Momnesia

Proof That the Universe Hates Me

So today, we met with a prominent attorney in regards to the bad thing that happened. I don't want to say much about it, except that it is neither personal nor personnel in nature.

His agency decided to investigate. So it's looking like a good day. Then Scott leaves the meeting and Godzilla steps on the car... or at least that's what it looks like. The wind caught the hood and it flew up, smashed into the windshield, knocked the sunroof askew, shattered the windshield, and bent the hood up.

Scott limped it home and I got a ride from an investigator. Pop quiz, which is less safe: No visibility, or no way to stop? I dunno. But when I got home, he had gone in the car with no brakes to get the baby. They made it home safe.

But then we had to put brake shoes on the car that Godzilla skipped over on his way to Tokyo. An hour after he began, Scott was back inside calling a mechanic. Eventually, we finished the brake job. It took three hours and we were both tired, dirty, oily, smelly, and pissed.

Into the shower we went. Being parents of a toddler and a rat terrorist with two jobs and five classes between us, sex has not been our priority. But the toddler was with grandma and while the shower began as a practical measure, it became a prurient one. Just as the theme from "Shaft" was firing up in my mind, I heard it: the world's most erection-killing sound...

... "Scawett?"

Seriously, that's how his mother pronounces Scott's name. And there she was, in the apartment, in the middle of our shower sex, with our toddler in her arms.

But, lo! The toddler was asleep. If I could just get her into her crib without her waking up, the ghost of Barry White might come back to visit. And maybe he would bring Marvin Gaye with him.

Slowly I crept back into the nursery. Just as I put her down, she sprung to life. "Hey, dog-dog!" she waved merrily at Scrabble.

Dammit!