Disaster struck our house this morning. More specifically our kitchen. I was in bed reading, Laura had just gotten back from class and all of a sudden it sounded like the world was caving in on itself. There was the sound of broken class, but it was more than that. It was like that millisecond sound of a car crash stretched out over long, painful seconds. I had absolutely no idea what it could be, but I knew it was bad. Laura and I turned to each other, almost more stumped than shocked.

We went into the kitchen and I couldn’t believe it. There was glass everywhere. Broken plates, mugs, bowls. Jars of spices, beans, rice, sugar. And the bottle of Don Julio Tequila that Laura gave me for Christmas and which I moved from our bedroom to that very cupboard just a couple hours earlier.

The whole cupboard had come off the wall, had come crashing down. It must have bounced off the sink and then fallen the last three feet to the ground. We stood looking over it all in silence. Finally … “Que de la chingada?! What the fuck?!”

But there were no answers to be found. Besides shoddy construction and poorly designed Ikea cupboards. Whoever put it up there just used a few thin screws and a smudge of adhesive. The result: hundreds of dollars of broken plates, dishes, and liquor. And so it goes.

It all happened 10 minutes before Laura had to start working and I had to pick up Crystal from school so it’s still there (I’m typing this at work myself - shh, don’t tell anyone), a monument of bad luck. (ooh, and I forgot to mention - I did some hardcore cleaning this morning before rewarding myself with bed and a book)