That title is pretty creative, right? A good title draws the reader in and well, I can’t make this shit up. I mean, I can, but my reality is often more entertaining than anything my imagination could makeup.
Yesterday, I was the pillar of being of service. Being the dutiful daughter, I escorted my mother to get her hair done. It had been three weeks since she had been coiffed and friends, she is old school where normally it is a once a week affair. Before being her assistant for a few hours, my spouse put my sweet potato aka my favorite carb in the slow cooker. I love sweet potatoes so much, I wish I could marry them. I knew that when I got home that delectable potato would reward me for a job well done. What I found is that this particular spud was an asshole.
For three hours, this tater had been cooking and it was still hard. Ugh. So, I put it in the oven for another hour hoping that it would aid in the process. This has never happened. I have never had a potato treat me this way. It was disappointing and I must say, it triggered some trust issues. Anyway, four hours after the asshole was put in the slow cooker, it was finally done. At this point, I was hangry, and the joy of savoring the deliciousness of my tater had dissipated. Sigh.
I couldn’t allow one tater to ruin my life, so I turned my attitude around. After all, it is my birthday weekend, and I am pretty jazzed about turning 52. We went to dinner last night with a large contingency of Brian’s family. It’s a fun, boisterous group and I love when we are able to gather. So, we are at a Mexican restaurant where I was serenaded by the waiters while wearing a sombrero. Let’s just say that while I am being sung to, I am overthinking the amount of people’s heads that have occupied this hat. It was grossing me out, so it is no wonder that when one of the waiters shoved whipped cream in my face, I was surprised and thought I might die. Let me explain.
I am still getting over my germ invasion, so I am a tad congested. When the delightful person shoved whipped cream in my face, 90 percent of it, went up my nose while the other 10 percent covered my mouth. For a few moments, my life passed before my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. Is this how my life would end? Death by whipped cream asphyxiation in a Mexican restaurant? I know, I sound dramatic, but you weren’t there. You didn’t experience my struggle for air. Anyway, I obviously survived to continue to spread my twisted ray of sunshine to the world, but it was a close call.
Today, I woke up with a renewed sense of spirit. I suppose that happens when death knocks on your door. Perhaps, my sweet potato will cooperate today, and maybe, I will stop smelling whipped cream everywhere. I swear that I think some of that dairy concoction has taken up residence in my sinuses. Delightful.
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