How I Spent My "Hump" Day

I feel a bit more calm now that I've announced a due date for my silly little book project. And when the phone rang at exactly 9:11 this morning I thought : "Ohhh. That's spooky." And then, when I visited Nonojean's blog and was visitor number 911 I thought: "That's freaky-deaky!" I'd like to think these are pointed instances reconfirming the sheer significance of that date: September 11th.

I had to do laundry last night. I had no choice. It was either do laundry or choose between pretty butt-less panties or Polo boxer briefs. I didn't want to have to go there. Or to Kmart to buy new panties ( I did that once and ended up with a pair of 99 cent undies from Walmart. They fell apart. In four hours. I was wearing the equivalent of a fig leaf while trying to maintain a smile at my Payless job. THAT wasn't easy.)

Summer had decided to come over and keep me company while I worked. She would not be partaking in the laundry brigade due to freshly dried clothes feeling "icky" to her freakish shoestring fries fingers. Oooooookay. So we make dinner. Breadsticks with garlic, pasta with marinara and a fresh salad (leftover from take out from Outback) with bacon bits and bleu cheese.

I "accidentally" made a peach cobbler too.

And then "accidentally" had some.

With ice cream.

Twice.

Anyway, we were picking up our used plates and walking them to the sink (not the dishwasher because it is rendered useless by Home Depot's crackpot installers. I curse them. And their power tools. Grrr.) when Summer belched so loud one of my Tiffany earrings dislodged from my lobe.

I slowly turned to look up at her.

She smacked her gums and tilted her head to the left.

This was her thinking pose.

Knowing it would take some time for a coherent thought to form I decided to take a huge swig of my soda, in attempt to finish it off.

"Tasteslikegreenpepper," she concluded.

There were no peppers in our meal - at all.

I busted out laughing, which wouldn't have been so bad except my mouth was still full of soda and the can was still held up to my lips.

I spit.

It ricocheted off the can and went in my eye, up my nose, down my chin, between my breasts and, yes, even in my bra where it pooled with the bits of stray noodle and lettuce.

I couldn't get too mad at her for making me spew Coca-cola, after all, it didn't come out my nose, only up it and I did make her go to Kmart with me to pick out new potholders. Of which I found none I liked. How funny is THAT? I stood for a good twenty minutes hemming and hawing over pot holders.

"Do you like this one? Or this one? It's by Martha Stewart. Is that good? Does it feel thick enough? Oh - this one's pink! But my kitchen is more Tuscan-y-ish... How about this plain red one? Too blah?"

I kid you not.

This is how I spent my Wednesday night.