My husband's day on Friday began at 2:15 a.m. when the alarm went off. This means my day also began at 2:15 a.m. when he hit snooze and rolled over. The alarm went off at 2:16 a.m. and started its oh-so-pleasant escalation in volume, necessitating domestic violence on my part. It was less painful for my husband to turn off the alarm and get up, so he did.
Then he drove out to his construction site for a 4 a.m. concrete pour (and don't call it cement, trust me on that one). This is what it looks like at a construction site at 4 a.m.
You are thinking, "Wow, that is hands-down the most exciting photo I've ever seen on a blog!"
I know. I'm all about the excitement. That's why I am going to ratchet it up a few notches with this:
Oooh aaaah. UPC pipe.
Have I dispelled the myth of the rich, glamorous life of an architect yet?
4 a.m. concrete pours and UPC pipe.
Allegedly this concrete pour was scheduled to accommodate the girls' birthday. (I doubt that's the actual case---although it might honestly have been one factor---but everyone sure had fun saying that's why.)
My husband was unamused to be inspecting concrete, framing and pipes at 4 a.m. However, he was amused at the contractors' attempts to change the f-bomb into a variety of other terms when speaking to him. I can assure you my husband does not have delicate sensibilities; he's intimately acquainted with the f-bomb, although he seems to direct it to computer programs more than anything else, and in that case, in rapid succession.
He can also get very clever with suffixes for it:
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
I was getting ready for Parties 1 and 2 of 3 for the weekend. At Target I got so busy socializing with half the people in the world I know (who also happened to be shopping at the same store at the same time) (and okay so maybe it was just a few people) (and it's not unusual; I often run into people at Target) (those of you who live in smaller towns with limited shopping options know what I mean here) that I left the store without drinks. Or the ingredients for the dish I was supposed to bring to Party 1.
(Insert some of husband's creative cursing here. Preferably the one with the -adoodaday suffix.)
I checked the house for ingredients and promptly switched from "salty" to "sweet." I somehow always happen to have the ingredients for a dessert.
I was very proud of myself for managing my tasks and time so well, aside from the drink situation, which is very easily remedied.
You know what happens when you start feeling comfortable and self-satisfied.
You set your lovely streusel on a silver platter that you just polished (with peppermint toothpaste because you couldn't find the silver polish) (as if) (this is not a Victorian manse, people) (I do not regularly entertain on silver) (we're more of a mismatched plastic kind of family). You answer the front door to let in the babysitter. You walk back in to the kitchen to show the babysitter all the important things (phone, refrigerator). You notice...an empty silver platter surrounded by crumbs. You whip your head to the side when your keen hearing picks up the sound of chops being licked, and see your dog swallowing the last slice of streusel.
This is the face of a very, very, very Bad dog:
I know what you are thinking. You're thinking, "Oh my gosh, but he's so cute! How could a sweet sweet doggie who is that cute do such an awful thing?"
I know what else you are thinking. You are wondering how in the world Julie managed to not drop a creative variety of f-bombs...considering the fact that there were two young impressionable children and a babysitter (whose mother happens to be a teacher at my daughter's school) in the room.
I released it in liquid and vapor form via tears that sprang to my eyes and steam that blew out from my ears.
My wise husband, recognizing f-bomb signs when he sees them, acted quickly and wisely. He ushered the dog out of the room and house (a life-saving measure). And took the children and babysitter into the living room.
Whereupon I indulged in a few f-bombs, preferring the suffixes:
My nice husband further saved the day by (a) sending me upstairs to get ready and (b) getting some food pulled together so we did not arrive at the party empty-handed.
We settled the sitter and kids and walked over to our neighbor's house. On the short walk there I composed myself and mentally rationalized my way out of paragraph B of the Playground Promise.
(Side note: The Playground Promise. My friend/neighbor and I had pledged earlier in the day to (a) stick to wine, (b) limit ourselves to two glasses, (c) go home early. This is because it's her daughter's birthday today too and we both wanted to keep ourselves fresh for Saturday's festivities.)
At the first house, my husband and I immediately felt moved by the Holiday Spirit(s). In fact, I discovered that the Holiday Spirit comes in the form of excellent cranberry vodka.
This is what we look like when moved by the Spirit:
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking wow, those are definitely two people who feel Joy and Cheer.
So much so that we had a really good time, after all. And our day? Ended exactly 24 hours after it began.
Copyright 2007 Julie Pippert
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