So why not post it.
I had a post talking about my horrendous morning with the kidlet, but after I had time to decompress it didn’t feel as whatever as it felt this morning so I just left it. Sitting in the drafts getting moldy. There are an awful lot of posts sitting in there like science experiments in the bottom far corners of my fridge.
Last night was the first game in the World Series. The boys had loaded bases, I think…. Pedroia was up at bat.
I took a large mouthful of excellent coffee into my mouth, swallowed once.
It went down wrong.
I had to run into the bathroom – in front of the TV, past my husband and the kidlet who were in full on Red Sox mode mingled with concern.
I not only got coffee to come out my nose three times but I think I got it in my ears too, and to make matters worse I was coughing and snorting so hard I was terrified I would wind up wetting my pants.
Coffee everywhere. All over the sink, the wall, me.
My husband, very concerned at this point, probably because I sounded like a hacking and choking mule; asks if I’m okay, I could only muster a feeble thumbs up, my arm thrusting out the door.
I am 37 years old.
This is where I’m at.
I am a sitcom character.
This is why I cannot possibly be an adult. For some reason, I picture adults as stiffer and more reserved. They wear slippers and housecoats and change their sweaters when they walk into the house. They read the newspaper and put lipstick on to vacuum, and every day they bake pie and make trifle and more than one vegetable to go with dinner while wearing their pearls.
At the very least, they certainly wear underwear every day, or a slip with their skirts and they don’t eat dinner with their fingers.
I don’t know where I get this idea in my head. Maybe I watched too much Nick at Nite when I was a kid. Maybe there was too much Leave it to Beaver or something.
Also – Why doesn’t my oven have four doors? Why does my oven only have one?