Coming Up: A marriage imperiled by heated, gusty issues! Cars imprisoned for flinging pieces! Rooms cycloned out of order and back again while pangs and pains reach physical levels. Wealth and wallets scattered on the road! A mad week awaits our couple at the tipping point of August. Will they possibly survive with hearts, homes, and health intact??
Grab your grown up suit, crank up the a/c, and pack some PB&J, while we commute through this winding torrid tale of crisis and heroism!
DINKs Reunited Matrimonial Madness and Cycling Cyclones (With a Side of Car Crap-outs)
Good News: Mr. (W)right survived his ridiculous bike race. He not only survived, he cyclone-cycled with aplomb. How much aplomb, yes ask? He did twice as many laps as his less-plombing teammate for a total of nearly 5 hours of cycling around and around and around a big hilly mountain bike course. Mr. Aplomb and Mr. NoPlomb started off with one lap apiece. Then Andrew did two while his comrade in bikes did one (coming down with yet another flat tire and losing all kinds of time in the offing every time he set out, from the sound of it). By the end, Andrew got them their oh-so-important "more laps than hours" t-shirts by doing three laps in a row. He's surprisingly intact and chipper, considering the effort.
His car, however... well a while back it had started to make plaintive little squealing noises. The answers afforded by "experts" on the matter were daunting but inconclusive, and finally amounted "well, whatever it is will get a lot worse before you need to raelly worry about it." And on Saturday night, "worse" reached that tipping point. More or less. He lucked out in that nothing horrible happened on the drive home. But he was worried. Turns out the a/c belt is shot and about to go spinning off in a thousand tiny pieces. He could figure this much out from a midnight side of the road engine check.
This presented a conundrum. Andrew's absent car + a wedding forty-five minutes away + another hot summer day = "oh hell no we are not driving in my crappy un-airconditioned kia to Arlington and back!! Just no!" I actually am not feeling great this weekend, and am always prone to heat stroke, so this wasn't strictly intransigence on my part. I just prefer not to throw up with a heaving migraine at some stranger's wedding ceremony.
Which is a problem, because Andrew wanted to go to this wedding. And, it being Andrew's friend, not going to the wedding really wasn't my crotchety misanthropic call to make.
Andrew and I are funny about weddings in different ways. I think they're generally kind of dumb, frivolous, overly stressful, and miss the point of the bigger matrimonial picture. Plus they never have food that I can eat, I don't really like drinking, and it's too much of a bustle to actually interact with the happy couple or even the other guests. Introvert-bane, weddings. They also follow the ritualistic script so doggedly at times, that most of them are painfully interchangeable and fluffed to the point of hollow ritual. In my objective mordant mind, anyways. As such, wedding's are not super appealing to me, and I often skip them if they're the slightest bit inconvenient.
On the other hand, I usually pay attention to a ceremony should I happen to stumble upon one, and am begrudgingly inspired to mist over like Niagra, and feel all loving and hopeful. And, while I was perfectly satisfied to declaim all ambitions of holding "a wedding" when Mr. (W)right and I got married, I did take a pretty strong involvement once we agreed there would be one. More or less case-managing it, delegating appropriately, making most of the pertinent arrangements, and otherwise ensuring that if we were having one, it would be a damned representative, fun, and meaningful one (that maybe turned a net profit after the cash-in-lieu-of-gifts tally was reviewed)
By contrast, Andrew seems pretty ok with being at a wedding. And it was really important to him that we have a wedding. But he's ambivalent beyond that checklist level of detail. Didn't seem to mind that we couldn't hear a darned thing at the ceremony to which we arrived late. Doesn't seem particularly interested in parsing out or relishing the actual little rituals. Rarely all that emotionally hooked by the ceremony itself. But being there, somehow, or having it just matters in a different way for him than for me.
So whatever else, we were going to go to the wedding. And whatever else, it wasn't gonna be in my kia.
The heat was on! Could Andrew's car be cured in time to keep us from being set at our own matrimonial odds?? Actually, no no it's in the shop until at least Tuesday. Fortunately my lovely mom-boss and her favorite boytoy lent us the Mazda, so no exacerbation was necessary.
