Last night, on the way home from dinner out, I noticed the battery light on. I said something to Mike about it, said I probably needed to clean the posts, and then promptly forgot about it while I checked in on Pauline on her first night sans hubby in the house and got Bear ready for bed. Mike and I got Bear into bed and conferred about who was going to the pharmacy to get me the bunch of drugs I needed. Of course, he had to go, not me and so off into the cold night he went, in his usual attire regardless of weather in shorts and a t-shirt.

I called up a friend I haven't spoken to since forever and I was on the line about an hour and then looking for Mike and was surprised that even though he'd left over an hour before, he wasn't back yet. I checked for messages...the car had died on him and he was walking in the cold.

I couldn't figure out what to do at first because I have this picture of my sweet baboo out there in 40 degrees in this t-shirt and shorts and probably without a coat and I start worrying. I dig out the numbers to call the tow service with the insurance company and he called somewhere in there on the other line to tell me that he's walked 2 miles to get to where he is. I get the wonderful thrill of telling him he has to walk back to the car and wait for the tow truck. He was just so pleased. Really. And then I start joking with the insurance guy that Mikey is probably out there without a coat and he's freezing his babymakers off.

Mike had left around 845 and got back around 11 and he was just in the most charming of temperments -- kind of a cross between a rabid pit bull on crank and a bitter celibate spinster chain smoking cigarettes and nursing a tequila hangover. I noted that he did have his coat, as I handed him a cup of gourmet hot cocoa figuring that might soothe the savage beast and then got yelled at for staying on the phone. Something I'd already apologized for, but he was just too grumpy to let it go. So I heard about it.

Then we get into bed and he's all grumpy and crabby and scowling and growling and I offer to massage his back with that handy dandy massager thing he got me for Christmas with the heating element on it. I crank up the heat, I vibrate his back into submission, but still he's not happy. I snuggle him to get him warm, and still the crankiness persists. I fall asleep because it's fucking 1 in the morning and I'm getting cranky.

We wake up this morning at some godawful hour and try to give it a whirl. He starts the car, he gets out the driveway of the apartment complex and the car dies. He comes back and is growling and stomping about. I tell him I'll walk Russell to school because I don't have a nasty toe that is going to hurt and I'm in better shape than him. He growls and stomps and goes for the martyr angle, claiming, no, no, *he'll* do it.

Yeah, right.

We all walk out to the car, and Mike starts growling at me about some of the same rehashed shit from last night and I tell him to knock it off because I already apologized for having the gall to talk to my friend and that now he's just being a jerk. Walking off with Russell, I leave him standing out waiting for the tow truck.

I come back just as the tow truck leaves. He apologizes about 20 times for being a big whiny baby, but horrors of horrors, he's given me the grumpies and I just glare at him.

The car is going to cost $300. Piss on that. We juggled the bills and we'll just be able to pay everything if we eat top ramen and I sell an organ.

The good news for the day is that I had an ultrasound. Everything in that baby is just fine. She's healthy and well and her heart has all four chambers, she has all of her organs in the right places and the right dimensions. The doctor is less sure of my due date, but I am officially starting my third trimester. The doctor said everything looks normal. The word "normal" to a diabetic is the purest of magic. Abracadabra!