We take a break from our regularly scheduled caffeinated ramblings...

To bring you complete and utter mortification.

Today my cable company came out to see if they could re-hook my cable, which was partially disconnected by that unnamed large satelite tv provider henceforth known as the devil (and I signed a 2-year contract with the devil, ya'll).

The cable company said that they don't go into the attic or anything, but that their guy would check the cable box and see if they could just re-hook it there, otherwise the devil would have to do it.

So this afternoon a youngish, not unattractive man (Isaac if you're reading this, the only reason I mention that is because it makes my mortification that much worse. If you were a woman you'd understand this) so, a youngish, not unattractive man shows up at my door and looks at the cables and decides to go above and beyond the call of duty.

Literally.

He went up into the attic to see what he could see.

And what he saw were two foundational garments hanging on the doorknob that he had to unlock and open to get to the attic access through our laundry room.

And ya'll.

Ya'll.

I don't have small, discreet foundational garments.

So I did what any modest girl would do and pretended that it didn't happen, that they didn't exist and that he didn't see anything.

And then he went into my bedroom to check the outlets there.

My bedroom.

By now most of you know about my laundry habits while my husband is deployed.

So, needless to say, there were more foundational garments lying on the bed in all their not-small glory.

The bed which he had to get behind to reach the cable outlet.

I won't even mention the boudoir pictures on the wall that I had taken for my husband two years ago when he was in Afghanistan and I was skinny.

The ones of me in my foundational garments and little else.

The ones I would hide if I knew someone was going into my bedroom.

I really just might die of the mortification.