A Wombat, the Sink, and How It Got There
I came around the corner, in a rush, as I usually am, with a little slide on the wood floors in my sock feet.
My wife once asked me if I ever fantasized that I was Tom Cruise in Risky Business when I did what I liked to call "the electric slide." She meant this in a completely innocent way, not taking into account the weird stuff that Tom's done or been rumored to do since he was considered the be all and end all. This was just one of the things she said when she caught me doing this act. One of the other things she said, nearly as often as the Tom Cruise remark, was that I was going to really hurt myself one of these days. The day I hit a particularly slick patch, due to some spilled blowing bubbles, slipped, twisted my ankle and knocked my head off the doorjamb she was, thankfully, no where to be found.
This day, I nearly suffered my second, first observed, accident, due to the stickiness of the floor. There were water patches all over the area just outside the kitchen door, all across the kitchen floor, and along most of the counters. My wife, who may not have even noticed, had I had an accident, was also fairly soaked through with water and a few soap suds. She was occupied with the task of holding a wombat down in our kitchen sink.
I don't know if you're familiar with wombats. I know that I'm not. I've lived a life of relative seclusion in a small southwest corner of New Hampshire, where we don't have many wombats. Or maybe we do, and I've just not run into them. I went to school here, met my wife here, run my little hardware store here, and generally live a pretty good life here. At any rate, let me tell you one thing I do know about wombats, this knowledge gleaned from my 4 nanoseconds of seeing one in my kitchen sink, being held down by my soaking wet wife: they don't like being held down in kitchen sinks.
This one was showing his displeasure by making some odd noises like a squeaking door, and hissing.
To be continued... ?
disclaimer:
We're late. Again. And so it goes.
Hopefully this doesn't become a habit, but I have a strange feeling that it will. Could this be the whimper we go out on?
After... 14 years?
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