Last Wednesday it snowed, which was particularly inconvenient for the hundreds of people stuck at a standstill on I-94 because a semi-truck in Minnesota couldn't handle two inches of snow on the road five months into the winter season and decided to jack-knife or tip over or some such thing. It was perhaps just a wee bit less inconvenient for people like me, who simply had to find time to shovel their sidewalk, pack up their stuff, and grab a very quick dinner in the approximately 30 minutes between getting home from work and rushing off to quilting class.
Because every minute counts on rushed nights like that, I didn't bother taking off my boots when I ran into my house to grab a hat before shoveling. Instead I did what I often do: I decided to put each foot inside a Target bag so I could traipse through my house without mucking up my floors and carpeting with dirty wet snow. The only problem was I didn't have two empty Target bags within easy reach of my kitchen door. I did have one bag, however. So naturally I did the only illogical thing: I stepped both feet into that one Target bag and tried to shuffle and hop my way to the wicker cabinet in my living room entryway where my hats and mittens are stored.
I made it about halfway to my living room before I shuffled in an awkward way that left no give in the bag for my foot to land and found myself square on my ass in my hallway, narrowly missing colliding my head directly with a very hard and somewhat pointy piece of cabinetry.
All this because I was too damn lazy to take off my boots or to wipe a few snowy wet spots from my floors.
What does this story have to do with the Internet and why I love the kindred spirits who live inside it? This. My first thought, after I took the ridiculous spill on the edge of my kitchen, was, "Should I blog about that?" But by the time I got home from quilting I had already forgotten about it, and it seemed entirely too absurd a thing to admit to the world outside my kitchen anyway, so I let it go. Until I read about Abbersnail's similar moment of grace and realized I am not alone. Thank you, Abbers. You rock eight ways to Sunday (whatever that actually means).
Know why else I love the Internet? Where else can you find a t-shirt that says "I love the (Eighteen) Eighties" quite like this one does?
Olde-Timey Lloyd is now on his way to my little sister's house in honor of her birthday later this week (four days before my birthday, in case anyone's counting). I wonder if that's Peter Gabriel blaring from that Victrola or if Yester-Lloyd's wooing Diane with a little Gilbert and Sullivan instead.