Good evening!
For those of you who are friends with me on Face Book or who follow me on Twitter, you know Tuesdays are just not my day. If something is going to go wrong with work, it's on a Tuesday. If I break something, if an appliance breaks down, chances are, it's a Tuesday.
I have no idea why. But it's like clockwork.
Today I figured Tuesday struck early. There was a pile of cat pooh in the room formerly known as the dining room. (We now call it the place where we keep the cats' dishes and cat tree.) Of our five, we have one who will announce his displeasure at the state of his food levels, water levels, cleanliness of the cat boxes, whatever, by poohing outside the #1 litter box, which also happens to be right outside our bedroom door. (This is why I always have the flashlight setting on my phone turned on when I get up in the morning. I never know who or what I'm going to step on when I open the door.)
But it's been a while since he poohed outside the box. I thought he was finally pleased with our collective performance and we no longer had to live in fear.
Until this morning when I noted he'd plopped a present near the top of the basement stairs.
We have a rule here. Well, I have a rule. I do not touch cat crap. I do not clean the litter boxes. I will feed them, I will water them, I will let them crawl on my desk when I'm trying to work, and I will take them to the vet if need be. And Heaven knows I pay for them. But I did not want 5 cats in my house and none of said cats are MINE. Therefore, I expect the other three adults in the house to deal with any and all feline fecal matter.
Thus it came to pass that this morning as he was headed out to a long day of driving, I caught Hubby and informed him of the protest plot in the room formerly known as the dining room. He cleaned it up, expressing, as I did, wonder at the new location of the dump site.
And then, the mess cleaned up, he got in his car and drove away.
A couple short hours later I get this text:
Guess what dummy here forgot this morning?
Sometimes Hubby forgets one of his phones or his notebook, which was my first guess. His response was this:
Better. Perfect for a blog.
Now I was intrigued. Lately Hubby's biggest goal in life is to stay out of the blog. I made several more guesses on what he could possibly have forgotten that would be wild enough for him to volunteer that it was blog worthy.
I suggested perhaps he'd forgotten what day it was and therefore was going to the wrong appointments.
It's Tuesday.
Go to work without a shirt day.
Apparently what had happened was this: Hubby keeps his hanging shirts in his office closet (because my clothes have become so fluffy we can no longer share a closet.) So while on his way from the bedroom to his office, he realized he was running a few minutes late. It was then that I popped out of my office and informed him of the pooh pile in the room formerly known as the dining room. He cleaned that up, put on his coat and headed out the door.
Fortunately for him, there was a Walmart near his first stop and he was able to purchase a shirt for work and get on with his day.
And, after a tremendous, and much needed laugh, I got on with mine.
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