I have a nasty habit of breaking glass. I think it's due to my inner Greek. Often times it is unintentional, but I am nevertheless compelled to yell "OPA!". I had always thought that this was just due to my natural clumsiness or the second large glass of wine I had consumed before attempting to wash the dishes. Honest to God, last week I was just washing a wine glass and it actually exploded in my hand. I have witnesses. They are now all terrified of my super human powers.
It turns out that this ability, or lack thereof, may be genetic. This morning, after I realized that an orange crayon had gotten washed with MY WHITES, I decided to make biscuts and gravy. Why? Because my parents taught me to appease my emotions with food. Really unhealthy southern food. I was standing in the kitchen stirring my gravy while Ellie played with the drawer of measuring cups. I have a glass pyrex cup that I usually take out of there when she plays in the drawer. Usually. Today I forgot.
The phone rang and it was Jeremy. I barely got the word hello out of my mouth when I heard what sounded like a plate glass window being hit with a baseball bat. I turned around and the glass pyrex had shattered into ninty three million eight hundred sixty five thousand and six pieces. I also have an inner rain man and that's how I knew exactly how many pieces of glass there were.
Oh the things you will do for love. I was barefoot, but I stepped over and onto some of the glass to scoop up Ellie before she could move and step on any. All those years of going bare foot must have paid off because, apparently, the bottom of my feet also double as kevlar. I stuck her in her high chair and swept the floor four times. I think there is still some miniscule shards of glass on the floor.
It is very unfortunate that I had to accidentally blow up the vacuum cleaner the other day. I could really have used it this morning.
I put Elsbeth down for a nap and planned on having a nice, long pity party in my room. That's when I spotted Fairway (Chuck Norris's Beard) in my night stand and realized that compared to his, my problems are nothing.
After all, he used to go places, he used to get baths, he used to get petted. Now he's lucky if I'm lazy enough to throw my clothes on the floor for him to sleep on and think of me. I felt terrible, and so did he. Knowing it would make him feel better, I fed him a hearty breakfast of biscuts and gravy and then put him to bed in my clothes hamper.