This morning I was downstairs in the kitchen getting a glass of water in preparation for a date with the sweaty lesbian (with a cold! Who rules the world or my living room or whatever? I DO.) with Homeslice on my hip when
WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING WHY AM I WET IN THE FACEICAL AREA?
The water sprayer was on and it was spraying Homeslice in the face, hitting my shoulder and arm, and spraying the counter top behind me where I had piled library book returns, two Netflix (Secret Life of Bees was too emotionally difficult to watch. I cried in the first five minutes when her dad made her kneel in grits and was hysterical by the time the housekeeper was beaten by those assholes. I’d totally forgotten the book, obviously), the remote controls to the tv and the stereo, the laptop, and a stack of catalogs to take to work to look at during my dinner break.
And so I shut the water off and grabbed a towel from the drawer and mopped Homeslice off who was just sort of blinking through the water in her eyes and making this huffy sound like she’s about to cry, and then I did the counter and while I was doing that, Homeslice barfed alloverthefuckingplace and so I had to go back and re-wipe what I had already done.
And then I carefully inspected the water sprayer for a rubber band or some tape or something because I’ve seen America’s Funniest Videos. I know what’s up. But there was nothing. I guess the button was stuck down or something and all I can say is that Mister is lucky he wasn’t behind this incident.
His little snippy appointment is on Friday and I’d hate for someone to slip the doctor a $20 and OOPS! “Sorry about your balls, Mister.” That would suck.
You can’t really blame me for assuming he had something to do with this because this is exactly the kind of prank he would play on me. Like the time he pantsed (is that how you spell it?) me in front of people, or the time he put No-Doze in my coffee, or the time he posted a picture of my placenta on the Internet.