Well, that was interesting.
Like the cheese on my toasted sandwich, I've had a meltdown in front of the sandwich press.
The events culminating in this cheesy mess began on Wednesday evening, when our washing machine, which has been on it's last legs for weeks actually decided that, no, it didn't want to wash, and no, it didn't particularly want to drain.
The Hubbster tried to fix it and after washing the same clothes 7 times, we came to the conclusion that, yes, it was stuffed.
It needs a new part so we've sent away for one, in the hopes that it will get us through until we move into The Money Pit and buy a new machine.
On Friday it started to rain, and as I was working and with no time to get to the laundromat, I was forced to once again, wear a pair of The Hubbsters jocks to work.
Besides the fact that they were not my colour, as well as the sad realisation that they fit quite well, I had the persistant urge to put my hand down my trousers and rearrange my private parts at regular intervals in the day.
The Hubbster, of course, thought this was hilarious. It was only funny until I had to wear another pair again today.
I've now been to Kmart and bought a new 10 pack of Rio cottons so I never have to publicly admit to wearing his.
That's okay, we're all friends here.
So I wanted to get an early start yesterday morning as I had a busy day at work planned. After our usual morning bathroom argument, Miss D (aged 10) and I decided to refer to each other lovingly as frenemies.
We got to school just before the bell rang, subsequently arriving at work late.
With still no clean clothes, and wearing my husbands undies, I got through the day, knowing that I had two episodes of Sex and the City to watch once the kids were in bed.
We woke early this morning to get Miss D to her 7.30am dance lesson. I took the other kids to the cafe for breakfast and they were behaving so well a man bought them chocolates.
We were all shocked.
Once in Bunnings, they did the usual thing and embarassed me, and the Mother of the Year judged me from her sanctimonious courtesy bench while her two angelic children played sweetly and watched mine climb where they shouldn't climb.
Along with a healthy dose of PMT (see yesterday's post) which fueled an argument in the car ride home (why can't you just BEHAVE), I found myself in front of the sandwich press, watching the melted cheese dripping on the floor.
After a good cry, and a toasted ham and cheese, I know that 1) the kids are not really out to get me 2) I really need some drugs to get me through my period and 3) it's the washine machine's fault.