So I freak out, flipping through cookbooks looking for something a really sick person would love to have... but it's my husband's boss, so it has to be awesome. No pressure. I find a recipe for baked potato soup, and think, "Wow. This sounds delicious." I wonder if I have everything I need.
That would be a no.
So I load up the kids in the car, run like a madwoman through the grocery store and back home, and get to work.
I cooked baked potato soup, homemade French bread, and hub's favorite chocolate chip cookies... they are delicous. A little cinnamon, a little Mexican vanilla-- wait. What was I talking about? Oh. Right. The chief.
Anyway. He (apparently) ate all the soup, because the bowl came back clean. With post-it notes stuck all over it.
Inside were directions and a map from my house to his. Just in case.
Fast-forward to yesterday. It wasn't my best day. I ended up sending Christian to her room for the day, and Cullen had decided to go for the "Grouchiest Baby of the Year" award. I'm pretty sure he's going to win. But, I digress.
I put dinner in the oven early, but olive oil leaked out of the aluminum foil-wrapped baked potatoes, and was
stinking smoking the house up.
So I was doing good to be out of my jammies. I'm sure you know where I'm going with this.
I didn't have ANY make-up on, my hair was in a messy (and not in a good way) bun with an 80's style scrunchy, and I was wearing yoga pants and one of hub's old t-shirts. Needless to say, I wasn't cute.
I was giving Cullen an early bath, trying to distract him from the source(s) of his grouchiness, and he pooed. Everywhere. Unfortunately, it was a little on the squishy side. No, it was a lot on the squishy side. What? You didn't want to know that much? Sorry. Anyway, on top of that, he dragged two clean towels into the poo-ey tub with him.
It was about this time that I hear hubs cheerfully call out, "Hello! Anybody home?"
Sure. Somebody's home all right.
He walks into the bathroom and says, "The Chief's here."
I'm sorry. WHAT???
"He wants to talk to you."
I turn and look at myself in the mirror, and panic. My husband's boss was here, in my messy, stinky home, waiting to see messy, stinky me. Yikes.
(Side note: my house is a split-plan, which means the kids' bedrooms and bathroom is separated from mine by the kitchen, living and dining area, which is where the chief and hubs were chatting.)
There wasn't much I could do but face the music.
Luckily, he is a very sweet man, with exceptional manners, which is more than I can say for myself.
He told me how delicious the soup was, and asked where "his" bowl was. He wanted more homemade food.
I told him that I would gladly scrape some burned olive oil off the bottom of the oven for him.
Okay, I'm not.
He laughed and said, "Wow. That's the kind of treatment I'm used to."
I didn't sleep much last night. I felt monumental guilt. Did I mention how sweet he is? And how sweet I'm not?
So I made lemon tarts and will soon be making chicken tetrazzini to make up for my foot in mouth disease.
Please send me some bloggy love and tell me about the time you (or your "friend") really put your foot in your mouth.
I fear I've got some major sucking up ahead.