Poor Guy

Moody me.  Feeling icky, wanting to wrap myself up in a throw cover and abscond to our bedroom.  After tearfully and only minimally articulating "what was wrong" (as much as could be "wrong" during these times), I did exactly that.

For a while I hunched over my laptop and started reading over and commenting on a student's intro of his upcoming paper replete with quotations from Notorious B.I.G and Easy-E (and boy, saddown.  I get it, suburban white kids listen to rap, too and you're cool and in the know and want to interweave your problematically attained "cred" into a paper about the political implications of Julius Caesar, but it's woefully unsuccessful and just...nah), but then I stopped and (again tearfully) called my mom.

During this maternal phone call, my husband texted me and said he was on his way to pick up a few things from Kroger, did I need anything.  I texted back and said that I didn't.  When I finished up with mother dearest, I finally (untearfully) emerged.

He had already made it back from the grocery store and smilingly said he was making me a cheesecake.  What?  Making me a cheesecake?  Are you serious?  I went into the kitchen and saw cream cheese, sugar, Nutella, vanilla extract and a pie crust out on the counter.

I immediately broke down sobbing and (quite tearfully) wailing, "You are so sweeeeett!"

Poor guy can't win for losing.