Rain of Pain

Friday night Harry and I stood under the Sears awning and watched as rain fell from the sky in angry sheets. I looked at him and he looked at me, sizing up the situation.

"Stay here," he said, kicking off his expensive leather sandals and wriggling out of his Lacoste polo (that shrinks in fear when water approaches).

"Stop. I'll go." I sacrifice myself, my hair, my tennis shoes and my mascara to the Gods of Rain and run (funny - I walked brisk) to the car.

Picking him up at the door, he jumps in and I drive like Andretti to get him to Gamestop before they close to pick up the new Lara Croft game.

I scored sooooo many brownie points for THAT one!

Pulling into the garage at home, I emerge from the car a proverbial wet noodle while Harry hops out like a dry, too perky hubby about to get smacked with a wet hooded sweatshirt.

"Two minutes. Just give me TWO minutes and we can go downstairs and play," he says to me as he grabs the new toilet connectors. We had to buy metal ones since the ark could've been built in our basement a few weeks ago due to faulty plastic toilet connectors.

I'm so tired. SOOO tired. And wet. And cranky. Did I mention - tired?

"Just a sec!" He bounces into the bathroom off of the kitchen, connector in hands, and I sit down at the kitchen table.

I'm so tired. I yawn. It's 9:30. I'm old.

WHOOOOOOOOSH!

"Aw - SHIIIIIIIIT!" comes a cry from the bathroom.

So tired. I pick up a towel from the sink in the kitchen and gather five more from the drawer. So tired. I sit in the floor where the water has pooled, on my knees, I begin mopping. So tired.

The water is on the floor, the flowers on the back of the toilet, the mirror and the tippy-top of the eight foot ceiling and is dripping on my head.

So tired.

Harry is cussing the man who built the house, the man who had enough sense to reverse the water knob so that when Harry thought he was turning the water to the commode off - he was really turning it on - full blast. Which promptly hit him in the face and bounced off his head to the ceiling to collect and drip on his tired wife as she scrubbed with Target Collection Kitchen towels the watery mess.

His clothes, the ones that we had so painstakingly kept from the rain, were now soaked with toilet water and were flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

I'm so tired.

And trying like HELL not to laugh at the irony and at the half-naked, hairy, wet man standing in my kitchen, shaking with anger at the exploding toilet.

"Do NOT, under ANY circumstance - Post this in your BLOG!" he bellowed at me as little drops of water formed on his eyebrows.

Brownie points are given, brownie points are taketh away....

:)