I'll set the scene: I was having an awful day. I had a late start in the morning because I was stuck late at work the night before and I knew I wouldn't be getting home until late tonight. I was stressing out about this weekend being Easter and how I had to disappoint my family because there was no way I could make it home to see them and still remain a reasonably sane person. I was thinking about the health insurance paperwork I have to fill out, the taxes I need to file, the publication I need to work on, the knitting designs I want to make, the permanent job I need to find, the overall lack of funds in our near future, the utility companies I need to call, and OH YEAH WE'RE MOVING IN TEN DAYS so there's a ton of packing to be done which we haven't even begun to think about. I had spent much of the 75 minute commute home in a nice, stress-relieving state of openly weeping (during which time I also got scolded by a traffic cop who couldn't understand how repeatedly waving her flashlight towards the road might make me think I was supposed to go there, instead of not go there) and I was really just looking forward to getting a nice big hug after what felt like an endless day.
I pulled up to find my dear Fiasco eagerly awaiting my arrival-- shivering over the grill on our porch. He had accidentally locked himself out of our apartment while making dinner and was stuck outside for nearly an hour before I got home. The whole place smells like burning marshmallows because he had sweet potatoes roasting in the oven for so long they turned into blackened wedges of ick. I walked in, face still wet with tears, and then laughed my friggin' ass off while he hopped around trying to get warm.
|Too bad Calypso hasn't learned to open sliding glass doors yet, right?|