So, while Ryan was gone on his business trip I was in charge of shoveling snow. This is a task I don’t mind doing, actually. Until I injure myself, which is basically inevitable at this point. On this particular shoveling day I was miffed about something (I probably ran out of cake or wine or both) and I was shoveling that snow with such hostility I actually pinched a nerve in my arm. And now one half of my left hand has been overtaken with that annoying tingly sensation that appears when a part of your body falls asleep. But it won’t go away. I read if you just rest the arm, take aspirin, alternate hot and cold compresses at the pinched nerve site and drinks lots of vodka (I’m sure I read that somewhere) it will eventually get better.
Well it’s not getting better. So if any of this post is tinged with just a hint of bitterness, that’s why.
I pulled into the garage all by myself. You’d know what an accomplishment this was if you’ve ever seen me try to pull into a garage. Especially this garage. Garages off of alleys? Not a fan.
The saga of our rental house continued today. I suppose it wasn’t enough that they left the house a cesspool of filth when we moved in or or that it took them a month to send someone out to fix the heat (in Minnesota in the winter, this is a kind of a big deal) or that the oven still doesn’t work properly (this makes baking quite an adventure), but these fools couldn’t even manage to have their fire inspections done before we moved in. So they came out Wednesday morning to do it, and (surprise!) we failed it. Well, they failed it. This ain’t my house. All they had to do was install a smoke detector. After several more irritated visits from the inspector they finally sent someone out to put the smoke detector in. Which we’ll probably need because with an oven that just randomly shoots up to 600 degrees in the middle of baking a batch of cookies, you just never know what might happen.
I remember back in high school how much I dreaded Valentine’s Day. All the girls with boyfriends would end up getting called down to the office to pick up flowers and chocolates and overpriced stuffed bears. Me? I’d just stuff my face deeper into whatever Stephen King novel I’d stolen off my mom’s bookshelf and pretend none of it was happening. Valentine’s Day is a little less traumatic now, thankfully. This year I got to spend it with this dude:
Why you not turn the flash off, Mommy? WHY?
Totally better than a stuffed bear, if you ask me.
We celebrated Wyatt’s 3-month birthday by trying to feed him rice cereal. It’s a little early for it, but it was Friday and we needed to entertain ourselves somehow. The verdict? He totally loved it.
We got to add another entry to the list of places Wyatt has blown out a diaper. I’m sorry IKEA. I’m really, really sorry.
I cleaned. I clipped coupons. I watched TV. I ate. I made sure Wyatt happily survived another day. I didn’t shower or put real clothes on. A pretty successful Sunday, I think.