To do list: 1, Sarah: 0.
Round two tomorrow.
To do list: 1, Sarah: 0.
To do list: 1, Sarah: 0.
Round two tomorrow.
There was no food to eat in the house tonight, so I was forced to have an ice cream sandwich and a Simply Limeaid margarita (double, don’t judge) for dinner. I drank the margarita out of an oversized mason jar. I chased my dinner with a sleeve of semi-stale overly-crumbly off-brand while wheat crackers. I’d tell you to feel sorry for me, but the truth is, I am still just out of whack from Christmas + vacation + home buying. And I think it is a general Internet rule that you are not allowed to complain about life disruptions that occur as a result of something awesome like a vacation.
Right? That’s totally a rule?
Anyway, tomorrow I’m'a get all domestical up in this joint. I must restore order to my life. Also, I must survey the current status of The Things We Own because it’s looking more and more like we are T-minus 1 month to moving, and that means this month I am going to show the bulk-trash pick-up guys a pile the likes of which they haven’t seen since the last natural disaster, ya heard!?
Watch out to-do list. I’m coming for you.
Zack and I have embarked on one of the quintessential journeys of adulthood. Today we made an offer on a house. We’ve both wanted to be home owners for some time, but we have patiently (okay, he was patient, I was impatient) waited until I was out of school and we both had jobs and it was a smart financial decision and BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Here is my reaction to making an offer on a house: SQUEEEEE! <Bouncing, some clapping.>
Here is Zack’s reaction: <Smile>, <reach for the iPad to immediately continue to do hours and hours of home loan research>.
You can expect many more home posts to be in your near future. For now, I will sleep, and desperately hope that this churning upset stomach that I have is a.) unrelated to telling someone that we wanted to give them all of our money and b.) gone before I have to go to work tomorrow. Working a 12-hour shift with a churning stomach would not be a fun time.
Zack: <Gets in the shower after I’ve already been in there long enough to wash my hair.> That water is hot.
Sarah: No it’s not. It’s exactly how hot it was yesterday.
Zack: <Washes his face.> No, seriously, that water is face-scaldingly hot.
Sarah: The exact same temperature as yesterday.
Zack: No it’s not.
Sarah: Uh, Zack, I think I would know.
Zack: So hot.
Sarah: I’m getting out of the shower now, so you can adjust the water temperature however you’d like.
Zack: You’re abandoning me?
Sarah: I only have so long to get ready. I’ve gotta go.
Zack: <adjusts the water.> You can’t say the water wasn’t too hot when the cold water was completely off.
Sarah: I take a shower with only the hot water on every single morning.
Zack: No you don’t.
Sarah: <Sings, to the tune of “Every Morning” by Sugar Ray> “Every morning when I wake up I take a shower with only the hot water on…”
Zack: … No. On so many levels. No.
I think this bottom one is my all-time favorite. Her expression is just priceless. She was only a month or two old there, and she was just starting to smile. I had just finished a baby photos shoot with her, and I still had my camera out when she started grinning at me. She was too close to my face for me to look through the viewfinder, so I just held the camera above my head and hoped that I got the shot. It’s fuzzy, and her chin is missing, but her expression makes up for the picture’s faults. That child melts my heart.
Words that I heard today: “Um, Sarah? There’s poop dripping on the floor.”
Those words came from one of the 8 nursing students I had in my room at that particular moment, all of whom were accompanied by my nursing school clinical instructor. The student used her keen assessment skills to notice that my fecal collection bag was SO FULL of poop and gas (fart-in-a-bag, delicious, right?) that it was rupturing. RUPTURING. It’s always fun when the person who trained you how to be a nurse is in the room when something awesome (and completely avoidable, if you’re, you know, paying attention) happens. That’s a sure-fire way to impress a former instructor and a group of nursing students. Fumble some POOP. Super, super smooth.
Luckily, I managed the situation with some quick delegation (Ex: UUUUUHHHH, YOU**! GET ME THE BUCKET OUT OF THE BATHROOM!) and the swift aid of my instructor, who, thank God, happened to already have some gloves on. Sure there was some splashing involved, but luckily for me, I happened to be in the middle of bath time when the whole crowd of students rolled into my room, so there were towels everywhere. And, I’ll have you know, I used those towels preemptively. Not reactively. BOOYAH. NURSED!!!
*Almost every day has a new poop story. Almost every single day. Such is my life.
**In CPR training, they teach you that you should specifically choose one person to call 9-1-1. You shouldn’t just yell, “SOMEONE CALL 9-1-1!” because everyone will think someone else is doing it. Be specific, they tell you. As it turns out, emergency poop situations require a similar delegation technique. When there are 10 people in a room with an exploding poop bag, you have to pick a person to go get the poop bucket. You can’t just be yelling out for “someone” to go get the poop bucket. You have to be specific. Thank you, 9-1-1 training, for preparing me for these emergency moments.
I had such a strong craving for an ice cream sandwich over the weekend that I made a special trip to the store just to buy one (OK, fine, A FEW).
And that, in a sentence, is why I shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact that I started my period today.
Don’t fret, though. I called Zack and apologized for my behavior this week as soon as I figured it out. I should seriously put calendar alerts into my phone or something.
It never fails that the day after you tell someone how great things are going, that’s the day that blows up in your face.
Zack and I had dinner with some friends last night, and I told them about how well nursing was going. I was starting to get a handle on my time management, I told them. I was starting to feel a wee bit comfortable.
Words of death.
Luckily, my husband is smarter than I am. He must have taken note that I was mindlessly declaring my awesomeness at dinner last night. Because tonight, when I came home from work totally ragged — having not eaten anything more than a granola bar since my alarm went off at 5:10, having run my ass off all day long, never sitting down, never catching a break — he had dinner ready and waiting for me. And he had the margaritas pre-blended. And then, when I thought it couldn’t get any better, he turned on Crazy, Stupid, Love, which he rented just for me.
I’m so glad he’s smarter than me.