The princess and I were out running errands today when Mr W called and asked if I wanted to meet him for lunch.
We were sitting there, eating, chatting, and trying to keep Audrey from knocking herself out under the table or stage-diving into the next booth. We were having a pleasant time, considering.
And then my supreme dorkness genes took over. These are the same genes that leave me embarassed with oh, let's see: food on my chin, or on my shirt; a laugh or sneeze at an inopportune moment, spewing forth food or drink in a shower of grossness; a lovely zit on the end of my nose that I don't notice until the end of the day; waving madly at someone, thinking they're someone I know, only to realize they are not the person you thought they were, and not only are they not the person, but they are --ewww- approaching you in what appears to be a leisure suit circa 1975. If I'm walking, and anyone's paying attention to me, you can bet I'll trip on a crack in the sidewalk, real or imagined.
So there I sat, with my beloved, eating in a civilized manner, you know, with utensils and everything, when...
I broke my heavy duty plastic fork in two.
Oh, for crying out loud. It's a burrito, not a block of cement. I start to blush just as Mr W starts laughing. The only thing that could've made it a real me moment would've been if the broken half went flying and struck Mr W or an unsuspecting diner in the eye.
At least we weren't in a steakhouse. I cringe just thinking about the damage I could do wielding a knife.
Why am I listening to the washing machine right now, you ask, at this late hour? I let Audrey, Ben, and Ryan fingerpaint while I made dinner. I put the paint out, and went about my business. I kept wondering why I saw paint smudges on the edge of the countertops, but chalked it up to Audrey going in and out. Well, that might have been what got the paint into the kitchen initially...but I managed to get some on my light pink t-shirt and spread it around myself from counter to counter. I had no idea it was even there until Mr W came into the kitchen and looked at me with the "uh-oh" face, pointing at my shirt. "Will that come out?" "What?" I look down. Fabulously true to form, one of my favorite shirts, and what appears to be blue, red, and purple (my own mix) on the bottom of it. Me and my Kohl's couture.
"It might, if I wash it right now." (At least that's what the fingerpaint jar says.)
So two hours later...and some oxy power spray n wash voodoo...I finally get it into the wash, and here we are. Oh! The washer just stopped...gotta check it...
It worked! Out, out damned spot.
Course, I'm not wearing my glasses, so the potential is there that I could be singing a different tune tomorrow. And knowing me, it'll involve cursing under my breath.