Some serious rushing was involved, since the car odyssey was inevitably more involved than anticipated. First off, very few places are open on the weekends. Andrew knew this and was more or less ready to try fixing the problem on his own, and then resigned to throwing in the towel (hopefully into the laundry), and trying to get tomorrow off from work. however, I was determined to have this car fixed before the wedding (or at least to preserve any lingering work vacation time for something more fun), and insisted checking out Midas, then Firestone. The first try was a no-go, but Firestone is apparently far more than a tire place and open on weekends.
Andrew drove out there, they checked out the belts and started to get right on it... right until I was about ready to return the loaner Mazda... which jinxed everything. The Harmonic Convergence or some crap like that is out of whack in the old Pathfinder. Needs either a total engine rework or some new little lever that they can get by Tuesday. Andrew thought he might just go ahead and see about the new part. So car remained incarcerated, and Mazda was back on the road...
After a mad rush home to change into wedding-type clothing. I'll say one thing about these little ceremonial events: Andrew looks good in his grown up professional costume. It was novel! I didn't really go full grown up, in my flower skirt and rainbow brite socks, but close enough. And hell, most of the wedding guests were hipsters.
Although a totally different kind of hipster than Bellingham hipsters. I can't describe it, except to say that almost every pick of the wedding guest roster could have been trudged straight from The U-District/Capitol Hill, looking smug and ironic in their obscenely expensive "vintagey second-hand-lite" little frocks and frippery. Even the facial hair had a particular purity that only Seattle could claim.
At any rate, we arrived late, but not too late. Just late enough to stand far back from the actual event (which was nice because the SRO area was in the shade, while the seats were under the sun) with the ill behaved children and other stragglers. Couldn't hear a word of the ceremony and I have no idea what the glass balls were about. But the couple I had never met did manage to get through the ceremonial gauntlet and snog something fierce at the end of it. In the meantime, I was more than entertained by a little child who had strayed from his seating to uproot as much grass and soil as possible. Whatever he unearthed he liberally mounded onto the flowers, his pants, my socks... much to his mother's chagrin.
Anyways, the rest of the post-ceremony was fairly brief on our part. We stuck around scuffling up appetizers and waiting for the bride and groom to emerge. We left shortly after said emergence.
Andrew claims that we ghosted (leaving a party without saying goodbye), but I say otherwise. We approached the groom (his friend, and one of two people he actually knew), and I believe this was understood as both a hello and goodbye. Particularly clear when the groom reached out to shake Andrew's hand (after hugging him hello and exchanging pleasantries) and said "well, thanks for coming. I know you had some other things going on today... so..."
Andrew interpreted this cue differently and went on to start talking about our weekend activities, such as the Tour de France, as a prelude to impending dissection of his car difficulties. We may have kept the groom thoroughly cornered for hours after the official send-off, but a photographer friend of his approached, and we were slowly weaned from the conversation with a photo snap of us with the groom. Just to prove we were there! As we then said a quick goodbye to the only other person either of us knew, I'm pretty sure that does not count as ghosting. And I say this as an expert in the activity.
Today, if all goes well, "we" shall attempt to actually install our air conditioning unit. It should only take some sawing down of the window insert (it's a portable, so we just need a workable vent). We've got a backup vent if things go horribly awry. Knock on wood).
And at work, (a very different first person plural coming in for a landing) we've got all kinds of ridiculousness looming, but I refuse to acknowledge that until awful horrible mediation number one is well underway for Miss Mom-boss. What a way to start your Monday. Hey, maybe they'll resolve something. Like which rooms the parties should sit in so that they never have to see each other. That would be a good workable start!
Happy Monday! May all the dirt at your feet be fecund and frisky.
Vignettes of a Very Strange Monday
Part One
Lest anyone wonder why I am so voraciously dilatory about filling up the gas tank before it hits empty. I'd like to claim it's a deep seeded love for the environment, but no. It's more this:
Yesterday, I took an early lunch to refill the Mazda we (W)rights borrowed from mom-boss and boy-toy with gas. Got to Fred Meyer's and headed towards the gas line. I should have had an easy time getting into the line from the angle I approached, but some teenager sped past and cut me off. Leaving me awkwardly t-boned with the line and my turn signal on. I attempted to merge in behind him as best I could, but as I did, another girl in a brobdingnagian SUV drove up. Refusing to heed my forward inching, she indicated with her car that she would not be letting me merge and then added to the display by gesturing at me to point to the "end of the line."
