I Should've Gone Back To Sleep!
I really should have known better. I should have known to just roll over and go back to sleep when I woke up this morning to find that I washed my fishing license with my most recent load of laundry.
Thank goodness it's water proof. Too bad it's not Jessica proof.
Then my husband suggested we wash, clean, and vacuum the truck (seeing how we're going on vacation tomorrow morning). We set off to the car wash and then decided we'd live a little and hand wash it. We went to Wallie-World and stocked up on everything a person could need to wash their vehicle- complete with a chamois in the shape of a skinned jack rabbit. Oh boy. We're set to go.
I took on the job of washing Humpty with the 90+ pound microfiber mitt (for the record, we nicknamed the truck after Humpty Dumpty because when Chuck and I first started dating, it kept having problems... darn those faulty lifters that like to eat camshafts!) Oh, they don't tell you at the store that the thing will weigh 92 pounds once it gets wet, of course. But try washing the full length of a Dodge Cummins and you'll know what I'm talkin' about.
We finished with the outside and I moved to the dashboard. About 20 or so "Armor All" wipes later, I went to climb down and relocate to the backseat. Bad idea. What I was oblivious to was that my poor husband was resting his hand on the open door jam. I hopped out and went to close the door in one fluid motion until he started yelling like a banshee. It scared the poop right out of me because I hadn't noticed him standing on the wheel drying the windshield in the first place (I'm not very observant, see), let alone to have him start yelling. As I hit the floor, my feet went right out from under me because flip flops + water + being startled = doing the splits. I clung to the door handle to keep from falling on my rump which consequently put more pressure on his squished fingers. "OPEN THE DOOR!" he yelled. I finally got my feet to cooperate so I could oblige. Bad deal.
He didn't even swear, though. I would have had a vocabulary that shamed a sailor, but the worst it got was a passionate "FETCH!". I stood there like a dingbat while he checked to make sure his fingers weren't broken and then I commenced blubbering like a little girl for the next 20 minutes.
Later on after I decided he wasn't going to divorce me and I could stop crying, I dropped a straw wrapper on his Cafe Rio burrito. Yummy.
Like I said, I should have just gone back to sleep. But, hey-- the day is still young. Maybe I can run over his foot.
Thank goodness it's water proof. Too bad it's not Jessica proof.
Then my husband suggested we wash, clean, and vacuum the truck (seeing how we're going on vacation tomorrow morning). We set off to the car wash and then decided we'd live a little and hand wash it. We went to Wallie-World and stocked up on everything a person could need to wash their vehicle- complete with a chamois in the shape of a skinned jack rabbit. Oh boy. We're set to go.
I took on the job of washing Humpty with the 90+ pound microfiber mitt (for the record, we nicknamed the truck after Humpty Dumpty because when Chuck and I first started dating, it kept having problems... darn those faulty lifters that like to eat camshafts!) Oh, they don't tell you at the store that the thing will weigh 92 pounds once it gets wet, of course. But try washing the full length of a Dodge Cummins and you'll know what I'm talkin' about.
We finished with the outside and I moved to the dashboard. About 20 or so "Armor All" wipes later, I went to climb down and relocate to the backseat. Bad idea. What I was oblivious to was that my poor husband was resting his hand on the open door jam. I hopped out and went to close the door in one fluid motion until he started yelling like a banshee. It scared the poop right out of me because I hadn't noticed him standing on the wheel drying the windshield in the first place (I'm not very observant, see), let alone to have him start yelling. As I hit the floor, my feet went right out from under me because flip flops + water + being startled = doing the splits. I clung to the door handle to keep from falling on my rump which consequently put more pressure on his squished fingers. "OPEN THE DOOR!" he yelled. I finally got my feet to cooperate so I could oblige. Bad deal.
He didn't even swear, though. I would have had a vocabulary that shamed a sailor, but the worst it got was a passionate "FETCH!". I stood there like a dingbat while he checked to make sure his fingers weren't broken and then I commenced blubbering like a little girl for the next 20 minutes.
Later on after I decided he wasn't going to divorce me and I could stop crying, I dropped a straw wrapper on his Cafe Rio burrito. Yummy.
Like I said, I should have just gone back to sleep. But, hey-- the day is still young. Maybe I can run over his foot.
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