This morning, I was woken up at 7:30 am by a) natural light - Fuck you, DST! and b) the sounds from The Husband's phone. We, at 22 Nelson Street have taken a sacred oath to not get out of bed till 9 a.m in the morning and anything/anyone that makes us break this oath is without a doubt, THE SPAWN OF SATAN! The Husband is the one who sets the alarm. The Husband is the one who wakes up first. The Husband is the one who stays in bed for a while longer, looking at his phone without making a sound while I catch an extra 10 minutes of sleep. It's only when The Husband and his body heat leave the bed to go take a shower that I slowly wake up. Because it gets cold without that man in the bed.
But today, he started looking at his phone a little too early. I forgave him for that because I'm a reasonable human being. I turned around with the intention of going back to sleep. But then, he just got up and left. Without an explanation. I called out after him to ask if he was getting up and received a grunt in reply. I thought it must be 9, I thought I must have slept off. I was confused UNTIL I checked my phone. It was 8:20 am. Pissed off, I set my own alarm for 9 am because I'm a strong, independent woman. But just when I was about to drift off into sleep again, he walked back into the room and started pacing from one end to the other, clearly whoring for my attention.
"What do you want?"
"I was thinking of maybe exercising."
"What did you say?"
"Right. Or maybe I don't have to today. Right? Huh? Yes? Right."
And he climbed back into bed. I didn't care too much because the "warmth" was back. However, when my alarm rang at 9 am, I was the one who had to wake up first today. I was the one who left the room first. I did everything first. It was only by the time I started making breakfast that I noticed that he was still asleep. So I nagged him into the shower and made a few ham sandwiches.
Now for the best part. We love ham sandwiches. We never get tired of having them. The Husband has his with bbq sauce (eww) and I have mine with mustard and ketchup :) Ham sandwiches for breakfast can never go wrong. Or so I thought until I made the - hold on while I enter into Exaggeration Mode - fatal mistake of buying the smallest looking loaf of bread that I never realized was small. Because it was small in GIRTH, not length. And don't you know that they both matter?
This loaf of bread was so small that all the other loaves at the supermarket were making fun of it. This loaf of bread was me in high school. And when I placed our cheese and ham slices on the slices of this loaf of bread, most parts of the ham and cheese slices were sticking out, and drooping down on all four sides like the face of a bulldog. The sauces didn't help either. It looked like a bulldog had just
pooped popped out a soggy, sticky, baby bulldog. No, it looked like a bulldog had a baby with a slice of bread. It looked limp and stupid like someone chopped off the limp forelimbs of a castrated baby T-Rex and served it on a plate. It looked like the sandwich had a stroke and one half of it's body was paralysed. It looked like this childhood picture of my brother-in-law (BIL):
That sandwich was messed up.
And what's more? The Husband took longer than usual in the shower (45 minutes, can you believe it?) and by the time he was out, he had to leave for work. This is something he always tries to pull off. The minute he finds out that it's sandwich for breakfast, he makes up some excuse or the other to pack it for work instead of having it at home. But packing this sandwich would be a disaster. I did warn him. Now he's at work with a very soggy sandwich bag, the contents of which are disturbing to the naked eye. And he's going to eat it, guys. Because Shane Girish does not waste his food. You should see the grin on my face right now.
I finished writing this post and just when I was about to hit publish, he sent me a message saying he couldn't find the sandwiches in his bag. I just had to move my laptop to see his sandwich bag sitting right in front of me, staring me in the face, mocking me, and giving me the middle salute. FML.