I did very possibly the grossest thing to myself yesterday.
It was so stupid that I could see it possibly being used as evidence in some landmark case whereby the District Attorney questions whether or not Weetabix is too stupid to live.
It was a food day here at work yesterday. There seems to be some consternation about the proper title to a food day. Some people call it a ‘potluck’. Some people call it a ‘pig out’, or possibly ‘pig-out’, as though the hyphen indicates a more serious fest of gluttony. Although I’ve always been a fan of calling things what they are, I hesitate to call it a ‘pig out’, with or without the hyphen, simply because it just seems to be driven by those very thin people who consider any form of eating whatsoever to be ‘pigging out’. Plus, I’ve revolted long ago from the idea that just because there is a large amount of food present, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you must eat a large amount of food. It also implies that when women see food, they will lose control of themselves and pig out. My ‘Abbie Hoffman’ brain-voice is then sullied by my ‘Gloria Steinem’ brain voice who shrieks ‘SEXISM!!!’ and then reads quotes from Fat is a Feminist Issue.
Anyway, I was eating a piece of chocolate cake while I was working. I needed to make a phone call to a client, checking up on their status. I got her voice mail, so I began leaving a detailed message, basically using far too many words to say ‘Just checking in on you, call me back’. In the middle of this, I started to feel as though I had to sneeze. I certainly didn’t want to leave her with the very unprofessional sound of someone sneezing into her voicemail, so I tried holding it off until I hung up the phone.
Which I did. As I reached up to hit the ‘release’ button on my phone, the sneeze came on my full force. I didn’t have a free hand to cover my mouth, so I turned my head to the side.
And sneezed directly onto my left boob.
I’m certain that you’ve sneezed while having just eaten something dark, like luscious gooey chocolate cake? So you know what happens?
And need I even tell you that I was wearing a powder pink t-shirt (one of my cache from the $7 T-Shirt Bonanza)?
I grabbed for emergency supply of Shout Wipes and began to scrub voraciously, but the chocolate, when mixed with snot, apparently forms a cohesive bond with cotton. It wasn’t budging. And now there was the weird ring that the Shout Wipes leave, sort of like some sadistic halo around my breast. Not to mention that my shirt was now wet. And you all know what happens with wet lightly-colored t-shirts, right?
Strangely enough, my box of Kleenex was of the light pink variety, and I draped a tissue over my breast. It was so close to the color of the shirt that no one noticed. Those who did thought that it was a slightly sloppy pocket on my shirt.
The things you do when you’ve got a wet chocolate-covered boob.
Man, one can only guess at the Google hits I’m gonna get off of this baby.
Oh, Esteban found out why the neighbor’s car is tweeting. Apparently, one of the four kids put a whistle in the tailpipe and it made them laugh so much that the dad didn’t have the heart to take the whistle out.
Um. Ok. No comment.