I attempted rather irrationally to share a pantomime with her expressing that I'd previously been cut off through no wish of my own and I had in fact been there before both her and the teenager. Then I gestured to nobody in particular that I was giving up, I hate gas guzzling culture and the crutch of commuting. This was ridiculous. I stormed off (as much as any one can in a Mazda, which does not sulk well) before realizing I still needed gas and "the principle of the matter" would not fuel a Japanese compact.
So I pulled into the "proper" gas line one or two cars behind SUV girl. Turns out that SUV girl doesn't understand Fred Meyer gas line etiquette (we're shocked given her strict adherence to towing the straight gas line policy). She held up the line despite three available fill-up spots, because she wanted a pump on the driver's hand side. Didn't let anyone pass her. Didn't respond to the gas attendant's gestures indicating that the gas hoses could go on either side of the car... grumble.
Eventually, her coveted spot opened up and five million cars finally reached gas islands to commence with guzzling. I was ... annoyed... apparently enough so that I allowed myself to leave my wallet on top of the car as I spun out (before SUV-girl had finished filling up, thus inspiring me to grumble a bit more about the apparent urgency of her having gotten in front of me).
Shortly after entering traffic, I realized I was a wallet lighter than I had been about five minutes before. Praying to all applicable Saints, god and traffic signals, I gingerly pulled over to the nearest parking lot with the faint and plaintive hope that it was still atop the car.
It was not.
Dodging terrible traffic and a hormonal influx of the weepies, I returned to the gas station. Nothing in sight, and nobody at any relevant customer service areas had seen anything (there were three to check with). Each referred me to each other and wished me luck.
Because the fates like to tease but rarely go for the throat when it comes to their favorite pesky little sister, I lucked out and espied a little dash of blue and polka dot debris in the middle of the Lakeway intersection. Risked life and limb dashing out to grab it like a ball girl at Wimbledon, but I have my wallet back and all my limbs are still intact. The wallet's a bit flatter than before. The zipper may be broken. And I think some gift cards were lost. But I have my wallet. And I managed not to kill myself retrieving it. So, really all's well that end's well, but getting gas just seems to have that potential to turn into ADVENTURE in a way that maybe I don't budget for in my schedule quite often enough.
Dodging terrible traffic and a hormonal influx of the weepies, I returned to the gas station. Nothing in sight, and nobody at any relevant customer service areas had seen anything (there were three to check with). Each referred me to each other and wished me luck.
Because the fates like to tease but rarely go for the throat when it comes to their favorite pesky little sister, I lucked out and espied a little dash of blue and polka dot debris in the middle of the Lakeway intersection. Risked life and limb dashing out to grab it like a ball girl at Wimbledon, but I have my wallet back and all my limbs are still intact. The wallet's a bit flatter than before. The zipper may be broken. And I think some gift cards were lost. But I have my wallet. And I managed not to kill myself retrieving it. So, really all's well that end's well, but getting gas just seems to have that potential to turn into ADVENTURE in a way that maybe I don't budget for in my schedule quite often enough.
Part Two
The Ironic Air Conditioner and The Photo of Connubial Disharmonic Convergence
Last night, we upgraded our art installation, CLIMES, (a statement on the artificiality of modern life in the form of an inutile air conditioning unit) into a thoroughly post-modern functional performance piece. That's right: we got ourselves a hipster air conditioning unit! Ok, not really. Really, Andrew Wright set up our a/c. Which was GLORIOUS. Oh my god, I can't tell you how glorious it was to be able not to fall asleep in a wind-baked airplane hangar resonating with street sounds and slooshed-around twice baked refried air.
But, it was a little less ideal to wake up at midnight in a room pushing 84 degrees. I was a tad... surprised, but it was the middle of the night and Andrew was still blissfully slumbering away dreaming presumably of Tahiti. I thought maybe "sleep mode" (which turns down the volume and slowly lets the temperature go up a few degrees) was the culprit. So I turned our a/c back to full power, realized I was already getting nauseous in that room, and went to curl up on the couch in the study. At about one a.m., I was actually getting pretty cold from the evening breeze coming in through the window. I figured surely the a/c would have improved the condition by then, and checked back in.
Sure enough, there had been a change: it was now 89 degrees in the bedroom. I felt for the air, which was still cool. And I gave up. Ironic a/c for the win! Still uncertain about my evening's sleep, I turned off the a/c, turned up the ceiling fan, and reopened one of the windows. I grabbed a man's work shirt from the ground and went back to the study to curl up underneath a hoodie that Andrew had left on the sofa. By two am., I decided my options of shivering to death versus boiling to death might be shifted, and returned to a room that had deescalated back to breathable.
