I now officially have a free pass to commit a homicide.

There isn’t a jury in the country who would convict me, either.

Allow me to present the evidence.

EXHIBIT A:

See yesterday’s post. ‘Nuff said.

EXHIBIT B:

Work has been extraordinarily, unbelievably, insanely, and stressfully busy. Yesterday was crazy. Everything that crossed my desk needed to be done five minutes ago. At one point, my boss handed me a dictation device and waited for me to finish typing it out.

By waiting, I mean he came into my office, stood behind my chair with crossed arms, and silently watched me type the words as I listened to them with my headphones.

Then, to make life even a little more interesting, he started proofreading/correcting as I typed. Not only did I have his voice piped into my ears through the headphones, I had him behind me revising and correcting what he had just said. It reminded me eerily of the multitasking I needed to employ during my time as a 911 dispatcher, and I frantically toggled back and forth between the dictation device and the Word document, pausing it as necessary.

After three or four times of flipping back and forth, The Boss asked in an annoyed voice, “What is that thing you keep flipping to while you’re in the middle of trying to get this out for me?”

“It’s the dictation device, Mr Boss.”

“Well, what are you doing with it? This is a top priority project we’re trying to get out.”

“Well, Mr. Boss, when you talk I can’t hear what you’re saying over the sound of your other voice my ear, so I have to pause it.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Well, I guess you can continue to do it, then.”

GEEE. Thanks.

EXHIBIT C:

Later that day my boss came into my office again.

“Log onto University A’s website and see what their nearby hotel accomodations are.”

So I did.

“What are you doing, Becky?”

“I’m going to University A’s website, like you said.”

“Why would you be doing that?”

“Ummm… Because you just told me to?”

“Use your brain, girl! Why would I want you to go there? You should know that I am thinking about a future trip in which I will be near University B, and you should have ignored what I told you and have automatically gone to that website. Think, Becky!”

EXHIBIT D:

After a few minutes of staring over my shoulder (I hate that), watching me peruse the accommodations near University B, my boss gave an exaggerated shiver and glanced over at the thermostat in my office.

“Aren’t you cold in here? It’s freezing.”

“No, I’m actually kind of warm. It’s because I’m pre–” I intended to say it was because I was pregnant, but Mr. Boss cut me off.

“Oh, yes. That’s right. It’s because you have the extra body fat.”

“Yes, Mr. Boss. It’s because of my extra body fat.” (I think he missed my sarcastic tone.)

EXHIBIT E:

After weeks of frantic studying and late-night cramming sessions, The Bean’s finals are almost over. This past week has been especially brutal, and I’ve encouraged him to stay late nights at the university library while I watched the DragonMonkey and took care of all aspects of everyday life in order to give him the extra time he needs to pull A’s in all his classes. At only a month to my due date and with my own 12 hour working days, this is no small sacrifice on my behalf.

To say that we’re both a little exhausted is a bit of an understatement.

Yesterday The Bean received some bad news.

He forgot to put his name on his the scantron for his Accounting final.

Despite the fact that the professor “knows” which grade is his (The Bean had the highest “A” in the class going into the exam and one of the six unnamed tests scored a 98%”) the only option (aside from failing him for a no-show) is to give him the grade of the lowest-scoring unnamed final.

The lowest score is a 48%.

EXHIBIT F (aka The Straw That Broke the Becky’s Back):

The Bean is in an understandably grumpy mood.

I am trying to be accommodating of that fact, and have been trying to do little things to make him feel better.

This morning when he woke up, I leaned over and gave him a kiss.

“Hey, Bean, don’t forget – when I did all your laundry last night, I separated your socks from mine and matched them up. They’re in your sock drawer.”

This may not sound like much, but it is.

I hate laundry.

I truly, truly hate laundry.

I hate socks worst of all. Pairing and matching socks is the bane of my existence. On more than one occasion I’ve been known to just wad all of our socks together in a gigantic lump, cramming them into an overfull drawer. I mean, they’re SOCKS. They’re pieces of cotton that go over stinky, sweaty feet, and then you shove them into stinky, sweaty shoes. As long as you have two of them and they’re relatively the same color, I consider them a pair.

The Bean knows this, so I figured my extra efforts might put him in a good mood.

He yawned deeply, stretched, and then grunted out, “Did you pair them according to overall sock age?”

I stopped. “Huh?”

“When you paired them, did you pair them according to their respective ages and levels of wear and tear?”

I paused, waiting for the punchline.

The Bean looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Wait… are you being serious, Bean?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s just sometimes you will pair them, but you’ll disregard the age of the socks and pair a worn gold-toed black sock with a newer gold-toed black sock, and they don’t really go together…..”

He trailed off as he saw the look in my eyes.

See what I mean? Any murders I decide to engage in today are completely justifiable.