things that build webs in the attic.
However, the man who belongs in my bed will not be back for another two weeks, and my children can not wait that long to decorate for Christmas. We absolutely must decorate thisverysecondrightnowpleasepleaseplease.
And so I am heroically making this sacrifice for my children.
I’m goin’ up.
To bring you complete and utter mortification.
Today my cable company came out to see if they could re-hook my cable, which was partially disconnected by that unnamed large satelite tv provider henceforth known as the devil (and I signed a 2-year contract with the devil, ya’ll).
The cable company said that they don’t go into the attic or anything, but that their guy would check the cable box and see if they could just re-hook it there, otherwise the devil would have to do it.
So this afternoon a youngish, not unattractive man (Isaac if you’re reading this, the only reason I mention that is because it makes my mortification that much worse. If you were a woman you’d understand this) so, a youngish, not unattractive man shows up at my door and looks at the cables and decides to go above and beyond the call of duty.
Literally.
He went up into the attic to see what he could see.
And what he saw were two foundational garments hanging on the doorknob that he had to unlock and open to get to the attic access through our laundry room.
And ya’ll.
Ya’ll.
I don’t have small, discreet foundational garments.
So I did what any modest girl would do and pretended that it didn’t happen, that they didn’t exist and that he didn’t see anything.
And then he went into my bedroom to check the outlets there.
My bedroom.
By now most of you know about my laundry habits while my husband is deployed.
So, needless to say, there were more foundational garments lying on the bed in all their not-small glory.
The bed which he had to get behind to reach the cable outlet.
I won’t even mention the boudoir pictures on the wall that I had taken for my husband two years ago when he was in Afghanistan and I was skinny.
The ones of me in my foundational garments and little else.
The ones I would hide if I knew someone was going into my bedroom.
I really just might die of the mortification.
