You Gotta Break a Few Eggs

Yesterday was completely outside my Sunday box. Nothing seemed normal.

My puffy pizza. It tasted fine.
My puffy pizza. It tasted fine.

Getting up around 9:30, I decided Abby and I should have some eggs for breakfast. I pulled the carton out of the refrigerator. The carton was the plastic three-piece folding type, and I grabbed it just wrong, so that it flopped open and deposited all twelve eggs onto the floor, breaking all of them.

Burritos for breakfast.

For much of the day, I worked on the RV, getting it ready for our next trip. It was oddly like being in someone else’s house.

Abby and I made the extra-dreaded holiday Wal Mart run, and everything we bought was specific to Thanksgiving, so it was like doing someone else’s shopping.

I did buy a frozen pizza, though, and put it in the oven when we got home. When I opened the oven to check on it, the “rising crust” feature had done more than its share, resulting in a pizza dome.

Finally, Abby finished the hat I asked her to make for me, which she crocheted from the surplus blaze-orange yarn that came from the attic. It’s a great hat, and super-warm, but nothing like anything else I wear, so it was a bit like someone else’s hat.

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