While a good chunk of you are probably enjoying one more day off compliments of the hard work and legacy of Dr. King, I’m about to head into the frigid cold weather.
I’m hoping for on time trains and also that I can find my gloves.
This weekend, among other things, JD, Ky and I headed to IKEA for some new furniture for Ky’s apartment.
Right before I headed downstairs to hop in the car, I noticed a small vial of oil my mother gave me.
She said it might help with my joints.
Without really thinking about it, I opened the cap and poured some onto my hands.
And then I realized I’d made a horrible mistake.
The oil was allspice, which basically meant I was immediately encased in a combination of the smell of cookie dough/something else I couldn’t put my finger on at the time.
I admitted my not-so-smooth move to my pals as soon as I got into the car, but it turns out I didn’t really need to own up to anything.
“You smell like a potion shop,” Ky noted.
I tried to reason with her, suggesting that this was ridiculous because she had never been to a potion shop.
I kid you not, chickadees, that she argued with me on that fact for more than 15 seconds.
After some discussion about what it was my joint cure actually smelled like, we settled on witch.
It could also be argued that they’re no way of knowing what a witch smells like, but if you’d smelled me, you’d have been in agreement.
They made me put down the window.
Despite this unpleasant start to our trip (and the fact that we maybe took a detour to the wrong suburb), we enjoyed an efficient trip to the Swedish supermart, were able to enjoy some cheap cinnamon rolls (and also maybe a menu items called: meatballs in a cup), and then took ourselves to a Very Suburban CPK before heading home into the city limits.
All it takes to keep me happy is to keep laughing, chickens.
Bundle up out there!