Yesterday my husband left.
Oh, don’t get all concerned for me; my husband just left for a business trip to England.
So yesterday he left for his trip, and had also scheduled a repair call from our internet provider. The internet’s been spotty (at best) for a week now, and we all know I can’t survive without it, so here I sat waiting for the repair tech to arrive and see if it could be easily fixed.
When he arrived, I was sitting watching tv with my two-year-old son. Wearing what I like to consider my “inside-only outfit”: a pair of ugly jeans and a t-shirt that’s all stretched out. (I’d like to point out that I DID have my awesome Bluth’s Original Frozen Banana shirt on earlier in the day, but thanks to Mason snotting all over it, I had changed into that ugly black t-shirt.) I answered the door, let the guy in, and then realized half my left boob was exposed. I was wearing a bra, of course. (I say “of course” as though I always wear one around the house, but the truth is I should say, “THANK GOD” because often I just really go all to hell when I’m home alone.)
Him: Hi, Mrs. Durrell?
Me: Yup, come on in.
Him: If you can just show me where your box is, I’ll see if I can diagnose the problem.
(oh my god, it’s already getting awkward!)
Me: (realizing my boob situation) Oh! Oh. Oh man, that’s embarrassing. (pulling up my t-shirt neckline and grabbing the cardigan I’d had on early in the day) Come on downstairs.
I lead the guy into the basement laundry room. . .
. . . where he walks face-first into the bra that my husband hung to dry from the ceiling hook, that I CAN’T REACH.
Me: Oh my god. I’m sorry. I can’t even reach that to move it. Hang on, I’ll go up and get a stool to stand on. Oh my god. This is embarrassing.
(At this point, I can tell I’m bright red with embarrassment and dying inside.)
Him: That’s. . . ok. . . um. . . can I get it down for you?
I said “NO!” way too fast, and literally yanked the bra off the hook, ripping the strap in the process. I quickly pointed to the modem on the shelf.
Me: We just picked that up yesterday, so it’s not the modem.
Him: How long has it been a problem?
Me: At least a week. And I can’t wait any longer, I have work to do.
Him: You work online?
(Oh my GOD. Is this for real? I’m so embarrassed and everything sounds like a terrible double entendre.)
Me: Sort of. I write for various sites.
Him: . . .
At this point, I made it my mission to get my toddler a snack, and beelined it out of there.
I was in the playroom with Mason when the tech came out and asked me to give the internet a try and see if there was signal. It wasn’t working. He asked if I also use the something-or-other to do whatever-he-said for wifi, and come on, people, do I look technologically advanced to you?
Me: I’m really not sure. My husband does all the techie stuff around here. But he’s not here. He’s away.
Him: . . .
Me: I mean. He’s at work right now. But then going away. For a week. To England. For work.
(OH MY GOD WHY AM I TALKING?)
Me: So I obviously can call him. To ask. If you need to know. Do you need to know?
Him: No, it’s ok. Try it again?
Me: IT WORKS! OH YAY! THANK YOU!
I didn’t even walk the guy upstairs, I was so mortified by my unintentionally porny vibes.
Man, I’m such a dirty old housewife.