If you live in Utah, get your Sudafed at a Costco. They can sell you four boxes for four bucks. This, sadly, was the high point of my day. Jeremy seems to have passed on his cold to ALL OF US, and while he's gallivanting around frozen Quebec, we're here all trying not to kill each other. All things considered, though, the girls have been fantastic.
I'm just tired from all the various illnesses. It's been three weeks of us passing various microorganisms around, and I feel like something furry died in my face. I'm a wuss, and I (usually) never get sick. Coping has been an ordeal.
My friend brought over a workout DVD on Monday. We did the 30-minute workout. It didn't feel that difficult. Then I did my core training workout yesterday. I was sore from Monday, but wanted to do something.
Yeah, I can barely walk today. Everything from my ribcage down feels like a giant internal bruise. It's a good pain (and somehow I'm suddenly at the lowest weight I've been since right after I had Emmy), but it sure puts a damper on the taking-care-of-small-children-alone thing.
She's coming over again tonight to work out. This ought to be interesting.
When Jeremy came home from the Philippines in November, I helped him unpack. Well, actually, he unpacked halfway, gave up, and I got so annoyed with his stuff lying around that I just did the rest myself. He would've gotten around to it eventually, but there's something about unpacked stuff that drives me 'round the bend.
Then I Very Logical Placed half of it and completely forgot about the whole thing.
Monday morning, he got up at 4:30 to get ready to leave. He shook me from dead sleep around 5:30 or 6. "Hon. Hon. Hon. It's important. Hon. Wake up. Hon..." and so on, for probably ten minutes. I don't know. I was asleep. It might have been only ten seconds, but I doubt that, knowing me. I do remember the note of panic and agitation in his voice. I finally sat up, all, "What? The murglebats haven't gone to bed yet. I need ten more minutes," ready to scratch his eyes out if I'd had the energy. Slowly, as if he were speaking to a two-year-old: "HON. Do you know where my passport is?" Me: "Um. Um. It's in the... the thing in the pocket of the thing, the, uh, the.... overnight bag."
He scurried off to go look and came back empty-handed. So I dragged my rear out of bed and helped him look. We scoured the entire apartment. He even drove across the street to work to look for it there. No luck. His taxi left, which meant he was going to miss his flight.
And then. It was like a lightning strike. I suddenly remembered the Very Logical Place. Realization hit so quickly it was almost painful. Maybe it was just the coffee finally getting to my brain cells. I went into our closet, picked up a bag of stuff, and pulled the passport straight off the top. Turns out I'd shoved everything I didn't know what to do with into that bag and then thrown it on the floor of the closet to deal with later. Because there's no way I would forget where I put his passport, right? Especially not if it's ON THE FLOOR OF OUR CLOSET in a plastic bag full of random garbage like a package of airplane toothpaste, a pair of paper slippers, and a flash drive.
He missed his flight, but he did catch a later one and still made it to the worksite on time. It was just a much longer day of travel than he'd been hoping for.
But the thing I take away from this isn't that I'm a moron and need to start stapling locations of things to my forehead. No, the moral of the story to me is this: Unpack your own stuff before it makes your wife insane.