Yesterday, I had a clumsy-ass day. Maybe y'all don't have those, but I do. Not every day, but often enough that these days are a phenomenon with a label. On those days I do a lot more cursing than usual. I refer to myself as 'clumsy-ass bitch,' usually more than once, because once the clumsy-ass starts happening, it's rampantly contagious and starts happening everywhere with everything.
So last night, after spilling hot soup out of my bowl down my jeans, onto my socks and slippers and all over the kitchen floor, twice, and then knocking a whole bunch of DVDs clattering down onto the floor after Clare was finally asleep in bed, it's miraculous that Brent could somehow make me laugh at myself after all that elaborate and totally sincere cussing. But he did. Just one more reason to love him.
That, and the fact that he can't hear that little sound that old people aren't supposed to be able to hear and I can.