Yesterday, I took a big swallow of hot soup. It burned a path from my tongue all the down to my gullet. I instantly set the soup aside and grabbed my beverage for relief.
It offered no relief. I’d washed the burning soup down with a cup of hot coffee.
Now I am pretty much afraid to move. I am thinking about booking a vacation. I have a cheap caribbean coupon code — but considering my luck and the spelling on the offer I fear where I might actually end up.
It isn’t just the one incident that made me skeptical though. On Sunday Amoeba had music practice so he went to church about an hour and a half before I did. I used my time to bustle around the house and tidy up a few things. I made the bed, put in a load of laundry, started the dishwasher and then sat down to read for a bit. Suddenly I realized I had to scoot to get to church on time. I shot out of the house and into the car. The garage door opened onto a very wet world of pouring rain.
I drove to church and parked in the back parking lot, then opened the car door and looked down. Sure enough, I parked next to a mud puddle. I would have to step very carefully.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing a lovely chiffon blouse, my black dress slacks, and bright-pink fuzzy bedroom slippers.
There was no time to go home and change. There was no way I was wearing pink fuzzy bedroom slippers to church, and there was no way I was missing the service.
That day I honored the hallowed ground appropriately. If anyone noticed, they never said a word.
So what’s next? And if stupidity comes in threes, do I really want to find out?