Dance until the morning light
Forget about the worries on your mind
You can leave them all behind
Feel the beat of the rhythm of the night

(via Hey Okay)

This morning, as I was trying to get out the door, just about everything that could have gone wrong went wrong.

I bribed my department into starting an hour early by promising them McD’s breakfast this morning . We were all going to come in at 8, eat, and hit it. I was ready to walk out the door on time at 7:30, but couldn’t find my belt. Because I didn’t want to fight the plumber-look all day and I only have one belt, I had to tear shit up looking for it. (Found it.) Then the cat yakked on the carpet, and I had the privilege of cleaning that up. Then when I did get out the door, I realized I didn’t have any cash and would have to stop for that too. Except… (wait for it) …I left my debit card on the coffee table. Then I had to grab stuff for our lunches (which ended up being Hot Pockets, jello, pistachios, applesauce, dried fruit and a turkey-and-stuffing-freezer-dinner) before running out the door a third time. I was 30 minutes late. I hate being late.

I knew that it couldn’t possibly get any worse, so I was going to have a great day. Right? How could it get any worse?

Then, my BFF called to tell me that her gramps, just diagnosed with lung cancer this week, had a seizure and ‘coded’ earlier in the morning. Wow. So, I’m an asshole. He’s stable now, thank God.

My husband’s response to my email, wherein I declare myself a horrible person for saying the day couldn’t get any worse:

When you said that the day couldn’t get any worse, you were referring only to the specific context of being unprepared to meet the day in the way that you would have liked.

In the existential sense, it can always be worse. That goes without saying and is generally omitted when we refer colloquially to the course of our lives.

So, you’re off the hook, basically.

This is only one of the reasons why my husband is perfect. Tonight when I got home (at the end of a day that got increasingly worse), he hugged me, parked me in front of my computer, put a popsicle in my hand, and hooked my iPod into the Bose stereo where now I’m listening to Jose Gonzales. I’m so lucky.

And, tomorrow will be better.

Oh, I’m so angry. Look at my angry, angry eyes.

What?

I had to wait a couple hours for the explanation, which was, “Oh, that? I built a Ziggurat. With the pillows. You know, so the kitty couldn’t mess up the curtains.” Oh, ok. Silly me!

On another note: two JayZ references in five days and four posts. This must be some kind of a record for an almost 30-year-old white girl from the burbs. Love!