Sweating in my gym during PE class today, just by standing there, people, is almost as bad as the hairy dinner rolls I found in a Tuppeware container on my kitchen counter yesterday.
I didn’t know that bread rolls could actually grow a black Afro, but one of mine did. I should feel some shame, but basically, I just kind of thought it was hilarious. The heat wave and the 450-degree temperature in my gym where the fans do not work has caused some brain damage, I think.
I photographed the bread roll with the hair, because WHO HAS SUCH A THING GROWING ON HER KITCHEN COUNTER? I texted the photo to Sister and Katie and Carrie, and pretty much said, “Look! This bread looks like it’s auditioning for a spot with The Supremes!”
Because Diana Ross’s hair, circa A LONG TIME AGO, is exactly what my leftover dinner roll looked like. I laughed. I showed it to the boy and Enzo. They gasped… and then they laughed. I showed it to Hubs. He suggested that perhaps I should take some pride in what’s shaking down on my kitchen counter these days.
Said the man who would grill roadkill and eat it.
When you have a toddler who gags himself and pukes and scales the living room walls like Spiderman, sometimes the BREAD GONE BAD gets overlooked.
That dinner roll has more hair than the boy has.
You will be happy to know that I threw the bread out. Carrie sided with Hubs and let me know that she needed to rinse her eyes with Clorox after looking at the picture I sent her. Sister and Katie suggested that with a little fancy knife work and a good trim, they might still be edible.
And that is pretty much what has been happening around here in the last twenty-four hours: A heat wave. Sweat. A gym with no fans. More sweat. And a dinner roll that endured a Rave home permanent.
I’m off, people. Thing 2 is asleep. The boy is at youth group. Hubs and I have a date to watch the Duck Dynasty boys together.
Speaking of which…
…maybe that dinner roll is really a Robertson!