Goldilocks

I like to think that little things don't bother me, and I'd like to think that I am proficient at handling big problems. Neither is true. What is true is that I react the same no matter what. Hurricane blows through and destroys my yard, I curse and scream at whoever is in charge. I'm told it's god, so I lay into him. I knock a glass off of the kitchen counter and it splinters into a thousand dog paw piercing shards, I go into a spasm of cursing, foul mouthed, lunacy.

This morning I poured myself a gigantic bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, got out the gallon of milk, and then went to get my favorite spoon. Mark has about two hundred or more spoons in this house, yet there is only one that I eat my cereal with and this morning I can't find the damn thing. It's not in the flatware drawer, it's not in the dishwasher, and after clattering around all the dishes in the sink, I cannot find it there either. So for the next ten minutes Mark, the dogs, and the neighbors all get to listen to me curse and scream about my goddamned spoon. You have to understand, all of the large spoons that Mark has are too large. All of the small spoons he has are too small. My special cereal eating spoon is just right. It doesn't clack against my teeth as I shovel Cheerios into my gaping maw, and as I lift it to my mouth with it's heaping pile of Honey Nut Cheerios on it, not one falls off. I need that damn thing. When I was finally winding down this morning's temper tantrum, I took one more look in the kitchen sink. There it was. There was my beloved cereal spoon wedged down in the garbage disposal. At that point I didn't know if I should be happy or start on another screaming bitch-fest. On one hand I had found my spoon, on the other it was wedged in the garbage disposal. I decided to pry it out of the disposal, eat my cereal, and shut the fuck up. Four hours later Mark asked me if I had found the spoon. It's nice to know he cares.