Sometime I think I do "blonde" things because I love the exhausted look on Bub's face...

Last week I mentioned that I’d made a new friend when Bubs and I went out for tacos. I forgot to mention—her name is Amelia.

Yesterday she texted me, all excited because she was finally getting the key to her new classroom. She asked if she could swing by and look through all the school decorations and supplies I had stashed away. Of course I said yes—I love having people over, and I really love any opportunity to give my husband fewer chances to say, “Dani, can we talk about those boxes and how much room they take up?”

Evie and Brian are staying with us this week, so we had one former teacher (me), one current teacher (Amelia), and one future teacher (Evie) all going through about thirty Costco boxes full of classroom stuff. It turned into the perfect girl-date. We grabbed sushi from the grocery store, stopped for Starbucks, and spent the whole afternoon rotating between the garage and the baby, taking turns holding Ashley, laughing, swapping war stories about parents and students, and giving Evie advice. Amelia might even be able to help her land a student teaching placement this fall—at a school just a few minutes from our house.

Bubs still teases me for being “embarrassingly social,” but thanks to me telling a stranger her skirt was cute, we made a dent in the garage clutter, Evie made a career connection, and I very likely made a new friend for life. So… what’s the problem?

I’d already suspected Amelia and I were soul sisters—our conversation just flowed the afternoon we met. But I knew we were soul sisters when she pulled a classic Dani move: she’d planned to bring her boyfriend’s truck to haul all the boxes. She talked about it all afternoon like it was parked out front… and then, standing at the garage door, getting ready to load everything up, we all looked around and realized—there was no truck.

She was mortified, but Evie and I reassured her in about a thousand different ways that this is exactly the kind of thing we’d do. We were gonna make it work.

She called her boyfriend on speaker and asked if he could bring the truck. After a long pause, he said, “…You forgot and drove the wrong car?”

I doubled over. The confused, half-horrified tone in his voice was identical to the one Bubs has used on me at least a thousand times.

Amelia smiled sweetly and said, “I’m sorry, these things happen!”

Again, as if the words came out of my own husband's mouth, in that familiar, patient-but-so-done tone:
“…No, Amelia. These things just happen to you. I’m working. I can’t come.”

I needed to feed Ashley anyway, and Evie’s car is the same size as Amelia’s, so we came up with a plan: Amelia wasn’t getting her classroom key until Thursday, so Evie and I would load the boxes into my SUV Thursday morning and take them straight to the school. It actually worked better—no apartment drop-off, no double hauling. Plus, Evie could ride along and introduce herself to the admin.

Girl-world moment turned into a win-win-win.

This morning, we got the two older kids situated, got Ashley in her carrier, and got ready to load up. I never pass up a chance to mention what a genetic freak of beauty Evie is, so I’ll say it again: her “casual interview” outfit from Target looked like she’d just stepped off a Paris runway. I spend most days with her and still get caught off guard that this literal supermodel is about to become a teacher… and marry my runty little brother.

Anyway.

We had sorted Amelia’s stuff into twelve big Costco boxes, and I was feeling confident. My Kia Telluride (aka the Stormtrooper car, per my son TJ) feels huge when the seats are folded down. Even though I could only fold one side because of the car seat, it still looked like plenty of space.

Evie and I tried every Tetris configuration imaginable, but no matter what we did, we couldn’t get more than eight boxes in.

On our fifth attempt, Bubs and Brian jogged up the driveway, sweaty from their run. I was hoping for a kiss and a quick “good luck,” but instead I saw The Look. The one Bubs gets when the math has already started happening behind his eyes. The logic was forming.

I could literally see the "Th" of "They’re not gonna fit" starting to form, so I cut him off in my best bratty, mocking voice: “They aren’t gonna fit, Dani… did you measure?”

Brian chimed in, loyal little toady: “Well, did you, sis?”

“No,” I said. “But I have so much cargo space!”

Bubs raised an eyebrow. “Volume is volume. Did you think about measuring the boxes and multiplying the dimensions?”

I hate it when he’s logical. So I did what any emotionally mature woman would do: I mocked him again, super childishly and even more nasally: “Did you think about multiplying the dimensions?”

“How many times have you packed and unpacked trying to get them to fit?”

“A couple. A few. Shut up. We’ll figure it out.”

Evie, bless her, jumped in. “Yes, Brian, go inside. We got this. I’ll come say goodbye before we leave.”

They’re still in the honeymoon phase. She hasn’t hit the sarcasm wall yet.

Then I saw it: The Look in Bubs’ eyes. The look of someone who’s just found the winning chess move and knows it’s going to sting a little. Love, wrapped in smugness.

He gestured behind me: “Did you not notice my truck sitting right next to the Kia while you were stacking and unstacking boxes that were never going to fit?”

I had no comeback. He had me. I tried to shift the blame: “Well, I didn’t think you’d want me to drive it.”

“Dani. You drive the truck all the time. You never have to ask.” He shook his head and muttered, “Oh my God. I want to smack you on the ass so hard.”

I apologized to Evie for all the extra work, but she just laughed. “I was right there next to you. It’s not your fault.” This is why I will always be a girls’ girl. We share the load. We support each other. Guys just want to use “math” and “logic.” Where’s the fun in that?

The four of us loaded all twelve boxes into Bubs’ truck in under three minutes. It was going to be way easier to unload at the school anyway. Now that Bubs was home, I could leave Ashley with him—and as annoying as he is, oh my God, he looks so hot holding my baby. He probably noticed the shift in my face, that tiny crack in my sass armor, because he said:

“You don’t have to thank me, cutie pie" with a big smile. 

But I’m better at sass than he is, so I leaned out the window, kissed him, and said, “Good. I wasn’t going to.”

He’s so cute.