soap...and beyond...

So I had arrived at our country casa, from my Grammy Nanny job, late yesterday afternoon. I’d gone to TLC’s house Monday morn and spent two nights with My Three Gals. Fun times. Okay. Okay. Some not so fun. Let’s be real: New babies are miracles. FABULOUS. Marvelous. Yummy. Sweet. CUTE CUTE CUTE. (Baby Elle is NO exception!) But they cry. Lots of them get days and nights confused. So they keep their Mamas and Dads up all night long. Princess Baby Elle is currently in Sleeping Confusion Mode. TLC is (happily) EXHAUSTED. It makes me sad. It's difficult to do much to help change this, of course. TLC's nursing. There you go. No one else has that power.

When I get home from 2-4 nights at this part-time job (or any trip away, actually), I am (albeit pleasantly) pooped. (I sometimes must remind TLC I ain’t a Spring Chicken.) My Sweet Hubby (MSH) always meets me in our garage (I've texted him from our gate that I'm home!) and helps me unload my car/bags/paraphenalia. Buddy Bear has to sniff me. He smells Henry on my clothes. It drives him a teensy bit nuts. He means well. Once inside, I rarely unpack. I’ve confessed to Y’all, I believe, in the past, that I’m quite awful about this. Lazy. To be blunt. It can take me up to three days to unpack my bags. MSH has his bag(s) unpacked within minutes of walking into our home from any kind of trip. Viva la Difference. Or WHATEVER. He learned a long time ago to ignore this particular shortcoming of mine.  If he complains? Well, that's not a good idea. Those bags might stay on our bedroom floor for an additional three more days.

I rarely sleep well my first night back. Since I’ve watched virtually no television while I’m at TLC’s, I like to catch up on my recorded shows. Which causes me to fall asleep on our couch. Every. Single. Time. It’s what I do. Especially when I swear to MSH I'm NOT going to. He gave up fighting this behavior of mine many moons ago.

This morning, I had an early haircut in town with Kit and he was going to be waiting on a technician to give our air conditioner a checkup. I was mostly ready to head out the door when I heard a crash in our shower. We have two mirrors in said shower. One is for MSH to shave his sweet face. One is for moi—to shave under my arms. At this point, I’d like to apologize for perhaps TOO MUCH INFORMATION and ask you to allow me to share a semi-short explanation:

I had a modified radical mastectomy of my left breast twenty-two (22! Yippee!) years ago. My surgeons (breast and cosmetic) scooped out lots of stuff from my body. Causing me to have a weird left armpit situation. And because they took all of my lymph nodes (or hoped they got all of them), I was advised to do everything in my power not to cut my left arm or any body part near it. I became so worried about shaving under my arms, I got my own shower mirror. (I’m at least seven inches shorter than MSH—so using the same one? I’d have to stand on my tippy-toes. Not a good idea in a shower. At least not for this clumsy person. My only broken bone was my right wrist. Seven years ago. Fell in our shower.) I’m quite proud to tell Y’all I’ve never cut said left arm. Not once. (And now I wish I hadn't typed that.)

Back to this morning:

ELC: What was that noise? Are you okay?

MSH: I’m fine. It was your mirror.

ELC: Is it broken?

MSH: No. Not the mirror. I might have to try to glue it back in—but I think it’s okay. If it’s not, we can get another one at Soap & Beyond.

(My brain: Soap & Beyond? Soap & Beyond. Hmmm…Oh. Got it.)

ELC: You mean Bed, Bath & Beyond.

MSH: I do?

Sigh. I love this Silly, cRaZy man. He cracks me up. Hourly. Sometimes minute-ly.

Hope Y’all have had a Terrific Thursday—wherever in the World you are!

(Don’t break a mirror and don’t cut yourselves, please…)

smooch...