I did not sleep well last night.  

At the Mexican restaurant, where they usually let us split the "2-for-1 special" margaritas, The Husband got a wild hair and ordered two more drinks.  I drank about half of my second margarita and poured the rest of it into my sister-in-law's glass for her to finish.  Nevertheless, I was not worth a plug nickel when we got home, and I went straight to bed.  At midnight, after a lot of squirming, I crawled into another bed so The Husband could get some rest.

I woke up at 1, at 2, at 3, 4, and 5 - no particular ailment, just restless - and finally got up at 6.  

We were to leave at 8 for the community garden dedication ceremony.  By that time, I'd been to the bathroom FOUR TIMES.  It appeared that the crisis had passed, and I wasn't worried about going to the ceremony.  The Husband was a little worried, though; his tummy had done some rumbling, too.  We wondered if it was something we ate (or drank).  But we went on to town.

It was a nice ceremony.  There was coffee, and cookies, and lemonade.  Gardeners swapped shared techniques and gave away plants.  The garden manager and The New Boss made short speeches, recognizing people and local businesses whose donations made the garden possible.  

Let me tell you, most of the other garden plots put ours to shame.  I have only recently pulled up the sugar snap peas and replaced them with smallish tomato plants, other plots are already picking vegetables and donating them to the food bank.  I am hoping that our tomatoes will kick in later, when others have fizzled out, to keep a steady supply going.

Next to the garden is my favorite breakfast restaurant, and while The Husband was loaded up on margaritas at the Mexican restaurant last night, he volunteered out of the blue to take me to breakfast at this place.  As soon as the speech-making was over, we shot across the grass and ordered gravy and biscuits, a rare treat for us these days.

The Husband had to seek out the bathroom before we left the restaurant.  I was fine.

When we got home, I set to work on the two birthday cakes for The Granddaughters' birthday party tomorrow.  I made two 9" round cakes, and put them in the top oven, and then made one 9 x 13 cake and put it in the bottom oven.  I set two timers on the stove and came out to the porch to double-check the frosting recipe.  On the way out the back door, I hollered at Siri to set another timer for 15 minutes.  As I went out the door, I saw that the first timer had four minutes left - just enough time for me to check the recipe.  Since the oven beeper is a puny little beep, I left the back door cracked so I could hear it.  

I had no sooner sat down at my table when I realized that I had to go potty.  NOW.

The Husband, who cannot hear the high-pitched beeper tone, was standing on the back porch.  As I sprinted for the bathroom, fearing that I wasn't going to make it in time, I yelled out some instructions:

Watch the oven.  Test the cakes with a toothpick to make sure they're done.  Listen for the second timer. 

I didn't make it in time.

If have raised an infant, you have dealt with the diaper from hell - the shit-up-the-back situation.

That's what happened to me.  

So,

I'm in the bathroom in the front hallway, sitting on the toilet, trying to peel off my nasty clothes and rinse them in the sink, when I hear Siri's alarm go off.  The Husband can hear that alarm, so I kept on with what I was doing, and it was disgusting.  

And the alarm kept going. And going.  I hollered, "CHECK THE OTHER CAKE," but The Husband did not answer and I did not hear any oven door sounds.

And, there I was, dressed only from the waist up, and far too toxic to go anywhere near the oven, and the alarm just going and going . . . .

When I'd cleaned myself up enough to leave the room (I thought), I went looking for The Husband.  He was on the back porch, with the door closed, and hadn't heard the obnoxious phone alarm.  I yanked the door open and yelled, "SEE ABOUT THE CAKE!" 

He came running in behind me, and caught a glance of my shirt-tail when I turned my back to him, and said, "Ooooo, you're gonna need another shower."

Evidently, biscuits and gravy for breakfast was not a good idea for either of us.

After I'd disinfected myself and the bathroom, I took the round cakes out of the pan.  They stuck and cracked when I turned them out.  I guess I'll mortar them back together with frosting and move on.