This morning, I determined to figure out what on earth had prompted such early betrayal from an a/c unit we'd barely had time to alienate! Turns out, actually, it was quite simple! The hose had fallen out of the window and was spewing hot air into the room instead of out of the room.
I was quite tickled with my discovery (once again relieved that the fates were bullies, but ultimately held their punches), and tried excitedly to explain this to a very sleepy Andrew. He initially had no idea what I was talking about. The man could sleep on the surface of the sun apparently (though his exhaustion after this weekend probably didn't hurt the incalescent torpor of his evening slumber). I showed him the photo I had - of course - taken, to explain the evening's turn of events. Perhaps I should have waited on that.
Now, a word about the (W)right's communication styles. Or twenty. Or a paragraph. First off, mornings are not a good time for Adella's whimsy and frolic to mix with Andrew's... anything. Regardless of how jovial I think I'm being, he finds any display morning energy threatening, and will withdraw or prepare for battle. I know this, but I also get frustrated when people aren't getting what I'm trying to communicate so sometimes it goes poorly as I try to get him to get it and he tries to hide under the bed in tears. Second off, um... I nuance the crap out of everything I say. The boyfrianceband keeps much shorter memory storage available for interpersonal information (there's a lot of math/bike/engineering stuff up there hogging up room after all), and therefore condenses (read de-nuances) statements, and then fills in remaining blanks with sometimes surprising assumptions.
For instance, I took a photo that heavily featured ridiculously bright sox and a chipper regalement of the agonies of our overheating air conditioning = "Adella is mad that the a/c unit YOU installed isn't working." (I reassured him that he'd know if I were mad, because I'd kick him in the face with the same socks, and post a photo of that with the caption #sockwars casualties).
For another instance, my repeated comments of "I am so looking forward to an air conditioner so that I can breathe but don't have to have all the window open" and "we can move the room around, because it seems like you're in a really weird position next to both big windows"... All of that was ponderously prolix. It had been abbreviated to: _"I LOVE an algid, gusty room. The only reason I'm not next to both big windows with them open all year 'round, is because I need to have my nightstand next to me. Also, the a/c sux and it's your fault."
Or something like that.
I think we sorted things out. My belief is that most of this is repeatedly rendered moot, because the air conditioning unit will work once we break out the duct tape and get the vent back in. But as an additional takeaway, I've been willing to try to move the room around and have even suggested it twice in the last month. So, we may try to move the room around. And - for the next ten seconds at least - Andrew now knows (to his great shock and surprise) that I don't like having all the windows next to our heads open, nor do I like the room at subzero temperatures. I record this here for future reference when he forgets this again and that damned night table becomes a symbol for everything wrong with our marriage.
But anyways, it was an odd day yesterday. I'm not super well-slept, but continue to feel overwhelmingly relieved that my misfortunes have remained just defanged enough to strike me with hilarity.
And in the meantime, it's got me wondering what Adella's "mad socks" might look like. Maybe the ones that say BOOM and POW all over them!
Last night, we upgraded our art installation, CLIMES, (a statement on the artificiality of modern life in the form of an inutile air conditioning unit) into a thoroughly post-modern functional performance piece. That's right: we got ourselves a hipster air conditioning unit! Ok, not really. Really, Andrew Wright set up our a/c. Which was GLORIOUS. Oh my god, I can't tell you how glorious it was to be able not to fall asleep in a wind-baked airplane hangar resonating with street sounds and slooshed-around twice baked refried air.
But, it was a little less ideal to wake up at midnight in a room pushing 84 degrees. I was a tad... surprised, but it was the middle of the night and Andrew was still blissfully slumbering away dreaming presumably of Tahiti. I thought maybe "sleep mode" (which turns down the volume and slowly lets the temperature go up a few degrees) was the culprit. So I turned our a/c back to full power, realized I was already getting nauseous in that room, and went to curl up on the couch in the study. At about one a.m., I was actually getting pretty cold from the evening breeze coming in through the window. I figured surely the a/c would have improved the condition by then, and checked back in.
