Little Things

There's a song that says "the little things kill". Oh - now I get it - it's the small and simple things that normally wouldn't be a big deal but when you put them all together, they can kill a day (or a week). OK - so Monday, as I'm home sick, Steve calls me and tells me that AmerCable is doing lay-offs again, but he's pretty sure he'll be ok. Well, there's no use in worrying since there's nothing I can do anyway. Fine. Moving on. Wednesday he calls and tells me that his truck stereo (brand new in April - stereo- not truck), started blinking, stopped playing and started smoking. Nice. Real nice. OK, so call the place that installed it and we'll see what we can do. Moving on, again. Friday - date night =-) haven't had a date with my husband in who know how long, so it's planned, dinner and movie. Guess what?!? He calls Friday morning and says I have to work until 7 tonight and all day both days this weekend. Nice. Though on the up side he is still working at this point. OK, fine. Oh, did I mention he was supposed to be Santa Claus for some friends who own a photography studio on Saturday. Ugh - AmerCable fixed that one too, thanks a lot. So, along comes Saturday, which has now been completely readjusted for me. Take the truck with it's non-functioning stereo along with 2 crabby boys to town to have it looked at. Of course nobody in the shop remembers talking to Steve earlier this week and so they aren't sure what to do. They decide to take out the stereo and see what they can do and will call me on Monday. Nice. Fine. So now I have a truck with NO stereo, a husband who's crabby because he's stuck working all weekend and hoping not to be laid off on Monday, a 13 year old who's crabby because his hunting trip appeared to be cancelled (but he did get to go), and a 9 year old who's crabby because I won't buy him the $15 thing he wants at Wal-Mart (hello? Chrismas?!? Duh). Fine, so, I go to the store Saturday evening come home, put a pork loin in the oven and sit down for some quiet time. What do my ears hear next? I can't describe it, but it was the sound that made my gut ache. My favorite pan just cracked. Yep, put my 9x13 pampered chef stonewear baker that over the course of 9 years has become seasoned to perfection, that has moved various times and survived, and has survived a Loggins house, and it CRACKED IN HALF. Fine. I quit. Can I have a day off from being me? Seriously?