I'm no poet, but my bud Stacey sent me an "Ode to Why I Don't Wanna Write My Thesis." And that beautiful prose prompted me to post my own personal poetry about a rather icky event that happened this weekend.
My weekend was to be filled with merriment and mirth,
my dear hubby, Harry, salt of the earth,
had turned 26! Oh what joy and what bliss!
I threw him a party, a surprise not to miss!
He picked up his granny (formerly "hermit couch")
and I toiled around, I was no slouch!
I put on the water, and prepped up the noodles!
I browned the rolls, the bread, the whole kit-n-caboodle!
I opened the slaw and went to the fridge
to get the sauce, two kinds, I wouldn't kid!
To the counter I plopped the one made of meat
and reached in for the marinara, oh what a feat!
It slipped from my hands and I watched in horror
as it flew to the ground like a mobster's fedora!
It landed with a thud on the white tiled floors
and before my very eyes it exploded, for sure!
Splash! To the floors that were once white!
Splash! To the tile marked red with fright!
Swoosh! To the fridge, that damned old foe!
Swoosh! To my shoe, and my big toe!
Flop! To the ceiling were it hung like blood!
Flop! To the carpet, where the sauce went thud!
In walked my sister, my mother, my niece
and spied me sitting, hands red, and no Phoebe.
They stared at me, trying to see what had happened,
they stared at me and just couldn't fathom,
why I would kill my dearest furball and only pet
on the day that my hubby's surprise was set.
My sister, walked past me to the table instead,
and started blowing balloons, not a word was said
on why the ceiling, the floor and the fridge,
was covered with a substance of apparent carnage.
The day ended happily, candles were blew-out
Harry had fun at his party, happiness throughput.
No one mentioned the incident, or the ghastly sight,
but everyone was relieved when Pheebs waddled in that night!
(Disclaimer - actually, the marinara on the ceiling wasn't noticed until after a late-night trip to Kmart, when Summer, my dear sis, chewing on one a french fry (oops - sorry - that was one of her crazy skinny pale fingers) says: "Uh, sis? Are you sure that sauce didn't hit the ceiling, too?" I looked up and then took the lord's name in vain. Then, of course, I looked at Harry. He, without looking up says : "Don't worry, I'll clean it.")