That's not the start of a bad joke. It's what happened to me the other day.
It was a particularly crazy morning at my house. I rarely leave myself enough time to get ready for work, so it's always this mad rush-rush-rush of plopping the kids down to watch Jack's Big Music Show, showering, indulging my brow-tweezing obsession for a few minutes (I'd probably stop to do that if I were running out of a house on fire), throwing on clothes and makeup, passing the kids over to the babysitter and zooming off to make my train. But that morning, I had a couple of bills to pay. I needed to put away some clean laundry the kids were somehow using as skates. And I never take time to eat at home but I was ravenous, so I grabbed a container of leftover spaghetti from the fridge and shoveled down a few forkfuls.
I walked into the office of one of my bosses shortly after I got to work.
"You have a noodle on your shirt," she said, matter-of-factly.
I looked down. There it was, a random piece of spaghetti hanging out on my chest. Not the entire loop of it, but a definite piece of one. I was about to make a joke about the spaghetti brooch I'd inherited from my grandmother but instead just muttered something about my busy morning (and, now that I'm pondering this, what DID I do with that noodle? Did I flick it onto her carpet? That's even less wise than walking around with a noodle on your shirt).
Curse you, Ronzoni.
I really need to wake up a little earlier.
That's actually not me above. Photo from istock/Kuricheva Ekaterina
