Of all the mornings for chaos to ensue, why did it have to be this morning?
In case I haven’t mentioned it already, we’re in the process of selling our house. We found our “forever home” in early December and, by Christmas, had the papers signed and the inspection done, making it the biggest and best present ever.
So then we turned our attention to the townhouse unit we currently own. I tell ya, de-cluttering and staging a house for sale is not a fun process. We painted, we cleaned, we tidied, we stuffed extraneous odds and ends into a storage space, and spent long nights making everything look purdy. (A neurotic, perfectionist, obsessive-compulsive’s dream come true.)
Today’s the first day of showings, so we tiptoed around, trying our best to get ready for work without disturbing the pristine space we had created. I got up extra-early so that I could do those few last-minute things like wiping down the table, putting out the garbage, etc. I was also on tap to prepare the Doodle’s breakfast.
Juice poured, cutlery and plates out, I open the cupboard to get at the peanut butter. That’s when all hell breaks loose.
This rivals the cheesecake incident in its grandeur, I kid you not.
A bottle of hot sauce, perched precariously on the top shelf, leaps off in a spectacular dive, landing on the full glass of juice. The juice splashes all the way up the side of the fridge, inside the cupboard and onto the ceiling, before pooling in a lake of citrus yellow on the counter. The hot sauce continues its gravity-fed journey, knocking over my drinking glass in the process, which falls to the floor and shatters into three billion tiny pieces, some of which are projected out into the living room. Finally, the hot sauce comes to rest with a resounding crash, busting open the cap and spraying its contents all over the now glass-covered floor.
I stand for a few minutes, in juice-soaked, dumbfounded wonder, cursing Murphy and his stupid law. Taking a breath, I call out, “A little help down here, please.”
The Doodle replies with, “Uh-oh, Mummy. What happened? Did you break a wine glass?”
No, sweetie. That would have been a lot easier to deal with.
We cleaned up, re-washed the floor, emptied the garbage of its now hot sauce-infused stench and still made it out the door with time to spare. Hubby assures me that everything will be fine, but with my nostrils clogged with the pungent aroma of this accidental marinade even an hour later, I’m convinced I’ve totally sabotaged our prospects. Thanks a lot, Murphy.