Sure enough, there had been a change: it was now 89 degrees in the bedroom. I felt for the air, which was still cool. And I gave up. Ironic a/c for the win! Still uncertain about my evening's sleep, I turned off the a/c, turned up the ceiling fan, and reopened one of the windows. I grabbed a man's work shirt from the ground and went back to the study to curl up underneath a hoodie that Andrew had left on the sofa. By two am., I decided my options of shivering to death versus boiling to death might be shifted, and returned to a room that had deescalated back to breathable.
This morning, I determined to figure out what on earth had prompted such early betrayal from an a/c unit we'd barely had time to alienate! Turns out, actually, it was quite simple! The hose had fallen out of the window and was spewing hot air into the room instead of out of the room.
I was quite tickled with my discovery (once again relieved that the fates were bullies, but ultimately held their punches), and tried excitedly to explain this to a very sleepy Andrew. He initially had no idea what I was talking about. The man could sleep on the surface of the sun apparently (though his exhaustion after this weekend probably didn't hurt the incalescent torpor of his evening slumber). I showed him the photo I had - of course - taken, to explain the evening's turn of events. Perhaps I should have waited on that.
Now, a word about the (W)right's communication styles. Or twenty. Or a paragraph. First off, mornings are not a good time for Adella's whimsy and frolic to mix with Andrew's... anything. Regardless of how jovial I think I'm being, he finds any display morning energy threatening, and will withdraw or prepare for battle. I know this, but I also get frustrated when people aren't getting what I'm trying to communicate so sometimes it goes poorly as I try to get him to get it and he tries to hide under the bed in tears. Second off, um... I nuance the crap out of everything I say. The boyfrianceband keeps much shorter memory storage available for interpersonal information (there's a lot of math/bike/engineering stuff up there hogging up room after all), and therefore condenses (read de-nuances) statements, and then fills in remaining blanks with sometimes surprising assumptions.
For instance, I took a photo that heavily featured ridiculously bright sox and a chipper regalement of the agonies of our overheating air conditioning = "Adella is mad that the a/c unit YOU installed isn't working." (I reassured him that he'd know if I were mad, because I'd kick him in the face with the same socks, and post a photo of that with the caption #sockwars casualties).
For another instance, my repeated comments of "I am so looking forward to an air conditioner so that I can breathe but don't have to have all the window open" and "we can move the room around, because it seems like you're in a really weird position next to both big windows"... All of that was ponderously prolix. It had been abbreviated to: _"I LOVE an algid, gusty room. The only reason I'm not next to both big windows with them open all year 'round, is because I need to have my nightstand next to me. Also, the a/c sux and it's your fault."
Or something like that.
I think we sorted things out. My belief is that most of this is repeatedly rendered moot, because the air conditioning unit will work once we break out the duct tape and get the vent back in. But as an additional takeaway, I've been willing to try to move the room around and have even suggested it twice in the last month. So, we may try to move the room around. And - for the next ten seconds at least - Andrew now knows (to his great shock and surprise) that I don't like having all the windows next to our heads open, nor do I like the room at subzero temperatures. I record this here for future reference when he forgets this again and that damned night table becomes a symbol for everything wrong with our marriage.
But anyways, it was an odd day yesterday. I'm not super well-slept, but continue to feel overwhelmingly relieved that my misfortunes have remained just defanged enough to strike me with hilarity.
And in the meantime, it's got me wondering what Adella's "mad socks" might look like. Maybe the ones that say BOOM and POW all over them!
From Marriage-Mangler to Photo-Finish: Connubial climate control communications come to a creative climax.
Climes has sold out! It's a straight up, fully sincere (heavily duct taped - oh my I'm so handy!) air conditioning unit! And the crowd went wild... whooooooo.
Of course the dust had yet to settle from the prior morning's negotiations. Naturally we had to begin with a brief foray into air conditioning schedules and plans. Do we keep it off and the windows open during the day? Do we keep the windows closed and let it turn on automatically at some point in the evening so "one of us" (ahem, Adella) doesn't have to worry about getting home in time to start the a/c etc. etc.
But this aside, some issues had perhaps crystallized from the mishaps of our air conditioner's artsier ironic phase. First, Andrew hates sleeping with his head surrounded by windows and resents my nightstand for torturing him this last month (I paraphrase). Second, Adella's not a huge fan of sleeping near the windows either and she doesn't actually like the room to be a cacophonous gaelstorm.
