So if you know me well you know I hate my birthday. I hate birthday cake, I hate balloons, I hate presents, and I really really hate that stinkin birthday song. And I tell all who are close to keep away on that day! Now that being said I love celebrating other's birthdays, I love making cakes, buying presents, and I realize this is not logical. This year was no exception. I was down in DC for a few hours delivering some cakes when I get this call:
"Where are you"
"DC why"
"uh uh are you coming home"
"yes I just got in the car...why?"
"I need you"
at this point I hear tremendous pain in my husband's voice and panic sets in.
"Nate are you alright, what happened....wait is this a joke?!"
"No I am really hurt, I fell down the stairs"
at this point I am picturing my husband with his legs broken, blood coming out his ears, and a black eye lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of our basement stairs.
"did you break anything, an arm, a leg?"
"no just a plate, and a cup. I am going upstairs to take a shower then go to bed, hurry home"
so I drive fast but not manic to get home. Upon arriving I go upstairs first...Nathan is bruised, shaken but not stirred. On to the basement. There is pasta sauce all over the stairs, and the few stairs that escaped the sauce got drenched in peach lemonade. There are shards of broken glass everywhere from the glass and chunks of turquoise terra cotta from the plate.
Back upstairs to get rags, broom, vacuum, and carpet cleaner. 20 minutes later I had scrubbed off the sauce and lemonade and managed to only impale myself once with a shard so deep it required tweezers. Bonus! April 17th you should be removed from my calendar, it seems my distain for my own birthday attacked my husband this year!
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