I don't even know where to begin.

Sunday was an interesting day. As things happened, I would think, hmm...blog story. And then another thing would happen. And another. And then they all kinda piled on top of each other. Tears were shed. Cats were frightened. I almost went deaf. And I got to play the, "If your house was on fire, what would you take game." Sunday was fun.

1. Morning.

My hubby's new thing is to yell things at me while I'm in the shower. I've already mentioned this before when my neck was stuck in one position, but he did it to me again yesterday. As soon as he hears that water turn off, I'm fair game, I realized. But just because the water is turned off doesn't mean I'm still not in the shower doing something – like shaving my legs. Our shower is small, so I have to lather-up my leg and shave with the water off, otherwise the whole purpose of shaving would be a wash (no pun intended). And I turn the water off twice during shaving – once for each leg. This isn't rocket science; this is just how it is.

So there I was, shaving my leg, when I heard my hubby yelling something at me.

"I th... Z.....out!"

"WHAT?" I yelled. "I'M SHAVING MY LEGS, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"I ch....Z....out!"

"JUST OPEN THE DOOR! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"What?" he asked.

Oh jeez. This better be good, I thought.

"OPEN THE DOOR."

I heard the door opening, and he pops his head in. Now mind you, I'm still shaving – now my upper thigh.

"Zoe jumped over the basket, and I think she did something to her stitches, but I can't tell, and I don't know what to do!" he tells me. Zoe got spayed on Thursday.

Right at that moment, even though I knew he didn't know what he was talking about, I panicked and gashed my thigh.

"Well, I just cut myself," I told him.

"Oh, sorry."

"Get a tissue, gently touch her belly with it. If she really did anything, there will be blood," I told him calmly. Then I said, "and can you please get a big band aid ready for me? I'm bleeding all over the place."

He went away. He came back.

"She's okay," he said. I kinda figured that.

"I'll look at her when I'm out. But get that band aid ready!"

When I got out of the shower, he was nowhere to be found, but there was Zoe, looking like a gremlin with her cone. I gently pushed her down as I place my washcloth on my thigh to stop the bleeding. I looked. She was fine. Still no hubby in sight – football was playing, so now that the emergency was taken care of, I guess there were no more worries for him.

A few minutes later he came in as I was putting the band aid on my gash.

"Oh, wow. That's bad," he informed me.

"Yes, I know," I said. "And Zoe's fine." I thought, thanks for sticking around....

2. Early evening.

I had some leftover stuff that would make very tasty enchiladas, so that was what I made for dinner last night. By this time, with all the nonsense my husband put me through that day (he very scientifically told me how Braeburn apples are made – I suggested he got this info from Newsweek because 9 times out of 10, his info comes from Newsweek, and then we had a discussion regarding recycling because he kept the plastic container from a sandwich we shared so that he could recycle it later (I guaranty it's still in his car and will be for months to come)), I was a bit fed up with him and those things that make him him and that I'm supposed to love and think, "oh but that's just him."

While he was lounging on the couch watching football (again), I was making dinner. Let me recount my day up until this point:

· made him breakfast (I had frozen waffles)
· cleaned the kitchen
· figured out what we're eating this week
· went shopping (with him, but I may as well have been alone – all of a sudden he's a craft expert and knows the history of the Braeburn)
· put groceries away
· cleaned our bathroom
· dealt with our finances
· put prints in picture frames

My list was way longer than his. He took a quiz, ironed some shirts for me (he was helping me while watching football), watched football, went shopping and ran off with the cart a million times which only fueled my annoyance with him more, watched football.

I was getting a bit annoyed, and watching him gleefully sit in front of the TV while loving up Zoe was too much. So every chance I got, I told him I didn't have to feed him. Passive aggressive, I know, but I just wanted him to be aware in my passive aggressive way that I was annoyed. That was all.

He was in the kitchen doing something at some point, and I had opened the oven to turn the dish around. When I did that, I was yammering on and probably being passive aggressive, and I lifted my arm up. And I burnt my arm. At first I couldn't see anything, but a long splotch got redder and redder. My husband put his beer bottle on it. Thanks, hubby.

While I couldn't fully blame this incident on him, I do think he had something to do with it. So now I had a gash on my thigh and a burnt arm. Things weren't looking up for me.

3. Late evening.

I had cleaned our bathroom earlier, and I mopped the floor as well (not part of the normal process -- I was feeling very much like Mrs. Clean). I waited until late evening to put everything away and tidy up. I picked up the magazine rack and placed it on the floor by the toilet. When I lifted my head up, I cracked my head into the towel rack.

