At the risk of being put on the naughty list, I offer this simple, declarative statement that sums up my feelings today:
I. hate. everything.
I had lovely posts planned this morning that would share our happenings over Thanksgiving, let you see the holiday decor of my home, and entertain you with wit and humorous stories galore.
Instead, I offer this little nugget from my morning.
Imagine, if you will, that it is about 8:30 in the a.m.
I had just taken Hannah to school and was trying to decide if I should start a load of laundry before (miraculously) hopping on the treadmill. My cell phone rings and all hello kitty breaks loose.
The plumber was upstairs installing the boys' bathroom faucets. Apparently, the faucets that I picked out would not fit where the granite guys had drilled the holes. And, lucky for me, the plumber had bent the crap out of the faucets trying to get them in, rendering them likely unreturnable.
Seeing as how our contractor marks up any fixtures that he purchases for us to the tune of about 30 percent, we opted to purchase all those ourselves.
When I first saw these faucets, I fell head-over-heels for them. They were funky and cool, yet totally went with the rest of the bathroom. It had taken me weeks to even convince the boys to let me put them in there in the first place. Now, I was being told that I couldn't have them and would need to pick something else. Oh, and would I hurry and do it right now because the plumber would only wait for a few more minutes before leaving?
Right as I was pondering if I had time to brush my teeth, the electrician informed me that the light fixtures [the ones I had made a special trip to purchase last night!] for the boys' closets were the wrong ones and would not pass inspection.
So, in yesterday's ponytail, my paint-stained sweat pant pajamas, and NO BRA, I headed to Lowes. Not really caring at this point what I got, I searched for faucets that would match the holes already drilled. And, tragically, the only ones that matched the other plumbing fixtures in the bathroom were eleventy kajillion billion dollars.
Grumbling under my breath, I grabbed the fixtures.
Next I stampeded my stinky self over to the light section and (with the help of a probably frightened clerk) found what I needed there.
Remembering the electrician's counsel that I should grab some florescent bulbs for them, as well, I added a few of those to my now-precarious stack.
Here is a visual for your viewing pleasure:
Rounding the corner, boobies jiggling and hair flying, I hurried towards the check out stands. As if in some Murphy's Law super slow-mo, the light bulb on top of the stack went careening off like a suicidal maniac and dove for the floor.
Not having any free hands, I watched it fall like a dummy. It landed with a crash, and shards exploded in a five foot radius around me.
Trying to keep the tears from spilling, I gathered the empty light bulb box and headed back to retrieve another.
Because, hello? Not making another effing trip to this effing store looking like this.
Setting the large pile on the counter, I informed the clerk of the breakage and offered to pay for the light bulb I had broken.
I paid and, to my horror, watched as the genius clerk bagged up the empty box of glass shards for me to take home with the others.
Pretty sure I won't be needing that.
The best part of the day? An hour later, the electrician walks up and asks if I have nine 40-watt light bulbs for the chandelier they are replacing in the foyer.
Frick. Frack. Frock.
Somebody please kill me.