There is really a tremendous amount of gross in my life right now, and we are not talking about my inappropriate thoughts about, um, Ryan Lochte.
I’d love to be able to blame it on that whole birthing-three-live-humans thing. And, well, while they are messy and often sticky, I cannot blame any of the recent grossness on any of them. Oh no, these are all me and my pesky pal Murphy who happens to basically come by to visit more than neighbors who just drop by unannounced.
(Actually I don’t have any of those. I wish I did. I have lots of sugar and eggs to spare…but no one ever comes to borrow any!)
It started on the Friday before the long weekend. With this. Of course.
I had my iPhone in my back pocket and went into the bathroom to do what one does in the bathroom and forgot about said phone. Until there was a strange sort of clink sound that one does not often hear when sitting on a toilet. Because I have seen far too many horror movies in my 34 years on this earth, I, of course, assumed I was going to look in the toilet and see Spike from Gremlins. Or worse. Instead. I saw my poor phone doing the back float.
Without thought to how unclean even a clean toilet is, I swooped in to save the day. I cradled it and thanked heaven that it was still working. It didn’t needÂ resuscitation, obviously, but I have seen enough medical dramas to know that things can happen later on, post-surgery. So I gave her a rice bath for two daysâ€”despite the fact that I felt completely useless and nude without my phone.
And when I tried to wake her up. DEADER THAN DEAD. I knew, of course. And mourned. And mourned. And found myself at one of the only Apple stores open on Labor Day. I apologized to the lovely, lovely genius who helped me. I mean, dude had to work on labor day and handle a phone that went for a dip in my toilet. $169 later I was the proud owner of a replacement phone. The only thing lost was some of the pictures.
And my dignity.
Lest you think the gross ended there, alas, you clearly don’t know me all that well.
Because just this week, I stopped at an unnamed coffee shop to pick up a coffee and a croissant. Actually, I stopped for coffee. The croissant was just a whim purchase, which I justified because it wasn’t like I was buying a cd on a whim…it was a pastry. I have been letting Antonio kick my ass for weeks now and have been doing squats (HATE!) and burpees (HATE EVEN MORE!) up the wazoo.
So, I smiled. And stuffed the delicious goodness into my gob.
It had wings. And a face.
Or, if we are being more specific…one wing and half a face.
Anyone want to guess where the rest of the dead winged thing was?
I think I’ll just go back to thinking about Ryan Lochte now.
Somehow it seems less gross. #jeah