Artless Foreshadowing: I have a vertical second degree burn–currently blistering–in an unspeakable location.

My sister and I? We’re spillers. We spill things. We spill a lot of things.

The list of things we spill includes (but is not limited to):

-Nail polish
-Milk (no matter how far down in the gallon you go)
-Oil
-Corn (Did you know corn could be spilled? It can. We don’t discriminate solids)

Anyways, this list is getting tired, but you get the idea. After the dinner plates are cleared from the table, you can often tell where Bethany or I sat because of the debris–crumb casualties– left behind on the placemat.

Several of my students have a tally in their notebook: How many times will water dribble out from the sides of Penrod’s lips while she drinks from her waterbottle with the overlarge opening? The count is up to 27–that’s just one class period.

I’m a spiller. 

So today, I was on the couch having something of a moan session because a girl needs a moan session every now and then. Sensitive husband Jeremy brought me tomato soup–extra hot because we’d had a debate about water or milk in the soup while the soup was on the burner. He slid it to me sweetly and I continued to moan at a slumped-over angle, because you can’t have a real moan in an upright position. To moan properly, there needs to be a healthy amount of slumping. 

Before I knew it, the soup was spilling–because that’s what I do–over the rim of our plastic blue bowls and down the rim of my shirt and into a… sensitive area that doesn’t get a lot of exposure to the cruel realities of the world. My bra. The soup spilled down my bra, ok!? You get to decide where my vertical burn is currently taking place.

And so here I am, howling, sobbing and screaming, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” and Jeremy looks confused but I can’t get up and get myself a wet paper towel because there’s a hot bowl of soup in my hands and Hufflepuff has camped out in my PJ pants because sometimes she likes it there, and so I’m bawling loudly, tears streaming without restraint and strangely-ironically–I am also laughing because that’s when it it hit me:

…I am both Schlemiel and Schlamazel.

…And my boobs hurt.