I think I’ve hit the point of sleep deprivation where continuous thought becomes practically impossible.
I believe this because I have five different blog posts started and yet am hitting a solid writers block when I try to figure out what how to finish them.
I’ve also started to feel the pressure to give you something to read that doesn’t involve baby, baby, baby! (Did you hear that sing-songy, “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” tone? Because that’s how I wrote it with the soundtrack in my head.)
However, when I try to think of anything in my life that’s not baby, baby, baby!, my eyes cross and I begin to drool.
This mental state may be an explanation for why I spit on my own leg yesterday.
Might I explain?
Shortly after we put the kids to bed last night I high-tailed it out of the house to our local Wal-Mart, shopping list with price matches in hand. I left the baby, baby, baby! with my husband, which meant I had a small window of opportunity before the sweet, nibble-worthy angel turned into a inconsolable, starving banshee.
(Have you ever considered a newborn baby, baby, baby! truly has no idea they aren’t going to starve to death at any moment? Food security is an acquired conviction.)
Regardless of the inherent risk involved in a solo shopping trip, a mother (and her family) cannot live on Fruit Gushers and Sour Cream and Onion Ritz Toasted Chips alone, so off to the market I went.
My friends. Oh, my friends. You see things after 9 p.m. at Wal-Mart that burn your retinas. Seriously. I had seen hints of this while browsing the People of Wal-Mart website, an experience which has scarred me forever, but I had never actually seen what comes out at night at our local Wal-Mart.
Nor have I ever had to perform shopping cart Olympics to avoid the various pitfalls of the stocking teams! I came close to a slow, humiliating death by forklift three separate times.
And yet, I lived to tell the story.
After this death-defying grocery escapade I thanked my lucky stars and scurried home to my long-suffering husband and sweet baby, baby, baby! Shortly after arrival to the home front, I realized the only thing that would erase the dirty feeling of Wal-Mart after 9 pm was a shower.
While in the shower I began to cough. And cough. And cough. Until I lost part of my lung.
Those coughs, they produced a solid ball of phlegm the like of which I’ve never known. I was so shocked and startled by its arrival in my oral cavity I spit it as quickly as possible.
I am not a spitter. I know that’s a shocking confession from a woman whose husband has accused her of never actually having fun or a childhood, but there you have it. Bah humbug.
I have never won a watermelon seed spitting contest.
I have never participated in a “farmer blow” nostril clearing.
I do not chew tobacco, so the need for a spittoon has never entered my life.
Thus, with this terrible lack of experience, I am not particularly ashamed my first loogie-hawking experience ended with a glob of yellow mucous adhered to my practically non-existent calf muscle.
(I’ve never written loogie before, either. Is it really loogie? That seems to conjure a little guy named Luigi in a green shirt and blue overalls who collects mushrooms and bashes blocks with his best buddy, Mario.)
(I Googled this phrase, because that’s what I do, and I discovered there are alternate spellings. Lougie, loogie, loogy, or lunger. Also hawked or hocked. But what I love best is Urban Dictionary’s explanation this is phrase is short for “lung cookie.” Consider yourself enlightened – you can thank me in the comments.)
While I’m not ashamed of my mucous propulsion because it’s not a skill set I’ve ever tried to acquire, I still recognize there are many reasons to give thanks each day, and yesterday my number one reason for thankfulness was my absolutely disgusting foray into nasty nasal expulsions came while I was in the shower.
I washed that junk down the drain.
Then I turned the water to complete “HOT” and scalded my skin off in a desire to purify my leg.
I felt better. So I tweeted about it.
A friend asked me over Twitter why I would spit on my leg. I have no answer, my dear Anne-friend, except, I suppose, to keep me humble.
Because raising four exceptionally blunt children who comment on my expanded midsection and pudgy backside isn’t enough for someone as prideful as yours truly. I have to spit on myself to stay in touch with reality.
What keeps you humble these days?
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