Yesterday I came home from the store to find a deflated mylar balloon in the tree next to my driveway.

I pulled it out, because after our recent raccoon uprising, I feel the need to restore balance and look like I am attempting to keep animals alive and healthy.

Plus, I accidentally hit a goose the other morning.  (Fact:  There is nothing messier in life than accidentally hitting a goose with your car.)

As I untangled the balloon from the branch, I unfolded it and read…Our Deepest Sympathies.

Never mind that I would hate to be the awkward jackass showing up at a funeral with a fistful of helium balloons, that balloon was there for a reason.  It was from God.  Probably.

I turn 30 in 16 days.

Tomorrow is Wyatt’s 4th birthday, and as I loaded up the plastic container with cookies for his preschool birthday party today, without thinking, I reached for the Sharpie above the fridge, and wrote our last name on the bottom of the box.

I wrote my name on tupperware.

My mom writes her name on tupperware.  I know, I have most of it here.

Writing your name on tupperware is something adults do to imply that, at this point in their lives, they are spending more money on tupperware than they are on push up bras and beer, and therefore, they need that shit back, because dude, that cupcake holder is expensive, and they discontinued the fun melon color last spring, and my normal hostess quit selling it on account of her mom moving in to recover from a broken hip, and…oh my GOD I wrote my name on tupperware!

I dropped Wyatt off at school, walked him to his classroom, kissed him on the nose, and handed the container of cookies to his teacher.

I put three extra cookies in, just in case you needed them.  If not, just send them home.  You know…in the tupperware.  It was my grandma’s.  She left it to me in her will.  I mean, it lasts forever.  I’m not like, crazy or anything.  Sooo…

I got in the car, drove to the empty library parking lot across the street, and proceeded to slap my self in the face, and then cried.

Get a grip, Brittany.  It’s not a big deal.  I’m sure loads of young adults put their names on plastic containers when they go to frat parties. It’s the sensible thing to do, I mean, come on.  Heart healthy skinless lemon chicken and whole wheat noodles won’t keep itself in the fridge, am I right?

No.  No you are not right.  Under 30 Brittany doesn’t write her name on stuff.  She loads her fridge with leftovers in plastic containers, forgets about them for 3-5 months, and then realizes she has no more room to stack Chinese take-out boxes, pulls out said plastic containers, deems the contents too gross to touch, and then she throws that shit away.

It’s happening.  This runaway train of maturity and sensible life choices.

I renewed my car registration on time.  I donated to NPR.  I bought a multi-vitamin.  I put a documentary about the Amish in my Netflix queue.

A new decade is descending upon me.  I need to rectify this in my head.

Although, to be honest, I think Andy is just as upset as I am, because I think he is trying to kill me.

For exactly one year and four months, I have been complaining about a gas smell coming from our laundry room.

(It also took me a year to figure out I had a gas dryer.)

A gas dryer?  That sounds like a bomb.  Who makes those?  Russia?

Andy knows I am physically and mentally incapable of making phone calls to strangers, and for months, he has been maintaining I was wrong.

He didn’t smell it.  He wasn’t going to call and look like an idiot.  It was probably all in my head.

Which makes sense, because aside from my inner theme music being the soundtrack from Natural Born Killers, I also ensured that my personal inner scent was natural gas.

Ugh.

Rubber tire or library book smell, maybe.  But not natural gas.

After googling what happens when your basement fills with gas and then explodes, I had to call the stupid emergency gas leak number on the back of the stupid overdue gas bill, so the gas guy could come out (who happened to be a grade under me in high school, and yet repeatedly called me ma’am), and test the room for a leak.

There was one.  I was right.

I called Andy to tell him about the leak and how I called the number all by myself, and it’s like, he sounded disappointed that the leak was fixed.

Murder foiled, Andy.

Then, last weekend we were digging out and cutting down overgrown bushes in our yard, I had my back to him shoveling out dirt around a particularly stubborn tree, when Andy hit me across the back with a saw.

And not even a clean saw, this one was old and rusty because I accidentally left it outside all winter, but I didn’t know because it was covered in snow. So, if the blades cutting my internal organs didn’t kill me, the tetanus and lock jaw eventually would.

What the hell, Andy!

Sorry, I tripped and couldn’t catch myself after you tossed the dirt over your shoulder, it went in my eyes and mouth.

Come on, Andy.  Even I know I throw like a girl and have terrible aim.

This is what happens when you sign the papers on a sound life insurance policy.

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