I screamed bloody murder.

It took a few seconds, and then I heard the patter of my hubby's feet.

"What fell on your head!???" he asked. I was leaning against the closet door, holding my head and crying. "Did that fall on your head?" and he pointed to the mop. I think. Because I can't imagine a mop hurting that much if it fell on your head.

I started laughing because the whole thing was dumb. I laughed and cried while I told him nothing fell on my head.

"Are you okay?" He hugged me and I kept on crying.

"We need to put you to bed. You need to relax," he said. I stopped crying.

I stood in the hallway looking sad, and then I started crying again.

"What hurts?" he asked me.

"Nothing hurts. I'm just mad. I'm a mess!"

He quickly put what he could away, disappeared again (football) and then came back to put the rest of the stuff away.

I grabbed Zoe and we got into bed to cuddle.

No heads were hurt in this incident.

4. Almost 10pm.

Our alarm clock was acting weird on Friday, so I had reset the alarm and the time. I asked my husband to set the time and the alarm again. I was busy cuddling with Zoe. She was going to sleep with us for the first time since her surgery.

As my hubby was messing with the alarm clock, an extremely loud, obnoxious, high-pitched noise went off. I thought he messed with the alarm clock so much that he turned the volume up or something.

I looked at him, he looked at me. Zoe jumped 5 feet into the air and Sophia ran all hunkered down to the middle of the bedroom.

"WHAT IS THAT?" we both said at the same time. I grabbed Zoe to hold her because she was really scared and had her cone on, which meant she was defenseless. She hippity-hopped all over the place (air, my arms, my chest, air again) and her back claws cut a long gash into my palm. I dropped her. She scattered all over the room. Sophia was long gone.

My husband and I were looking at all the smoke detectors on the ceilings, but we still couldn't figure out what was making the noise. He ran into the hallway, declared it was this white box that says: Fire Alarm – Do Not Paint Over, and tried to pry it off the wall. I thought, uh oh. That's not a good idea. I ran to look out the window because I saw flashing lights. He had opened our front door and then told me it was from outside and to get my shoes on.

I grabbed the small animal carrier, ran into the bedroom, ripped off Zoe's cone and stuffed her in the carrier. I put my shoes on, told my husband to get the other carrier for Sophia. He couldn't find it. I ran into the living room looking for Sophia, couldn't find her, so I ran into his room, opened the closet door, and got the carrier down from the shelf. Even in an emergency, my hubby is the same person. He only opened one door and since he didn't see it right away, he declared it not in that closet. And it was. I put on a jacket (I was in my pjs), and my husband told me Sophia was in her litter box.

I ran back to the living room, ripped off the top of the litter box, which made Sophia run away, and ran all over the dining area trying to grab her. My hubby had moved Zoe and the other carrier into the hallway. I opened the carrier door, stuff Sophia into the carrier, grabbed my purse (more for my wallet), the phone, the keys and we left.

I locked the door.

My husband said I didn't need to do that. Probably not, but you never know.

Then instead of running down the shorter hallway to get outside, we ran down the long hallway and went outside with all our fellow condo folk. We were the last to arrive. We probably wouldn't have survived if it was a big fire, but we didn't know what the noise meant. Someone said something about how we put our cats in their carriers (like we could hold them). The firemen were already investigating the fire (some guy did something in his condo and already put it out). We stood and waited.

Did I mention I was profusely bleeding at this point? Apparently when I was running all over our condo trying to save the cats, I was dripping blood. My husband, who must worry about these things more than saving the cats and us, was trailing behind me and cleaning up the blood.

He even brought a paper towel with him outside so I could cover my gash.

See, that's love. Now I felt slightly bad for telling him I didn't have to feed him.

My personal answer to the "what would you take with you in a fire" question is (now that I've done it):

· cats
· wallet
· keys
· phone

I left my other babies behind (my mom wants me to clarify this so I don't sound like a cat lover and baby hater -- my other babies are Gizmo and Oreo and they're cremains (cremated+ remains = cremains) now -- in nice wood boxes), and I was given a guilt trip about that this morning, but now I'll remember to bring them. Everything else would have to burn, I guess. Funny how your life gets whittled down to just a few things, and you spend so much time worrying about all the stuff you wouldn't take with you, if it came down to it. It's called a reality check.

So to recap, the injury list for Sunday was: gash in leg (which looks worse than what Zoe did to me), burn on forearm (it's now gray) and gash on palm. I'm starting to feel like Edward Scissorhands. Wasn't there a fire at the end of that movie too?