And We Don't Even Have Kids Yet

Growing up we weren't allowed to eat in the living room. When I grew up, moved out of the house and then got married, I didn't see the need to enact the same law, figuring we are both adults. Saturday Ben and I spent the day packing and cleaning getting ready for the move. At some point we realized we were hungry and needed dinner. Spaghetti only takes 15 minutes to make, so it was perfect. Somewhere in that 15 minutes I also realized that my poor pregnant feet were very swollen. Ben offered to finish dinner while I propped my feet up. He even remembered to rinse the noodles so they wouldn't stick together. He served me a nice big plate of piping hot spaghetti, which I promptly proceeded to take back to my comfortable place on the couch to re-prop my feet. My growing belly has confused my sense of balance. As I sat down, the not sticky noodles slid off the plate and into my lap, along with the piping hot sauce, which began to eat through my flesh. I was trying to get the spaghetti off while containing it to my lap- so far I had managed to keep it off the beige couch and the beige carpet. Ben, the medical assistant, was more concerned with the sauce that was burning my arm than with the couch or carpet (oh the differences between men and women). As he rushed to my rescue, he somehow managed to dump his entire plate of spaghetti flat on the floor. So we spent the next hour cleaning spaghetti off of me, the carpet, Ben and the couch. And we have one more load of laundry to do. This afternoon I saw that I still had spaghetti sauce under one of my toenails. The moral of the story: spaghetti belongs in a bowl.