Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.
First thing this morning, I tripped on the way to the car and almost flattened my nose against the side of the van. At work, I whacked my elbow on a filing cabinet which brought tears to my eyes. I then proceeded to be hit on by a 50ish lawyer/podiatrist in the Outdoor Lighting aisle who asked me if I'd like to come and (wink, wink) check out his new jacuzzi. Ick.
Once I got home, it was poop, poop, and more poop, followed by a phone call that I'd been waiting on for two days. Of course, when it finally came, the battery in my phone died about 3 seconds after I said hello.
Just when I thought the cosmic conspiracy couldn't get any worse, I decided to do the nice wifely thing and do some laundry for Jesse... yucky, stinky stuff that had been left out in the garage for a week or two, unbeknownst to yours truly. I go down to the laundry room, dump it in the washing machine, and turn it on. I go back down about an hour later to transfer it to the dryer. Well, after I got everything out, I happened to see some fuzz in the bottom of the washer... you know, a lintball or something that had fallen off during the cycle. I reached in to get it out and
PICKED UP A LIMP, SOGGY, DEAD MOUSE IN MY BARE HAND!!!
Arrgh!!! I still shudder to think about it. I screamed, of course, tossed the mouse in the air (luckily I was right next to the trash can, in which the mouse miraculously landed). I can still feel its disgusting little squishy, bony body in my unsuspecting hand! Bile rises in my throat. Blahahahhh. I can't talk about it anymore.
