It’s been a minute since I’ve written about one of my infamous craptastic days. Lucky for me, they are sprinkled into my life here and there like tiny carrot sticks in a fresh summer salad.
Just when I’ve managed to make it through an entire day, week, or month, without shooting myself in the foot metaphorically speaking of course, these days present themselves almost as if the universe is whispering to me, “Hey Angie – your doing great, just great…but you did get a little cocky there…I’m going to dial it back for you a bit, okay? Great! Here’s a little something to remind you of your humility and of course it needs to be in front of someone you know.”
Oh and I’m currently listening to Goon Poop by Castlebeat. Yes you read that correctly – Goon Poop. Fun song. Fun band.
This past Tuesday was such a day. Lucky for you, I have pictures of Cecilia, which have absolutey nothing to do with the story. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. But if you really want to see the casualty, private message me, cause I took some gnarly pictures to commemorate the event.
A couple of weeks ago we were enveloped in temperatures below 60 degrees. If your anything like me, weather below 60 degrees screams “SOUP!”. So of course, I purchased all of my ingredients to make this awesome chicken tortilla soup we discovered last winter.
The soup was always at the top of the kids request list and constantly in our fridge as a back-up meal. Everyone loved it. So naturally, I brought it back.
As usual, that week in particular got away from us: sports, school work, church, family commitments and of course sickness. Oh and it got into the mid-to-high 60’s the following week. And no one wants to eat soup in 60 degree weather.
So a whole week goes by and of course naturally, I completely forgot about the soup. And yes mother, before you text me I’m just letting you know we ate a good portion of it. Despite what you may think, I’m not into wasting food. In fact I would say there was about a quart of soup left in the bowl. Total lie by the way…there was a lot left, but for the purposes of this story, we don’t need to delve into those silly little details.
I needed an empty vessel and wasn’t able to locate any in the drawer. Of course when I opened the refrigerator, I found the bowl I needed. Sadly, it was filled with the chicken tortilla soup from the previous week. It was staring at me with its weapy eyes. I heard the beginning base guitars’ notes of Metallica’s Enter Sandman playing in my head.
Carefully, I took the bowl into my hands and calmly transferred it to the sink. Let me tell you, the full on assault it perpetrated on my nose had me dry heaving in no time. That’s right friends…I almost aquamanned.
I have strong feelings about putting liquid in trash cans. I buy thin cheap trash bags that smell flowery. Plus I break stuff all the time. Something’s always poking through and of course liquid trails it’s way across our floors.
This called for an enemy of the highest levels…the disposal.
“Tossing it” I sang to myself and did a little booty shake cause I don’t like (winking at you mother) wasting anything. I tossed the leftover rancid offensive (if you’ve got a better adjective, slip it in here) smelling soup down the disposal.
Side note: when I think of the word ‘disposal’ I say it like “dispose ALL”. “All” to me means EVERYTHING. In turn EVERYTHING includes and is not limited to small – medium sized shredded chicken chunks, black beans, and small chunks of tomato.
Dispose ALL = EVERYTHING.
We’ve reached the point in the story where I convey how confused and disgusted I was when my disposal began spitting chunks of the soup back at me and the entire sink was shaking and vibrating And then out of nowhere, it just stopped. It was humming but not masticating or disposing of the food. And the remaining broth along with the water from the faucet just became stagnant. And of course it reeked. What the hell.
I did the dreaded dead of sticking my hand down the large tub of nastiness in an effort to free whatever it was that was stuck. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything obvious obstructing the flow.
And as if on cue, the universe sent my husband up stairs from the depths of hell our basement. It was in that moment when a couple of clues came together to reveal absolute destruction was in his midst. No doubt the look on my face was quite possibly the biggest tell. Then there was the awful sound of the disposal wanting to work, but utter lack of motor turnover to actually complete the task.
Greg has an innate ability to peel back every mundane layer known to man getting him face to face with the root cause. A majority of the time, he’s able to solve the problem There are those instances where he has to admit defeat and toss the mess, but that’s only after an exhaustive effort to fix the problem. I sometimes call him my little “appliance detective”. Sadly, I don’t share the gift or the patience to fix appliances. My grammatically incorrect motto is: if it don’t work, go buy one that does!
I will skip the whole, “Sorry babe, your not mad at me right” conversation and go straight to the point where he announced he would probably need to undo some pipes in the basement to allow the obstruction to flush itself out of the system. As soon as he made the announcement, I realized I needed to pick up one of the kids from something…anything…it was 30 minutes past the hour. Someone’s got to be in jeopardy of being late for something and someone is going to need to be somewhere very important.
That classic Greg look of, “Thanks babe” appeared on his previously happy and unassuming face. He was just coming upstairs to go to the bathroom for crying outloud.
Admittedly, I just didn’t want to be there to watch the chicken tortilla soup and whatever else, spill out of our pipes. Plus I frustrate him. I ask questions and make time double because…I just don’t understand how pipes work…I will now batt my eyes and curtsy.
After several hours of trying to find something to do in town, I received a text from Greg. It was just a lone picture of him with a ridiculous amount of soup all over his hair, shirt and face. There was also a disgusting puddle on the floor. Under the picture was a single sentence which read, “When you get home, your cleaning the mess”.
So while this particular incident didn’t involve a multitude of disasters at once – which is usually the norm for me, it did add on to other daily responsibilities. And not to mention, I had to live with Greg for the next couple of days AFTER he bathed in the remains of the soup. And I’m here to tell you, I dry heaved the entire time while cleaning it up. Nasty, with a capital N.
