“When the world slips you a Jeffrey, stroke the furry wall.” – Infant Sorrow
I’ve had a couple of Jeffries shoved down my throat over the past few days. Nearly impossible to swallow. They’d been kind of lodged in my throat, not cutting off my breathing but jagged enough to remind me they were still ever-present. Until I decided to take matters in my own hands.
Last night, I decided I’d had enough so I coughed them up and spit them out. Then, I grabbed my laptop. That’s the metaphorical “furry wall” for me. The cobwebs of self-pity cleared and keyboard therapy commenced.
Pity parties suck and they’re never any fun, no matter how many martinis you consume. Just FYI…
After all, there are so many other things that can turn that frown upside down! And in my house, you never have too far to look…and how apropos that we’re on the topic of stroking.
I walked into the playroom to check on George, since he was being strangely quiet for long enough that alarm bells started going off in my head. And there he was, sprawled on the couch and pulling an Al Bundy.
Crikey, am I dating myself with that reference???
I tried to keep a straight face but jeez…the image was just too much for me to handle. The diaper didn’t stop him either. No regard for the fact that he’s not potty-trained…he was having a grand old time on the MICROFIBER couch. No wonder why he was being so quiet. I should have known something was up.