So earlier this evening I was just sitting on my couch, eating some ice cream, and reading some blogs. You know -- regular stuff. Minding my own beeswax as we used to say in the mid '90s. (And as I repeat to my students now.)
When, out of the corner of my eye, I see something scurry across the floor from the kitchen and go behind my TV.
Now, if you know me, or if you've read this blog ever, you know that this is a heart-attack inducing event. It could be any number of things. Any number. (This and this to name just a couple.)
So, of course, I JUMP up, throw my ice cream down, and grab about three Vogue magazines. All the while I am, of course, hollering for baby Snickers who, I might add, is NEVER in a rush to come when I call. I stand there just telling God to help me out a smidge because I am just over it this week and to please help me understand I am bigger than whatever this offensive creature is. So first, I knock aside some DVDs that are by the TV. Nothing happens. So then I muster up all the courage I can find in myself and I begin to roll my TV away from the wall, inch by inch. (Messing up my cable, natch.) I turn my flashlight app on (not the mid 90s anymore) and go to look behind the TV, still armed with Vogues. Then I spot the offending creature:
This Christmas card from my grandparents. The one that was hanging above the doorframe that hooks my living room to my kitchen. One I haven't taken down because I sort of like looking at the Christmas cards I receive because they are nice.
Oh, and right about the time I Olivia Pope'd the situation, guess who comes strolling into the room?
I'll see myself out.