No, this isn't a hockey post, my dear invisible friend. Despite the fact that tomorrow is Game Day Six of the Stanley Cup Finals and Chicago is 3-2 over Philadelphia, I'm not going to talk about that. Much. Or much right now. No, no. This is a personal goal.
I would really like to be able to get through one meal without wearing some of my food.
One meal. One FREAKING meal.
How does this happen? And not once or twice, now and then. How does this happen all the time? Okay, okay, I can see it when I'm reading as I'm eating. As I'm perched on the couch, watching the final minutes of the third period of an awesome hockey game. When one of the hideous little beasts [AKA dogs] in my home hits my elbow as I'm about to deliver a forkful of pasta and red sauce safely to my mouth. I can see it then. But come on!
I was just having my lunch, or as I like to call it, "What Little I Am Allowed To Have On This Hellish Diet," when the combination of mustard, tomato and lean lunch meat produced a slurry of sandwich juices that--you guess it--escaped the miserable, Alcatraz-like prison of whole wheat bread to land squarely on my shirt.
Was it so bad, Oh Slurry of Lowfat Sandwichitude, that you had to break free? Is your current locale of my lavender shirt really that much better? And isn't there some profound feeling of rejection from my immediate attempts to wash you out of my shirt? You know you'll be spot-treated later. Was it worth it?
I leave it to your conscience.
I would really like to be able to get through one meal without wearing some of my food.
One meal. One FREAKING meal.
How does this happen? And not once or twice, now and then. How does this happen all the time? Okay, okay, I can see it when I'm reading as I'm eating. As I'm perched on the couch, watching the final minutes of the third period of an awesome hockey game. When one of the hideous little beasts [AKA dogs] in my home hits my elbow as I'm about to deliver a forkful of pasta and red sauce safely to my mouth. I can see it then. But come on!
I was just having my lunch, or as I like to call it, "What Little I Am Allowed To Have On This Hellish Diet," when the combination of mustard, tomato and lean lunch meat produced a slurry of sandwich juices that--you guess it--escaped the miserable, Alcatraz-like prison of whole wheat bread to land squarely on my shirt.
Was it so bad, Oh Slurry of Lowfat Sandwichitude, that you had to break free? Is your current locale of my lavender shirt really that much better? And isn't there some profound feeling of rejection from my immediate attempts to wash you out of my shirt? You know you'll be spot-treated later. Was it worth it?
I leave it to your conscience.
Don't feel too bad, my Hubby Luke has a food magnet EMBEDDED into ALL his white shirts. :) I thought you were going to talk about your carrot snort...he he!
ReplyDeleteGirl refuses to wear a white shirt for that reason. Food will find it. Drinks will find it.
ReplyDeleteBut alas, I to find food jumping onto my shirts. They must be controlled by dust bunnies.
That's my story.....;)
Ugh, don't you hate that? Pete always says that food is destined to fall on my built in shelf. "Must love husband." (*Repeat daily*)
ReplyDelete