Pajama Day

Today is my day off. That means I usually stay in my pajamas unless it is absolutely necessary for me to appear in public. I even drive the husband to work in my pajamas. I usually pray to and from my destination that I don't get hit by a MACK truck. I'm not worried about meeting Jesus without any make-up, but I would rather not make the acquaintance of the local EMT sans foundations, of any kind. My mother would know what I am talking about. Ask her if you are curious.

Due to some sort of planetary alignment, a sun spot, and a ripple in the fabric of the universe, the husband also stayed home today. We ate pancakes and worked on our taxes. We are both still in our pajamas. It's bedtime some where in the world.

We will have to make a public appearance today to drop off our tax statement to our CPA. "Wow," you might be thinking. "They must be doing pretty well to afford a CPA." Um, no. It's just that between clergy pay, housing allowances, student loan interest, a mortgage, and other sundry miscellany, we would rather have a licensed professional do it. He's a pastor; I'm a teacher. It's been the best money we have ever spent, besides our sleep number bed. We really love our bed. And I love the fact that he isn't staring at a computer screen for three days in a row muttering under his breath how much he hates to do the taxes.