After a phase of incredulous "but I thought!" and "I had no idea!" comments that belie several prior inferences on both of our parts, we moved to the next step. Relationship summits. Because "one of us" is a mediator/family law attorney. No, really, the takeaway was that there probably was a better solution if we parsed our mutual preferences, tolerances and aversions. Shockingly once the chimerically intransigent night table was taken out of the mythical equation, there were better options! We discovered one (and several mislaid socks, gum wrappers, USC 1971 alumni buttons, The Lindbergh Baby... etc.)
So far, so good. Advantages that I can list so far include: (1) the fact that both of us may now sit up in bed against the wall, (2) the fact that Andrew now has a light near his side of the bed, so I don't have to wake up from half-doze and turn off my bedside light when he comes up about ten minutes after I've gone upstairs, (3) the fact that Andrew's head is no longer sandwiched between two loud and gusty windows, lest they be open, (4) the fact that I am now closer to the door, the air conditioner, and (eventually relevant) the heater vent (because Andrew can sleep in 90 degree weather during summer, but turn the heat on halfway in December and he'll be fleeing the room naked in search of an ice bath!). These all seem to fit our mutual goals and preferences quite nicely. We'll see.
I was, of course, so excited at the new set up that I was thoroughly unable to sleep in our now (theoretically) sleep conducive set-up. In celebration of such dazzling partnership and a thoroughly rousing game of room Tetris, I managed to tweak a previously tweaked pectoral muscle that has been giving me all kinds of hypochondria (totally explainable chest pains = ok, death? Ibuprofen? Should I be hooking myself up to a car battery with some medical paddles like in histrionic medical shows?) and irritating compensatory back pains. The fact that it makes it slightly uncomfortable to either lay on my side or breathe didn't lend itself particularly well to any slumber of ages.
As such, I woke up at 4:10 a.m. and - as one is wont to do at such wee hours - started making sandwiches! Hundreds and hundreds of sandwiches all around! Perhaps only 6 or 7. What can I say, I was hungry...
Ok, not really. I sometimes pre-make all Andrew's PB&J's to freeze in advance. Usually, only if I'm going to be gone or super busy, but there are special circumstances at play. Last week I stumbled upon some not-quite-anymore-freshly baked bread. It looked great and was on a good sale, so I couldn't resist. Being bakery bread, it is both spare on preservatives (meaning that it either needs to be frozen or eaten rapidly lest the staleness overtake it), and unsliced. I know people are always ragging on that "greatest thing since sliced bread" comparison, but seriously, sliced bread is friggin' amazing. Amazingly convenient anyways.
I don't care how great my knife. How studied my technique. How expert my hand. Whittling bakery bread into sandwich sized slices inevitably results in 1/2- 3/4 of the loaf fluffing off into bready sediment. It's messy. It's time consuming. It ain't purdy. And it's enough of an extra task, that I just prefer to get it all over with at once. I had one loaf that I'd already sanded into sandwiches, but another remained in the cupboard slowly evolving towards its future destiny as moldy cardboard. But no more, I say. Now, the entire two loafs of bakery bread are slathered in PB and homemade chia jam, bricked into funny looking blocks, tagged, bagged, and on ice awaiting the autopsy!
I didn't just stop at sandwiches. I threw chickpeas in the slow cooker. I re-inventoried the pantry. I set up the dishwasher. I ran upstairs to realize that I'd set the alarm incorrectly after the move. I apologetically roused the slumbering beast with offerings of coffee. And eventually I did the usual lunch and breakfast preparations. I basically got in a good half day before my wake up time, and will at least be well set up for my eventual (and likely epic) crash!
But, the a/c worked out! I left it on 74 in hopes of not totally tanking our magnificent energy efficiency. And midway through the night, I switched it to fan and re-opened a window, which brought the temperature down to 70 for the rest of the night. I still optimally prefer about 67, but my acceptable temperature band is pretty much 64-74. And it was nice not to go to bed broiling and wake up shivering, or to hear every single engine backfiring on the road outside. And not to have our faces just at eye level with the light seeping in from our Canadian smuggler's fifty garage lights. All in all, I am pleased. And manic. Because sleep deprivation will do that to a gal!
Oh and as an added bonus, Andrew's car came home. Most likely upon hearing about the new room and all those nummy sandwiches waiting for him at home!
Hope your day is awesome... more awesome than sliced bread even!
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