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I slowly stumbled downstairs this morning as if I was walking through thick fog. It was another late night watching “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills Reunion” (Part 95 or whatever it was) on the DVR. My brother from another mother, Andy Cohen, revealed that Kim is now sober. Um, yeah, okay and Ryan Seacrest is straight.
I am thinking of starting my own spinoff of this series. Episode 1 would chronicle my daily routines. The camera would zoom in on my disheveled hair; a few greys standing on end. It would then pan down to the Ohio State sweatshirt I stole from a boyfriend in college, the nickel sized hole in my sweatpants and unmanicured toenails. I would finally make my way to the kitchen to whip up breakfast and by that I mean heat up french toast sticks in the microwave.
Then, I would see the same thing that greets me every single morning. The sunlight would peek through the blinds as if to cast a soft spotlight on the counter where the upside down fork was resting. What is the upside down fork you may ask? This is the utensil my husband used at midnight to eat a snack. He leaves the fork aside in case he wants another helping at, Oh, I don’t know 1 or 2 a.m. Yes we own more than one fork, but why would he want to put this one in the dishwasher? By morning a thin crust forms on the fork marrying it with the kitchen tile. On this particular day, the cameras would have caught me mumbling to myself like a homeless lady in Central Park. I would gather every fork we own and debate if I should throw them all in the trash can. Realizing he would just use a spoon, I pour the maple syrup and call the children downstairs. The heated discussion about the fork will be on next week’s episode.
My kids love this. It makes me want to rip my hair out.