A Sudden, Potential Crisis

As I was getting the short person's bag ready this morning to go to the babysitter, my husband came in and poked his head through her bedroom door.

"I don't want to alarm you, but we have a potential crisis on our hands."

I looked up worried. He never uses that tone or those choice of words. "What? What's the crisis?" I'm prepared to charge forward and battle whatever it might be. Did one of the water pipes break? Is one of our dogs sick? I had just rolled out of bed, my eyes not fully open yet, but I was ready.

"Well, I don't want to alarm you, but... we're almost out of..."

In the space of that word and the next, I could feel my heartbeat increase. No, don't say coffee! Don't say it! I need it. Wait, maybe it's toilet paper. Okay... I can deal with that. Or maybe it's...
"... hairspray."

What?!

I cracked up laughing. Never have I understood why my husband, who is sadly losing his hair faster... well, faster than the pussy mentioned above does... uses hairspray. We go through a bottle about once a month-- and I don't use the stuff! At all. It's all him. Every hair perfectly in place and then about two seconds of spraying his hair with schellack.

It's one of those funny things that totally endears you to a person.

He is so going to kill me if he reads this. Rule 1 for writing-- don't write about him. LOL... I can usually sneak it in behind the short person, but this is blatant.