Last Friday, I got a true taste of what it's like to live with boys.  Schuyler's best friend Danny stayed the night, and I woke up to discover our living room furniture had been rearranged and both boys were camped out in front of the newly angled TV playing Call of Duty.  I was informed they would be there all day.  I had been officially banned to my room.
not an actual picture of the boys

I used my laptop for my workout DVD, but decided to sneak in the kitchen to make my protein shake for breakfast.  I tried to be as quiet as possible, putting the protein powder, half banana, and scoop of peanut butter into the magic bullet blender (have you seen these? they are amazing!).

 I reached into the fridge to grab the milk and then silently began pouring it....

into my opened peanut butter jar.  REALLY?!

***update: apparently my story-telling wasn't very clear... I intended to pour the milk into my protein shake.  The magic bullet was sitting on the counter right next to the peanut butter jar.  I didn't bother looking at what container I was pouring milk into until it was too late.  Milky peanut butter.  Good think Adams PB has to be refrigerated anyways:)


Vanessa's Dad said…
It's the Guys' fault... because, well... it's always the Guy's fault. ;O)

Good story. You have an amazing ability to laugh at yourself, which makes it easier to live with yourself.

In case you're wondering whether you inherited your ability to be distracted by anything shiny, know that your father drove to the post office yesterday after 5:00 p.m for the 6:00 p.m. drive thru dropoff, went into the lobby to carefully weigh the questionable envelopes to make sure they had the correct postage.... and then drove home with all the envelopes, instead of dropping them in the drive thru mail drop. Oh well... Maybe it's a sign that we're really, really smart, and our creative minds are working on much more important things. Maybe...

Carol J. Brown said…
Your dad's explanation sounds good to me. By the way, I've poured something into the wrong bowl/glass/whatever on more than one occasion. Maybe it's a genetic thing.

Love, Aunt Carol