So here I am, home again, my little gang banger baby blue sweatshirt with the hood safely in the washer, and I've remembered another event during the Stephy diaspora:

My hostess was helping me prepare meals to freeze in little containers so I would have food when I got back home. I can no longer stand up long enough to prepare a meal, so I get help, make two or three kinds of protein rich foods, and portion control them in tiny Glad storage containers, in the freezer.

This month I opted for Chicken corn chowder and beef stew. My lovely Hostess opened the chicken thighs, rinsed them off, put them in the pressure cooker, cut up a big onion, and threw that in. She took the grim little paper sponge soaked with chicken blood and wrapped it in a ball and prepared to take it to the freezer to sit until next garbage day to go out then.

We were well begun with the chicken corn chowder when she got a call from the contractor, one of the grab bars had come with no setup hardware. I was about to leave for my Al-Anon meeting. We agreed to shut off the heat under the pressure cooker and meet back there in an hour or so to finish the task.

We went our separate ways, and I went back to her house an hour later to find her looking for that grim little paper sponge soaked with chicken blood in the freezer, and it was not there. Because she has a cat, she searched the house looking, unsuccessfully, for it. Who wants rotting grim little paper sponge soaked with chicken blood lying about the house, after all?

In a last ditch effort to find it, we drove to my house, thinking it was either there, or at the contractor's supply place on the counter. No rotting grim little paper sponge soaked with chicken blood lying about there.

As will happen, her cell phone rang, her husband was calling, wondered why we were at my house with night coming on. As she explained to him why we were there, we started to snark and giggle. She then said, "I went to get in the car, and noticed the garbage hadn't gone out yet, so I tossed whatever was in my hand into the trash...OH! DUH!" We returned to her house, somewhat humbled, feeling pretty silly about the great "grim little paper sponge soaked with chicken blood" hunt. Does stuff like this happen to anyone but me and my friend? Care to top this tale?

Comments:

My friend Bird Mojo says:
The best I got is a friend of mine was tired when he went home with his keys in his left hand after he got out of the car... and he checked his right pocked with his right hand for his keys... and nope. They weren't there.

So he put his keys into his right hand and checked his left pocket with his left hand for his keys and they weren't there either. So he bit on his key chain so he could use both hands to check for his keys which he *KNEW* he had because he drove home.

And then he let himself in using his keys after finding them in his mouth.

When I stop laughing I will top it!!!!