So I get to work this morning, and one of my students (the same one who enjoys the veggie/fruit analogies for baby size) has informed me that there are leftover hot wings from the Guitar Hero III tournament campus event last night. Naturally, at 8:45 a.m., this sounds awfully tasty.
Mind you, I found another bag of maternity clothing, this time, actual winter clothing, a good thing, since it is hovering between 25-60 degrees in the course of a ten hour cycle here in Birmingham, AL. You need four seasons of clothing just to get through the day. Today I have donned what I think is a beautiful winter white angora sweater, with a beautiful pin tuck design at the sleeve edges and waist. It is a wrap sweater with a satin tie on the side. In my opinion, this is one of the more stylish maternity pieces I own. I must have thought so when I packed this sweater away after Little Philip because I thought to wrap it in plastic before shoving it in a Target bag for storage.
So back to breakfast... I'm standing in the office kitchen, along with a colleague, devouring cold hot wings. I inform her that I need a really saucy one and she points to one that she has decided against. I lift the delectable wing to my mouth, take a rather unfeminine bite and notice her look of dismay and specifically, her pointing finger....towards my enormous belly. I look down to find a nice dime size splat of hot wing sauce, just to the left of where my bellybutton once was. I start to envision the day with ten thousand people pointing their disapproving finger at my huge belly saying "you've got something on you" to which I have no choice but to admit that I ate hot wings for breakfast.
I call Philip, who is going to be passing by the BSC campus anytime now on his way to Huntsville for a college fair or visit of some kind. He no longer questions these bizarre requests, so I simply say, "I ate hot wings from breakfast when I got here and now I have a huge hot wing spot on my white sweater. Can you bring me either the Tide stick or a new sweater?"
I stand waiting in our building's loading zone as Philip pulls up in a brand new white Dodge charger. He looks just like a Georgia state trooper. The rental company has just cleaned the car and as I approach it I notice Philip has all the windows down despite the cold temperature. It smells like a 40 acre pine forest. Philip is dying at the thought of the two hour drive with the pungent smell. He hands me a pale pink sweater through the window, I thank and kiss him, and he shakes his head in disbelief at this latest incident.
By the way, the hot wings were delicious, David. I have no regrets.