The fruit cup that saved my butt (and my $1,000)

Tuesday morning was rough.

It began with a fairly innocent phone call. "Don't forget to pay Ricky the rent," hubby said. "The money's in your purse."

I was sitting at my desk around 8 when I called Ricky, our landlord, who is a trip. When we hung up, the plan was that he would swing by the job and get the cash. Yes, there was this envelope that had many, many hundred-dollar bills rolled up in it. And it had his name on it.

After I hung up the phone, I searched my purse for the envelope. It wasn't there. So I called hubby, who insisted that the money was in my purse; our pleasant conversation quickly turned into panic.

And then, we both recalled the previous night--ugh.

"You threw it away," he said, as if the revelation hit him like a bag of bricks, his voice trembling. "Whaaaaaa?" I said. I wasn't even standing, but my knees were weak. And in my mind, I could see the previous night.

It was a simple, stupid argument over the stranger with the rash. (I know, it's crazy.)

So, this guy leaves me this voice mail that goes like this: "Hey, I'm not coming into work until, you know, I get this, uh, rash checked out. I got to go see the doctor. So, uh, I'll let you know how it turns out."

I thought it was hilarious. But, I was offended when hubby didn't see the humor, feel the humor with me. And so I rolled my eyes and then he rolled his eyes. And then I snapped at him because he reacted to me and I reacted to him reacting to me. You get it, right?

I wanted to find my lip gloss in my purse at just that moment, but he had crammed all of this mail into my purse earlier in the day. So, I took out all of the clutter and threw it into his lap. "Get your crap out of my purse," I said.

"Oh really? I don't think so," he said. "You can pick it up, too. 'Cause I'm not going to."

"Oh really?" I replied. "Well, you can pick it up out of the trash can if you really want it!"

Yup, it was one of those really stupid fights. And I remembered the moment I put that wad of papers in the trash can. And I also remembered how, later that night, he had taken all of the trash to the dumpster.

Gulp. It was gone.

It was only 8:30 and I was on my way to that dumpster. When I got there, I opened the stinky, dirty top and it was completely empty. There was not one bag of trash in it.

I sat right by the curb and, in defeat, realized that my emotions had just cost me more than a $1,000. I got into my car, and the tears streamed down. I was so mad at myself. No, I was mad at hubby. No, I was mad at Rash Guy for leaving me that message.

I was just mad. And then I was mad that this could bring our family to our knees. You know, hubby is not on salary until next month. I am holding things together. Family of six on one income, and it made me mad. (I want so much more.)

I just couldn't go back to work. I needed to cry this one out and maybe wash my hands with really, really hot water. When I walked in the door, I prayed for a miracle, but I kind of knew it was too late. It was trash day all over Gainesville.

I looked in one last place, though. The garbage can in the kitchen. It was empty. Except for ... a sloppy fruit cup. (Oh, the dreaded fruit cup that Mr. E, the 3-year-old, begged me for that dreaded night.) The sticky juice had seeped out of the cup and it sort of stuck to the bottom.

And you know what else stuck? Beneath the sticky juice cup? A wad of papers. And beneath that wad of papers, a sticky envelope filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills, covered in fruit-cup juice.

Did the dreaded fruit cup just save me more than $1,000? "I love this fruit cup! I love it. Oh, thank you, God!"

I guess hubby dumped out the trash bag instead of just taking it out entirely. Oh, I love hubby! And I even love Rash Guy! On the way back to work, not even 9:30 am, my feelings of anger had transformed, and I had love for everyone. Love for hubby, love for the trash men, love for even Rash Guy. But, especially love for the fruit cup.

I will never look at another fruit cup quite the same. Ever.