This was the weekend celebration of our country's 235th birthday. On Saturday I spent time with my family and my over-exerted and worked-to-the-bone husband came home from work early (his choice to go in at all) and stayed home. On Sunday, I woke at an unspeakable hour for a Sunday morning, truly, 6:30 am on a Sunday should be spent snuggled into a pillow, raced to see my brother and his family before they returned home two and a half hours away and my still-recovering husband stayed home and rested. When I returned from my early morning escapades, he was still in bed. The only justification was that it was still before 11 am on his day off. By 1:30 pm we were up and hungry. So, as always when the hubby gets hungry I start strategizing my way out of standing in front of the stove. I offered to get us a not-fast-food-for-once lunch if he promised to help clean the mess he made. It was a deal. So I came home with his Philly cheese steak purchased no where near Philly to find him, what else, laying on the couch pursuing his obsession. He ate, he drank, he claimed a belly ache climbed back onto the couch, snuggled with the puppies (who are no longer puppies) and they all were snoring within three minutes. So, in such situations I advocate loud noises and bright lights for torturous negotiations. In his brief two minutes of lucidity, we agreed, I would let him relax all day BUT we had to work his last day off. So, here I am 11 pm on the Fourth of July, the day off he got gratis because the federal government shuts down, with a mess in the sink - from where who knows because I haven't cooked in three days, three bags of trash ready to be walked to the dumpster, pants on the floor, shoes at the door and dogs snoring on the sofas and the hubby in bed waiting for the fireworks to end so he can walk the dogs; and I am just too DONE to load the dishwasher.
Happy Birthday, America!
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