Andrew and I are feeling better today, so we've been taking care of some chores around the house like cleaning and mowing and removing rotting stumps from the backyard with so much force that someone cracked a brand new sparkly shovel in two. More on that later.
Normally, we'd be practically whistling while performing these tasks, it's sickeningly true, because we realize on a daily basis how lucky we are to even have lawns to mow and poop to pick up and stumps to attack. But we're still a little under the weather, which also means mildly snappy and cranky. And by mildly I mean that I woke up punching my own face.
Earlier, while straightening up the bedrooms, I came across a Band Aid wrapper on a nightstand, and I noticed that it was opened and crinkled in a ball. I asked Andrew about it and he said, "Yeah, I cut my leg open last night, thanks for noticing."
Cut it on what?
Wait, where was I?
When exactly was this?
And there was blood? BLOOD?
All he said was, "On that big wooden thing that you put sitting in front of the sofa."
There's no wooden thing?
By the sofa?
"You mean, the coffee table?"
He's going to kill me for posting this picture.