Yesterday was a BAD day for me. It started with me feeling yucky at church and making John bring me home early and it ended with one hot-oatmealy-foot and one cold-pickle-juicy-foot. Traumatic.
I made breakfast-for-dinner last night. John had waffles and I decided to have oatmeal. Well, as I was sitting down on the couch to get all cozy and eat my healthy goop the bowl slipped out of my hands and fell upside-down on top of my foot!! Ugh. It was grody. Oatmeal is really hard to clean out of oatmeal-colored carpet. Lucky for me, John swooped in to save the day. Unlucky for me the oatmeal was still pretty hot and my poor toesies were suffering. So I thought what better way to make me and my toes feel better than to munch on some pickles?? Pickles are my fave. I hobbled over to the fridge, grabbed the jar, and hobbled back to the couch. But this was a brand-new jar, so I had to rip off the plastic seal and unscrew the lid - which is always a little tricky the first time - and I spilled pickle juice all over my lap and my non-oatmealy foot. Did I mention that I'd changed pants between these events? I was a mess. All I wanted was a little snack and the universe was playing all these tricks on me.
Needless to say I went straight to bed sobbing like a little kid. That's when John swooped in to rescue me [again]. He's such a stud. I just love it when he holds me and runs his fingers through my hair and kisses my poor sad little face.
Today was better. Probably because I didn't try to eat anything on the couch... I perused the internet and applied for some jobs in Idaho Falls until John came home from school. Then we had Arby's for lunch and by dinner time I was ready to brave the kitchen. Spaghetti didn't sound so hard. While I was cooking the ground beef I asked John to fill and pot with water and put it on the stove. So he did just that. Just that. He didn't turn the stove on to boil the water. Then after all the spaghetti was cooked and ready and on the table John said, "I want garlic bread too." So I huffed - like a good little wifey - and preheated the oven. When I opened the 425° oven to put the bread in I found a smoking pizza box. John had put our leftovers in there from Saturday and I didn't notice it. [I'm actually under the impression that I'm the only one who uses the kitchen, which is completely not true, but it's a whole different world inside my noggin.] I freaked out thinking it was on fire and grabbed the oven mitt - spilling the bag of spaghetti noodles in the process. At this point John was just laughing. So I charged him. And then stumbled over the trash bag and his feet trying not to spill the juice he was holding.
It was pretty hilarious. It was the kind of moment that makes you wish you had a hidden camera so you could go back and watch it later.
Today's moral? For all my efforts to make dinner on a semi-regular basis, I really don't belong in the kitchen.