I was on fire yesterday on my drive home. I was going to bake marinated chicken, y’all! I was gonna take one strong step in the direction of kick-ass-wifedom. I excitedly pulled the car up to our modest house, parked, and hurriedly stomped up the steps to the door. I put my key in the keyhole, turned the door and
OH MY GOD WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE THOSE THINGS?!???!
Our stove was a graveyard to roughly 30 of them, and they were flying all around our kitchen in a crazy, angry, frantic swarm! AHHH! BARF!
I immediately called Dan in a panic and ran out of the house, my laptop and purse in hand, to find solace in a 24 hour cafe nearby. My knight in shining armor showed up not too much later, with fly killer (and groceries!) in hand. He defeated the nasty swarm in no time, and I was able to come home to a safe and clean house.
I was so freaked out/grossed out/OMG REALLY?!’d out that the idea of being in that kitchen and cooking food made me nauseous. I ordered Jimmy John’s and went to bed.
Marinated chicken TONIGHT. I swear.