Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Egg and Cheese Sandwich Tragedy

So I woke up about 20 minutes late this morning, yet took my sweet ol’ time getting ready for work. Apparently I have an attitude today.

I was not interested in racing around the bedroom with eyelash curlers, hairbrushes and sandals flying around in the air in the vain hope that they would land on the appropriate body part for which they were intended. (Eyelash curlers provide very little arch support for one’s feet and hairbrushes are a little too big and bulky to adequately curl one’s eyelashes without causing grievous corneal abrasions.)

Nevertheless, I somehow managed to get downstairs (relatively) on schedule. Not that I had time, mind you, to sit down to a leisurely breakfast. Instead, I tossed back my morning vitamins while simultaneously cutting up some melon for my lunch and then hurling it into my lunch bag while Vince finished cooking my egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. He carefully scooped the egg and melted cheese out of the pan and carefully placed it atop the slice of sausage, which was atop a thin smear of sour cream, which was atop a “to-go” plate. (Vince makes great egg sandwiches!)

The two of us were like a smoothly choreographed machine as we worked together in our little kitchen to get me out the door (relatively) on time. He poured the coffee into the mug while I grabbed a paper towel to blot up any errant sliver of egg that might potentially land on my cheek whenever I was finally able to take a bite.

So in my arms I juggled my suitcase of a purse, insulated lunch bag, paper towel, thermos of coffee, the latest Janet Evanovich novel to read during lunchtime and the egg sandwich. I didn’t yet have my car keys in hand, but I knew they were somewhere in the deep recesses of my suitcase of a purse. Since I don’t lock my car door when it’s in the garage, I wasn’t overly concerned about not having my keys since I wouldn’t need them until after I’d seated myself and placed all my belongings on the passenger seat.

You know what’s coming…don’t you? Oh, yes. Disaster struck and I dropped the sandwich as I slid into the driver’s seat. Naturally, it couldn’t have been the book as that wouldn’t have caused sour cream and melted cheese to smear down the front of my shirt. Nor would it have been a great tragedy had the coffee mug dropped on my lap as it is hermetically sealed and nearly impossible to spill. (At least somebody was thinkin’ and knew enough not to trust me with an open container of coffee!)


Maybe this is an every day type of occurrence for some people, but I don’t generally spill food down the front of my shirt. Well, at least not until recently. Vince tells me it’s a family trait, which I sadly seem to be picking up. Woohoo! I’m in the family now!!

Not really how I wanted to become part of the group.

I can see the future now…and it looks like I’ll never be able to get rid of my suitcase-sized purse as I’ll have to begin hauling around Tide Stick, Wet-wipes and spare shirts in an effort to look presentable in public. I’ll have to avoid at all costs eating messy barbecue wings and ribs. Ice cream cones? A thing of the past since I’d most likely drop the scoop down the front of me before taking the first taste.

Soon my shirts may start to resemble a few of Vince’s shirts with their mystery stains down the front that don’t come out even after pre-treating with Shout. Which, by the way, we purchase by the gross instead of by the bottle. (Sorry to “out” you, honey. It’s sort of a Shout Out. Ha.)

Anyway, I’m thinkin’ that perhaps I should design some inexpensive shirt cover-ups with fancy designs and a handy pocket at the bottom for food to conveniently land. Oh yeah, it’s already been done. They’re called “bibs.”

At least a bib would have prevented the reaction I had this morning, which was to (a) swear loudly and with gusto before (b) breaking down in tears as (c) I couldn't think of a replacement outfit that I could quickly swap for my dirty clothing.

Vince helpfully ran out with paper towels to blot up the mess, but the task required more than mere “blotting.” However, by this point, I no longer stood a chance of getting to work “relatively” on time. So I told him I would try to take care of it at work and planned to button my jacket to hide the stain.

On the drive to work (once I wiped off the tears lest they plop on my shirt
and leave yet another mark), I debated whether or not to head to the store at lunchtime to pick up the aforementioned Tide Sticks and wet wipes. Either that – or I considered going shopping for a brand new outfit.

I discarded the idea because I figured there wasn't enough time in a single hour to adequately explore my angst and soothe it with subsequent retail therapy. After work, however...

Heyyyy….now there’s an idea….! A little retail therapy to get over the spilled egg and cheese sandwich tragedy. I like it! (And maybe I can stock up on spare outfits as they will clearly be needed from now on.)

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