Coke, Coke Everywhere...

There were really three things I was going to choose from to write about today. I was going to have a go at Britney Spears ('why can't we look away?' Uhm, I can. Totally), this creepy/freaky museum I went to in Salta, Argentina to look at long dead mummified children offered to the Incan gods 5 centuries ago, and a couple of stories about people with a disorder that makes them want to have their limbs amputated. You have to admit, that is a vertiable smorgasbord of topics.

But first, a blogger needs a cup of tea. As I opened the cupboard to get a mug, a little bowl I LOVE hopped out at me. It was perched precariously on a high shelf (yes, by me. I would so love to blame the kids, but they don't put anything away, let alone putting it away wrong). It kind of jumped out, which would have been bad enough. I had that slow motion moment where I knew it was going to break, and I couldn't stop it. I have terra cotta floors, and there are no second chances with terra cotta floors.

But the beloved little piece of crockery made a pit stop on the counter. It bounced against a full, soggy paper cup of Coke, a leftover from the drive-thru nastiness that was dinner last night. This too was my fault. I don't even drink pop, but when you order a dinner, you get the pop. Even if you don't ask for it. I told the girl once not to give me the pop, and she wandered away from her post for five minutes to find out if this was even legal. A manager finally came over the little speaker and begged me just to take the pop...setting precedents like this at Wendy's is harmful, apparently.

I figured someone would drink the pop. All food in this house just gets sucked into a vortex, some black hole where one moment the fridge is full, and the next moment there's only enough stuff to make celery. So I left it on the counter. Silly me.

As the bowl hit the cup, the cup sagged and popped its lid. Coke went everywhere. A new magazine was sitting on the counter. With its whisper thin pages now Coked together, the only thing that survived were a dozen of those cardboard subscription cards. Those cards are the cockroaches of the literary world. They will outlast everything.

A medium Coke is much larger if you spread it all out very thinly. The cats sat watching me. As I sopped up the mess (and threw out the pieces of my perfect bowl), I couldn't yell at anyone. This was my fault from start to finish. Three towels later, and I still have to wash the floor later. Maggie, the wee delicate cat, as I write this is walking across the floor, doing the sticky paw dance. And glaring at me.

So much for Britney and volunteer amputees.