Today I had trouble with tribbles. My husband and I are having a busy week, which is good for the latinum but bad for the nerves. Last night I had to buy a massive amount of groceries and while pushing an overflowing cart, I wrenched my back. Needless to say, I didn’t want to shop again anytime soon. But then my husband announced nonchalantly that he needed to shop for his private class tomorrow night. Since he will be at the catering job all day, he will have no time to do this tomorrow, and considering the fact that all his friends were coming over in one hour, and his dad any minute, it was on me. He said I could get everything at Sprouts, no big deal. I had to go now, and could I make sure everything was organic?
I sprinted out of the house to complete my task and still get home in time to make sure that the house was clean for his friends. I raced down to the store, to the organic produce section, only to find to my horror that this store didn’t have anything organic that was on this list. Furthermore, after taking a good hard look at the list, I would need to go to three other stores, two of which my husband had already been to that day. I was starting to feel more enraged than a constipated Klingon with a rusty batliff in the middle of battle with Romulans. Then, before I could completely rage, I looked into a reflective surface and gasped in horror. Could that be me?
In my haste to get out of the house, I had not only run out in my pajamas (t-shirt and pajama pants) but my hair was also wet from the shower, all except for my bangs, which, through some horrible quirk of heat and humidity had fanned into a puffy ball that looked like a tribble. I had a tribble on my head. This was an active tribble, too. He seemed to be doing the ‘wave’ while watching a sports game. Great. I had a sports nut tribble on my head. After grabbing non-organic versions of what my husband needed at that store I went to check out, anxious to get my tribble away. I stood in line, looking a bad magazine headlines, when I caught a cashier in another line staring at me, or more accurately, at the tribble. I could just picture my head tribble mooning the cashier, and as I stood in line, I was riveted in horror – did tribble have butts? Could they moon? I didn’t think they had faces, let alone butts. Does that mean they can’t poop? If I had one on my head I hoped it couldn’t poop and it wasn’t mooning anyone.
I ended up going to three more stores, with a head tribble, in my pajamas. I came home and everyone was already here, drinking beer and relaxing, while I was hoping my head tribble wasn’t multiplying. My husband was the only one besides me who was a little horrified, possibly because the woman he married just stomped into the house with a snarl, a growl, a head tribble, and wearing pajamas with arms full of groceries, in front of his friends.
I am still reading Dark Mirror, but now it is close to midnight and I have a glass of wine. My head tribble is cooing cutely, and hasn’t pooped on my head yet.
I sprinted out of the house to complete my task and still get home in time to make sure that the house was clean for his friends. I raced down to the store, to the organic produce section, only to find to my horror that this store didn’t have anything organic that was on this list. Furthermore, after taking a good hard look at the list, I would need to go to three other stores, two of which my husband had already been to that day. I was starting to feel more enraged than a constipated Klingon with a rusty batliff in the middle of battle with Romulans. Then, before I could completely rage, I looked into a reflective surface and gasped in horror. Could that be me?
In my haste to get out of the house, I had not only run out in my pajamas (t-shirt and pajama pants) but my hair was also wet from the shower, all except for my bangs, which, through some horrible quirk of heat and humidity had fanned into a puffy ball that looked like a tribble. I had a tribble on my head. This was an active tribble, too. He seemed to be doing the ‘wave’ while watching a sports game. Great. I had a sports nut tribble on my head. After grabbing non-organic versions of what my husband needed at that store I went to check out, anxious to get my tribble away. I stood in line, looking a bad magazine headlines, when I caught a cashier in another line staring at me, or more accurately, at the tribble. I could just picture my head tribble mooning the cashier, and as I stood in line, I was riveted in horror – did tribble have butts? Could they moon? I didn’t think they had faces, let alone butts. Does that mean they can’t poop? If I had one on my head I hoped it couldn’t poop and it wasn’t mooning anyone.
I ended up going to three more stores, with a head tribble, in my pajamas. I came home and everyone was already here, drinking beer and relaxing, while I was hoping my head tribble wasn’t multiplying. My husband was the only one besides me who was a little horrified, possibly because the woman he married just stomped into the house with a snarl, a growl, a head tribble, and wearing pajamas with arms full of groceries, in front of his friends.
I am still reading Dark Mirror, but now it is close to midnight and I have a glass of wine. My head tribble is cooing cutely, and hasn’t pooped on my head yet.
OMG! Too funny! Though if I had that day I would be drowning my sorrows with a glass of wine as well, I have to admit I have run out of the house in just the same way, including house slippers! Keep blogging, you now have at least one follower...
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