Today I decided to roast a chicken. However, I had some errands to run, and couldn't stay home while it was cooking. But this is why I have a husband that works from home, correct? I could get him to whisk the chicken out at the correct moment and go on my merry way.
So. I put the chicken in the oven, got Lucy and Julia ready to leave, and was about to tell Dyami about the chicken and the 400-degree inferno when I realized he was on the phone with a client.
"I'll text him," I thought. I put the kiddos in the car and headed off to the errands.
After the errands, I got back in the car, and paused, just for a moment, to look forward to dinner. I love me a good roast chicken.
Chicken. Roast. Oven. Text. Ack!
"SH*&!" I said. And then in my head, I said it again, because I had a very observant three-year old in the back seat, and not even the radio to mute my potty mouth.
"Momma?" Lucy said.
I braced myself.
"Why you say, 'hush'?" she asked.
Yes, that's what I said, little girl. Exactly.
Post script: I called Dyami. "Did you hear the oven beeping?" I asked, frantically.
"Ah, no," he said. (Here, he was thinking, you forgot the oven again?)
I pictured the chicken, now cremated, downstairs. I told him to go check on it.
"There are two minutes left," he said.
Aha! See? I planned it, exactly.