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Crying Over Spilt Tamales

Yesterday I had emotional trauma. Not the kind that really matters to anyone but me, but still trauma. I bought a box of Hot Tamales. It's one of the few candies that the kids won't beg me for. Can you say guilty pleasure? I visited the library after purchasing the delectable little puffs of flame and found a cozy mystery to curl up with. (Bookmarked for Death by Lorna Barrett, in case you were wondering.)

Then I had a brilliant idea. Here in the middle of Nebraska, there has been a polar vortex sweeping through and yesterday was barely into the 70's. It was downright chilly! What better way to spend an hour on a chilly afternoon than in a warm bath, with a good book and a snack?

Upstairs, I looked in the tub and remembered that my psychotic cat and darling husband like to play a game in the tub. I don't understand it, but the cat hangs out in the tub while my husband does a peek-a-boo type thing. They both like it. Ask him for the details why.

The consequence to their little bonding game is cat all over my tub. Every. Single. Day. Fur, sometimes muddy cat prints, little pieces of grass, other unknowns. In other words, horror to anyone who likes a clean tub.

I figured, hey, it's okay. I'll just wash the tub and earn my little moment of paradise. No problem! I got out the Scrubbing Bubbles and sprayed it on nice and thick. (The cat caught a rabbit a few days ago. Who knows what's lingering on her paws!) Then I let it sit for 10 minutes to thoroughly kill everything. I opened my Hot Tamales, cracked open the book and waited patiently. Once the proscribed amount of time went by, I got up and started to clean.

An important detail at this point in time is that we have a claw-foot tub. There is no place to store anything so I put a little wheeled cart by it to keep shampoo, conditioner, body wash, books, water jugs, reading glasses and boxes of candy on. You know, the essentials for a bath. I laid my book and box of Hot Tamales (otherwise known as fiery snippets of heaven) on said cart and began the process of wiping out the tub.

And it was pretty. Where I wiped away the ick, a gleaming white porcelain shone up at me. It was one of those euphoric moments where the beauty of the clean tub mixed with the anticipation of relaxing in warm water with a good book and a better snack lifted my spirits. I might even have started humming during the process.

Remember how the cat has claimed my lovely tub as her playground? Well, I foolishly left the door to the bathroom open since I needed the fumes from the cleaner to escape. (Gotta love how old houses don't have fans in the bathrooms.) She got curious. She's learned not to jump into the tub when the water is on. The next best thing to watch from? Yes, my wheeled cart.

Past experience has taught her that if she knocks my water over, she's in deep doo-doo. I'm sure in her cat brain, it made sense for her to aim just next to the water. Guess what was perched there? Yup. You're right. The box of Hot Tamales.

IMG 0875The Tamales didn't stand a chance. They went flying -right into my bathtub. The tub filled with water, Scrubbing Bubbles, cat hair and other unnamed objects. Fate wasn't smiling and allowed the bottom of the box land first then gently bump against the side allowing the contents to stay put. Oh no. The box landed flat on its side and all the little morsels flew out like miniature torpedoes of taste bud utopia.

My first impulse was to scoop everything up and still eat it. Luckily, reason overcame that impulse as my first handful came up with gooey candies clinging to feline fur.

My second impulse I won't state publicly, but we'll say that the cat understood my growl and ran out the door.

I took a picture. It's my final salute to my broken nirvana.

But that's not where the story ends. I messaged the picture to my husband how my meh day had turned crap-tastic. Of course, autocorrect changed several words and I sent around 6 messages before I got everything corrected. I blame the trauma. I lost my fine motor skills because my survival instincts kicked in. Ask any cop about that. It's a real thing.

It also took about 6 messages before I realized I wasn't texting my husband. I was texting a friend that's one of those people that I don't know really well, but we're trying to set up play dates with our kids so we can get to know each other better. Yeah. Sorry Kate. Thanks for being so cool about my miniature break down and subsequent inability to type a coherent sentence.

I messaged my husband a Reader's Digest version of the events and while he gave me sympathetic replies, I think in his mind he was dropping the sym and thinking pathetic. Maybe not. I'm pretty sure he still loves me.

So, I'm determine to have a better day today. Editing Saving the Hero this morning, off to search the local thrift shop for cool tie clips for the boys and a gymnastics review for Jazzy this afternoon. I think I can do it.

If you've read this far, you are epic. Now, your challenge, if you choose to accept it, is to tell me about a miniature melt down you had. You know, help me feel better about almost crying over spilled Hot Tamales.

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