Triple Shot.

I don’t know about you, but I believe the Universe works in mysterious ways.  It can bring two people together.  It can gently remind us things aren’t the way they should be.  And then, there is the big old slap in the face.

I don’t really do subtle, so this is usually the form that the Universe takes when speaking to me.

Monday, I texted Dave and asked him {again} to help me figure out the espresso machine.  It isn’t that I am an idiot really, but you all know I am spoiled, the Davester usually makes it for me.  Plus, he doesn’t like it when I break his stuff.  He called me and walked me through grinding the beans with his fancy pants grinder and making a double shot.  I whipped up a cup of hot cocoa {extra marshmallows} for Finnegan and an afternoon vanilla mocha for myself and then, I posted this on Twitter:

Yesterday, I hit my afternoon slump and decided that it was a triple shot kind of day.  I started whipping it up, the smugness permeating the vanilla latte.  Oh yeah.  I don’t need your help any more, Sucka.

Everything was coming up Millhouse. 

Until I tried to remove the thingy with the espresso powder in it.  {That, I think, is the technical term?}  It was stuck.

Shoot.  Do I call Dave? 

No way.

I push it, at which point the thing EXPLODES with a bang, shooting the still hot espresso powder everywhere.  It was on the floor, on the counter, on the tops of drawers, all over the machine, all over me.  It blew the metal basket holding the powder straight across the room and the plastic grate with it.  Finn came running from the other room when he heard the boom. 

Someone {Jess} really should have told me that Twitter has a direct line to the Universe, I might not have signed up for this.

Apparently, Dave says, you need to wait five minutes for the pressure to subside and/or release the top thingy {also the technical term} so the pressurized steam can escape and NOT blow all over the kitchen. 

Which is WHY, Michelle, it was ‘stuck’ and not opening.

Thanks, Universe, I’ve got that now.  Loud and freaking clear.

And just to drive home the message a teeny bit more…  I cleaned off the counters of the insane amount of espresso powder {so VERY much powder everywhere} and bent down to clean it off the floor when riiiiiiip, a hole right in the butt of my beloved monkey pajamas.  Ok, ok, they are 10 years old and the flannel is so worn it is almost see through, but REALLY Universe?  Really?  The monkey pajamas?

I was going to take a picture of my butt, but Finn {rightly} said, “Mom, no one needs to see that.”

Drinking that triple shot of karma right now, Universe.  Thanks.  Thanks a freaking lot.

If you want to see what I say to piss the Universe off next, follow me on twitter  @SoWondSoMarv

Dishwasher.

Dave is the worst dishwasher loader in the entire world.  It’s like he failed spatial reasoning in the class of life.  FAILED.

Or something.

But, we fight about it all the time because there are very few things I am OCD about and the dishwasher is definitely one of them.  I have been known to unload an entire dishwasher full of dishes and re-load it.

You know… the RIGHT way.

I’ll pass by an overflowing stack of {mostly junk} mail.  I’ll leave the clean dishes in the dishwasher until Dave puts them away.  Laundry can sit in a basket until I wear it again.  I’ll let Finn get out every toy known to man and have a living room full of Spiderman guys rodeo riding on Thomas the Train. 

It’s like I don’t even see that stuff. 

Just show me a dishwasher improperly loaded though?  Sends me over the edge.

You can also add that I fold my underwear and have them lined up in the drawer like a VS store. Also, every hanger in every closet must be facing the same direction yes, but they also have to be the same TYPE of hanger.  Oh, AND one last thing, I hate sleeping with a top sheet and Dave used to be the exact opposite, he had to sleep with a top sheet, but I have sort of converted him to the ways of only the duvet.

So tell me this… what are you OCD about?  And are you a top sheet user or ‘just a duvet’ person? 

Tweet, Tweet.

Alas, I am a Twit{terer}, peeps.  I considered calling this post, Caved. 

So, what do I think?  It’s more fun than I had anticipated, but less fun than Pinterest.

I need tips.  And friends.  Who are your favorites to follow? 

@SoWondSoMarv

How was your weekend?

Um, Something.

It’s gotten to the point that when I say things like, “I want to have a party for the winter solstice and paint the living room and adopt ten puppies, all this weekend,” Dave doesn’t even bat an eyelash. 

He just sighs and tells me no.  

To which I respond to most every {stupid} thing he says for the rest of the day with a “your face,” alternated occasionally with a “your butt.”  Then, I think of the most compromising positions his parents could be in at the time and then remind him of that.  I may very well be the best wife in the entire world.

I also wear monkey pajamas all day.  He has broken me of wearing them in public, which is good because we saw a grown ass man wearing Cookie Monster pajama pants at the store the other day and dude looked a little cray. 

I’m not going to lie, Dave IS lucky to have me.  My only talent is creating cute babies.  {After millions of fertility treatments and a little stint where I almost died and he wouldn’t leave me alone for months, but we can leave that part out.}  I don’t clean, make fun of him on the internet, I barely remember to pick the four year old up from preschool, and I don’t even bring home the bacon.

Well, I mean I DO work.  Really though… is it work if you’re paid to hang out on the internet with you people? I mean it’s like the equivalent of all your moms chipping in to pay me to be friends with you.  It isn’t even that you aren’t pretty or popular or that you don’t put out, because we all know you do.  It’s not like your moms need to pay me.  I would totally be friends with you for free, but don’t tell your moms that because I need to keep these toes pedicured except of course, for the month of January. 

I just now remembered why I started this post.

I’m taking the rest of the week off from the blog.  I’m up to my eyeballs in a project that isn’t funded by your mom, but is funded by someone else and well, they probably want me to get finished up.  Plus, I’m planning two parties right now.  Two.  And three, possibly four more in the next six months.  Dave is really happy with me, he might even let me adopt ten puppies.  I also have to corral this baby who is now getting into everything and stop the four year old from wrestling with her.  I will still be on Facebook this week {I totally wrote wee instead of week there and then laughed my ass off at the thought of wee, I might be twelve years old} discussing my insane Pinterest addiction {ok, so I’ll be on Pinterest too, I can’t quit you Pinterest} and linking to things like how to clean your Dyson and begging for shampoo suggestions.  Next up is getting you to spill all your beauty secrets because, you’re pretty. 

Yesterday was National Compliment Day which you would know if you were on Facebook hanging out with me.

Hey Dave...  your face.

Brunch.

Pumpkin waffles, unbelievable blueberry muffins courtesy of my friend Steph, two bottles of champagne, three carafes of coffee, egg pie {made with bacon rather than sausage} and lots of breakfast meat.  That’s what she said.

We had friends for brunch last weekend and it was perfect.  No one minded that it took us forty five minutes to make waffles.  There is something to be said for easy friendships and cranberry juice mimosas.  The laughter was plentiful and bellies were full.

 

 

 

I’m making a new rule that mimosas and great friends are mandatory on Sunday.