There were gnats in my wine bottle.
Drunken gnats to be exact.
I was making dinner when I poured some wine into a baking dish, and two tiny gnats floated out with the wine.
*It must be noted that the bugs died in a peaceful, drunken-stupor kinda way.
I think what happened was, I left the wine uncorked for a few hours when I used it the other day, and two thrill seeking flies took notice.
I’m pretty sure one of them, turned to the other and said, hey, you see that bottle over there? There’s a hot chick on the front. Let’s go see what that’s all about.
And the other one was all, Uh, okay.
Then I unknowing corked them up and threw the bottle in the fridge, and out they floated two days later; bloated with cheap wine from Trader Joe’s.
I looked around the kitchen to seek council from someone else to see what I should do, but the only person around was Hudson.
He just smiled and slapped his hand on the floor.
So I took it as a sign to use the gnatty wine. I mean, really. Wine is mainly comprised of alcohol. And alcohol kills germs.
PLUS, I’m baking with it, in a oven set to 350 degrees of bacteria-killing-heat.
So whatever, I used it. Phasshaw, you can all suck it. Don’t even tell me you’re above using wine with flies in it.
A few days before that, one of my kitchen drawers wouldn’t close all they way. I figured it was one of my 12 spatulas that probably fell down the back of the drawer, so I investigated and pulled out this fancy package:
A Chinese fork and spoon set.
Um, excuse me…it’s a Native American-Chinese fork and spoon set.
The old owners of my house must have left it.
I washed it, and handed it over to Berlyn.
She loves it. Especially since the girl in the picture is holding an axe and is smiling.
But is that gross? I gave my daughter someone else’s utensils?
What if they had a staph infection? Or herpes?
I washed it.
Oh, and a few days before that Hudson peed through his diaper on to my bed.
And I haven’t changed the sheets yet.
I’ve just been laying in dried up baby pee.
So apparently I’m making all these judgment calls, but my judgement keeps telling me, eww, that’s kind of gross, but do it anyway. It’s like my judgement is a 14-year-old boy with boobie posters on his wall.
And, somehow I’m totally okay with that.