So I'm puttering around last night, after dinner and in between laundry loads, when I go into the closet to grab 2 hangers for the air-dry items.
You know that feeling, when you witness a type of upheaval so drastic, it doesn't look real?
The main rack, which held all of our hanger clothes as well as god-knows how many boxes of personal items on top of it, had given up the ghost. Pulled right off the wall and fell. The walk-in closet had ceased its walk-in status once again, only not in hey-maybe-it's-time-to-organize way.
"Um, honey?"
"Mmm...?"
"You didn't by chance hear a loud thud while I was at the store?"
Nah, he slept through it. Thank god the cats weren't in there. Usually we keep it shut, but Fig will slip in there if she gets the chance and has spent more than 1 workday trapped in there, climbing the walls and pooping where she pleases. I go into problem-solving mode and we start pulling out the main boxes, which is a treat (she says sarcastically), because Husby would pull a box out, open it a crack, and begin pawing through stuff, while I stood there saying stuff, like, dude, can't we clear a path and look at stuff in a minute? You don't mess with problem-solving Melanie. He got the hint after a bit and cleared out.
Problem was, we were hoping to still hang stuff because the rack was resting/propped on his cardboard-wrapped Star Wars stuff that he acquired when we worked at the theater (potential future eBay sales). Once I started rehanging stuff though, it tipped precariously. Well, fine. I've become a believer recently in the idea that things happen for a reason. Something's telling me to stop stressing about the dining room because it's not its turn yet. The closet and bedroom will take precedence for now. But man, it's going to be a pain in the ass until we can get the complex in here to replace it. I mean, Husby's stuff is no biggie because in his current employment sitch, it's not like he's wearing his khakis and slacks a whole bunch, but I'm a) a working stiff, and b) a girl, so I need to not wrinkle as much. Grr. Tonight I'll fold up most of our stuff, and find a more accessible home for the ironing board, because the closet that sucker's in at present oughta be studied.
7 days sober. Not normally a big deal, but I did enjoy the company Christmas party at the Marsh Landing Country Club with cranberry juice and club soda, so I'm pleased with myself.
Got my hair cut (me likey! Husby loves me with lots of hair, so he's still grumbling and playing on my insecurities, the little punk) and went through the grueling boredom of a glucose tolerance test first thing Saturday morning. Brought my knitting and a book, but seriously folks, we're talking no caffeine here. When I went for my hormone bloodwork last week, the phlebotomist went up my right arm to find the vein (instead of the usual elbow pit locale), and now I have this ginormous bruise that lost its novelty after oh, day 1. We're talking no short sleeves, so-how-long-has-your-husband-been-beating-you-ma'am? huge. My sad, strange self-abusive side usually enjoys a good bruise, but this sucker ain't turning yellow yet and I'm kind of over it.
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