"I had a long morning," he began. "I went to use the bathroom, and I knocked your makeup shelf off the wall." (He is talking about a little spice rack I painted and affixed to the wall to hold all of my many products).
"Mmmm hmmm," I mumbled, still half asleep.
"Um, many of the things fell into the toilet," he said. "The ... used toilet."
What my husband was sheepishly trying to tell me is that he had to pick through his own shit to recover my various powders and lip glosses, which he then, naturally, threw away.
I had to laugh. "Oh, honey," I said. "That's punishment enough." Jeff is convinced that it's a higher retribution for his lauging at me last night when I accidentally farted on him while we were watching Goodfellas. (I am so humiliated writing this. And for the record, it is possible to accidentally fart on someone, if they are lying on you, with their back on your chest. In that position, either participant could fart on the other, and if one participant has PMS and already feels bloaty then she should be forgiven.)
Moving on.
The scene of the crime (the makeup knocking, NOT the farting), with a blood-spatter like residue from by Covergirl mineral foundation:
The shaken survivors:
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