So Easy A Caveman Can Do It?

I save newspapers that contain ideas that might eventually become blog posts, pawing through them when neither I nor Justin Bieber have done anything horrendously stupid lately that I can write about.

The newspapers have articles that I enjoyed or made me mad or inspired laughter.

I took them out last night to look through.

You will note that I do not clip out the articles because that would require actual physical effort. Plus, you can never, ever find a scissor in this house unless you don't need one.

Then you find five.

I had already chosen an article entitled "Neaderthal DNA Found in Vast Majority of Americans" for inspiration.

There was so much that could have been done with the headline alone that I was a-twitter in anticipation of getting all huffy and indignant--defending my DNA and tracing my lineage back to the second-string scullery maid of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

You get the picture.

My plans were interrupted by a phone call from Charlie stating that, during his weekend visit, he'd left his eyeglasses behind.

Would I overnight them to him tomorrow?

Of course I would and if it had been ten degrees cooler and three hours earlier and I were two inches taller and six years younger, I would have baked him a batch of lemon squares to go along with the glasses. But it was late and I was tired.

So, I went about assembling my packing supplies. Like my mother before me, I save boxes of every shape and size in case someone needs eyeglasses, or a grand piano, sent in the mail.

I fetched the tape and a chubby Sharpie to sniff until I could have passed a polygraph test after answering, "Of course!" to the question "Is your name Gwynneth Paltrow?" as well as use to address the package.

I also pulled a pile of newspapers out of the recycling bin to use as stuffing in the box.

I then went about packing the glasses like a professional. First, a layer of bubble wrap (I save that, too) around the glasses, then newspaper, tape, a neatly written addresses....it was perfect.

You, of course, thanks to a cheap literary technique known as "foreshadowing," have guessed that I used my pile of inspiration articles for the stuffing, leaving the packing newspapers in an untouched pile on the table.

When I realized what I'd done, I let out a loud, surprised grunt and, based on the reflection in the door of the microwave, looked exactly like this:

"Huh?"

I then tipped over a glass of orange juice that had been sustaining me during this pack-a-thon and, trying to grab it before it spilled, somehow cut myself on the serrated edge of the tape dispenser. My howl of pain awoke Seth who ran into the kitchen, looking exactly like this:

"Are you okay, Cupcake?"

Ascertaining that no trip to the ER was needed (unlike last time), he went back to bed and I, holding my now paper towel wrapped finger aloft to slow the bleeding, made the decision that I was not going to ruin my great packing job to retrieve the articles.

I also, along the way, seem to have unintentionally proven something about Neanderthal DNA.

Dammit.