This week is bizarre.

By 8:30am yesterday, I'd already spilt more milk on myself than I'd managed to ingest.

The garage floor was the recipient of the biggest spillage-- a whole coffee cup of milk ::bam:: all over. Then, as I attempted to drink my milk at my desk, my malfunctioning cup kept dribbling more onto my lap than went into my mouth.

I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that I very seriously considered what was wrong with me, that I couldn't master the very simple task of drinking milk. Had I, in a past life perhaps, tormented a dairy cow and this was my repayment?

Today, you'll be happy to know, I've managed to keep the milk spillage to none. Wheee! This victory, however, seems to have come with a cost.

What cost, you ask?

Other people's underwear.

Driving innocently along my way to work, I see a car pulled over to the side of the road. No biggie, right? The hazzards weren't on and it wasn't blocking traffic. Buuuuut... The man (who I must assume was the driver of said car) was hanging out beside the car, frantically yelling (assuming again) at someone on his cell phone in his underwear.

Just wearing an undershirt and his ::ahem:: snazzy boxer briefs. Lord help me.

One would think that one incident of other people's underwear would be quite enough for, let's say, at least a month, but not for me and not for the way this week is going. Oh no.

I get to work, get on the elevator with this very nice woman who works in an office near mine and who happens to be carrying (not wearing) her work clothes for the day. Included there for full viewing pleasure? Her slip and her bra.

::sigh:: Saturday best hurry up and get here. I'm a tidtad skeered about what tomorrow may bring.