If you’re ever wondering what life with Nicole is really like…I’ll give you a little glimpse…
I went to the grocery store on Sunday because I ran out of my main food group: Corn Pops (yes, you can sponsor me, Kellogg’s). As I was paying, I donated to a charity and I was offered a bag of candy or a big ol’ helium balloon as a token of appreciation.
I’m sure you can guess what I went with.
Off I go with my big balloon. Specifically a heart shaped balloon.
I get home and sit in the car for ten minutes because carrying groceries inside is top of the list of things I strongly dislike and my driveway from Hell is a sheet of ice right now. After I listen to Missy Elliott get her freak on, I muster up the energy to haul ass and groceries inside.
I have a death grip on the balloon which is whipping around in the wind. I do one of those arm flailing slips and my puffy parka, that I should have been wearing, goes flying across my yard. I cuss and leave it there because I am determined to get this balloon safely into my house. I step up to the front door, manage to get my keys out of my pocket with the balloon thwacking me in the head, and then…as if in slow motion…the keys slip from my fingers and drop down between the foundation of my house and my concrete steps. Into a crack maybe an inch or two wide. Thwoof. Gone.
I throw my corn pops with a fury and lie down across the top step to peer down the crack. It’s getting dark now and I can barely see. I have a giant embarrassing key chain to keep me from losing my keys daily and I can see my bright blue mini flashlight which would have come in handy right about now but is inconveniently attached to the key chain. I attempt to reach down the crack to grab the keys but my hand DOES. NOT. FIT. I try using the arm of my sunglasses. Genius right? If I can just…hook.it. With arm of sunglasses…
I lose sunglasses to the crack.
I refuse to let go of the balloon. I’ve got a death grip on heart balloon, people. I will not let that ma’ effer go. I may be found frozen to death on my front step but I will have a pretty heart balloon.
So now I’m sitting on front step. Parka on. Eating dry corn pops. My shovel handle won’t fit down the crack. The ice chipper thingy I’ve stolen from the ex-husband won’t fit. I should note that my key chain has my only car key on it because I accidentally threw my other key fob into the garbage at work. Don’t ask. I don’t even bother questioning these events anymore. I’m a walking Seinfeld episode and these corn pops are making me thirsty.
I decide I will make my hand fit NO MATTER WHAT. I jam my apparently fat hand down the crack – screw the pain. Who needs all those layers of skin anyways? I will prevail!! I manage to touch the key chain but keep shoving it further away. And now my dog has started barking incessantly at me from just inside the door. “Oh hey, Dixie. Now would be a good time to learn to open the effing door!!!”
I finally reach the keys and by some miracle I shimmy them out. Hand scraped to hell but I give myself a little high five.
And then my door won’t freaking open. Did I forget to mention that when it’s really cold, the door just won’t open? ‘Cause yeah, that. The knob won’t turn. I’m kicking the door. Blowing on the knob. Shush, you cheeky buggers. Yelling at the dog to please stop barking. For the love of all things holy. Just. Stop. Barking. Door finally goes flying open (thank you, hot breath) and I drop everything inside.
I drag my cranky arse up the stairs to the kitchen. Where I pour the wine. With a side of corn pops.
And I admire my big balloon.
Happy Monday, babes.
With high fives and cussing,