Should I be crawling back into bed world? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?
Call it a Murphy’s Law day if you will but when a series of events begin as soon as you rouse yourself in the morning, late, with no thanks to your alarm, which failed to make a dent in your bad dream, a series of events that foretell a not-so-funny-now comedy of errors to come … you ask yourself that question. Should I be crawling back into bed?
I shake off the late start (now compounded because I feel the need to write this RIGHT NOW), and am determined to start the day off right.
I need a fried egg sandwich … or “sammich,” if you will.
Now, I make no secret of the fact – stone cold fact – that I am not a domestic goddess. I boil. I open cans. I perhaps assemble. I do not “cook.” But I can make scrambled eggs and fried eggs. Usually. I swear.
I put my wee I-must-live-alone skillet on the stove, heat until med/med-high, spray a bit o’Pam in the skillet, grab bread for the toaster, an egg, and cheese. Okay. Skillet heated, I crack the egg on the counter. Dammit. Not the greatest job but it will be fine. Right?
I’m trying to crack open this badly cracked egg to reach the innards (still hungry?) and feel a twinge of dismay as two small bits of eggshell hit the hot skillet. Well, hell. Oops, two more hit.
Do I give up? Do I turn off the stove and go back to bed? My body and brain seem hopeful for second.
I have court this afternoon. *growl*
I meticulously pick out the shell bits with one hand, holding the kinda sorta broken egg in the other, glare inside the skillet for a long moment to make sure all men down have been recovered, and finally get my egg in the skillet with a sizzle. *heavy sigh*
Please tell me that this step-by-step struggle is not going to continue the rest of the day.
Anyway, if you are wandering downtown later today and see a short, suit-clad female screaming, “MULLIGAN!!!” might I suggest you find cover … fast and quietly.
And for God’s sake, do not make eye contact.