Good morning!
I burned the oatmeal again.
Let me back up a bit. When I woke up this morning, it was a brisk 62 degrees in the house. Still is, actually. That's ok, though, because I am wearing two bathrobes. Boo-yah. Anyway, feeling the chill in the air, and inspired by my neighbor's tree (yes, it's a very blurry tree. I don't know how she got it to grow like that), I decided to make some oatmeal. All apple-y and raisiny, with a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg. I was smug and self-satisfied as I made it, thinking of Bert asleep upstairs, and how happy he'd be. He was up half the night coughing up a lung (and maybe a spleen), after all.
Then, what do you know, I hear him hacking and go up to say good morning and get him into dry, warm clothes because he peed through his diaper again. Yes, in my bed. And we sit and snuggle in The Man's office and feel the love, and then the dang smoke detector goes off and I run downstairs cursing under my breath because I know why. Oh, I know why.
Because I burned the dang oatmeal. Again. As in, it happens about 75% of the time that I make oatmeal. And I just want to know why. Why is that the thing that I always do?
It's so lame.
Ashamed,
Hook
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