Poo hair, and I was sporting a studly little red mustache, from when I applied a moisturizer with alpha-hydroxy acid in it to the area where I’d Nair’d off my mustache. "I can’t believe you let me go out in public like this!" I yelled at Fred. He looked up and looked me over. "Why?" And then I remembered that I was talking to the man who can never tell whether I’m wearing a bra. (Hint: if my boobs are down by my knees, I’m not)(I make myself sound mighty attractive, don’t I?)
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So, the fucking plumber was supposed to show up around 10:30 on Friday. 10:30, 11:30, noon, came and went. I sat and fumed, because I’d planned to take the spud to the good chinese restaurant for their buffet – which they only offer at lunchtime during the week – and I’d WANTED to get there at 11 when they opened, so as to avoid the lunch crush. That did NOT happen, and when the plumber showed up at 12:30, it was all I could do not to kick him in the head. You really don’t want to get between a hungry fat woman and her beloved chinese buffet. The plumber looked, and hemmed and hawed, looked upstairs, looked downstairs, looked at the roofline, and decided it wasn’t the plumbing causing the problem, because the plumbing is contained in the walls, not the ceilings. He told me we needed to have the roofing people who did our roof come out and take a look, preferably that same day, since it was raining like hell. I called Fred at work, dumped the problem in his lap, and hauled the spud to Applebee’s for Oriental Chicken Salads and dessert (Apple Chimicheesecake for me, Hershey’s Pie A La Mode for her). We’d just started eating our desserts when my cellphone rang, and HOLY SHIT was it loud. I turned all shades of red as the Flintstones theme song reverberated throughout the restaurant, causing stares from every corner. It was Fred, checking to see where I was and when I’d be home, because the roofing guy would be on his way, sooner or later. After a quick trip to the post office to check the box (no interesting mail today, sadly), I went home and sat for almost two hours waiting for the roof guy to show up. Luckily, Fred had gotten home in the meantime, so he could deal with the guy. I hate, hate, hate, having to deal with the service guys, because I always feel like a complete idiot. Which I am. But I don’t like FEELING like I am. Anyway, the roof guy came, put up something to stop the leakage for now (and of course it hasn’t rained a single drop since), and this week I’ll get to deal with the claims adjuster (home insurance is a good thing), and someone from the roofing company to give us an estimate. PLUS the dishwasher guy will probably be around sometime this week as well. Joy.* * *
For those of you who don’t read Fred’s journal and don’t know this, he has developed Hepatitis A. One of the symptoms of Hepatits A is that you turn yellow, and he has. Just compare my blinding whiteness with his Simpsons-like yellowness:
To me, he looks an awful lot like he went out and bought some cheap tan-in-a-bottle and slathered it on. Hee!
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Your Tubby love for the day:
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