There are times when a mirror is thrust in your face and you get to see just what a hot mess you've become. Last night was one of those times.
Me: I am especially proud of myself! Wanna know why?
The Husband: You've managed to wear the same outfit for three straight days?
Me: Um, no. But thanks for that.
In my defense, yes, I did wear this outfit on Tuesday. Wednesday, I wore an entirely different outfit. But there was the whole spider incident, and I ended up throwing those clothes in the wash, and the only clothes I knew were "safe" was what I wore the day before. So I wore it again that night. Slept in it. And wore it Thursday (under a different shirt) And then I slept in it last night. So yeah, that's not a great track record. I should probably peel these nasty threads off my skin and toss them in with an extra heaping of Tide.
What I was so proud about? Yesterday I bought a new pair of- lets call them loungewear- pants. BUT they were one size smaller than the ones I was wearing yesterday. AND THEY FIT. (you can throw that confetti now) Thank you.
Now I'm going to go take a real life, scrub the hair, the whole nine yards shower. And look like a real person who doesn't live under a freeway overpass. Good day.
... but before you go. Could you do me a rather large favor? Can you pray to the car-gods that The Husband's car is fixable? You see, he started off our little conversation last night with: "... I have a small bit of kinda bad news..." (I wasn't that worried, because he has prefaced his baseball team taking a turn for the worst as "really awful news.") He then proceeded to tell me that his car, the one that is limping along, in the twilight of it's better years, the one held together by a whole lot of hope and duct tape... well, the engine light had turned on. And that, my friends, is a tragic sign. He got it to our friend's garage- and I am waiting for the call...