Bad thing number 89 about life in a cubicle farm:
When your intestines sound like a 4-wheeler spinning out in a mud pit, everyone else can hear them too.
Tuesday nights are small group nights at our house. A bunch of folks (or maybe just 1 or 2) from church come over and we discuss whatever was preached about the previous Sunday. It can be very very interesting, especially when we start to read what’s AROUND the verse used to support the message.
Let’s just say that once you start that kind of reading, you realize that ‘context’ is key.
Anyhow. People start coming over at 6:30, and normally stay for a couple of hours. We spend a good deal of time just chatting and having coffee, eventually winding up plowing through question prompts and exploring all over our various versions of the good book.
It’s the 6:30 that’s the most difficult part of the whole affair. It might not SEEM like it to most people, but if you’ve worked all day, having your house clean, the dishes done, the coffee made, the snacks put out, and sanity in check by 6:30 p.m. is sometimes a very difficult task.
Especially when both parts of the ‘hosting couple’ slide in the door at 6:15…which is what happened this past week.
Which, in turn is why the oven was full of dirty dishes last night. That’s right – we stashed the dirty dishes from the NIGHT BEFORE in the oven, where they stayed for a further day. What could possibly go wrong with that? Well, I’ll tell ya – 48 hours of unrinsed dishes marinating in their own grease and funk in a closed space can generate a miasma powerful enough to turn stomach from a half a house away. Something evil was brewing in that oven, and I shudder to think what might have happened if we hadn’t done the washing-up last night. Spontaneous generation, anyone?
Maybe giving rise to something like THIS?
And have a lovely day. Tiff out.