sleeping the night away, confident that in the morning my eye hand coordination will be on point
Oh, no. Instead, it seems I am having problems. In the bathroom. Explosive ones.
Dudes. I didn't even know I had explosions going on all up and down in my bowel.
Unfortunately, it looks like in order to fix my bathroom jam...quagmire...toughie...enigma...stumper... metaphorical Gordian knot (Huh? *wink wink* Huh? *nudge nudge* Get it?) I need to add peppermint candies and bananas to my diet:
(cue whiny voice) Ah. Maaaaaan. I hate peppermint. And bananas! Can't I just use coffee to set off, like, controlled explosions or something?
But, yesterday, as I sat down, bowl of sliced bananas and crushed peppermint candies at my elbow, my recently arrived Mind, Mood & Memory crossword puzzle in front of me, and the ghost of my daily crossword completing Grandma in the corner, being all:
the doorbell rang.
I had a package!
And it was this:
I kid you not:
And after a quick check-in with my uterus (because, dude, seriously, that wouldn't be cool), I began to realize, my mail box, after years of a relationship full of giving and receiving, full on bonding through rain, wind, snow, sun, heat and even bird poop, doesn't know me. At. All.
At least my Google searches and I are still besties. Well, maybe.
*Anecdote to support my vocabulary choice: A year or two ago some lady walked up to me in the airport restroom as I was standing in front of one of the stalls waiting for Ellie, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you need some help. *deliberate pause* Sir?" So, see, I'm thinking, woman can totally be virile.**
**What I didn't say to the bathroom lady's face but did say in my head: Look, lady, if there is one place you can be sure someone is self identifying.....