My eleven year old and his dad had to watch their team lose the Superbowl last night. Even I could tell that it was not a pretty game, and I foresaw a particular ugly Monday morning ahead of us. (Watching sporting events on the east coast is especially exhausting because they don’t get started until about six, which is precisely when I start to shut down.)
Fortunately for all of us, we awoke to a snow day.
In my Superbowl euphoria, I had apparently missed all weather forecasts because this snow storm, which looks to have dumped close to a foot of snow, took me by complete surprise.
I asked M to stop at Fairway on the way home from work and pick up some things we needed.
I forgot to specify quantities.
I should not have forgotten to specify quantities because now I have forty-two bananas.
I tried to inquire in what I thought was a non-threatening tone. (Apparently I do not have a non-threatening tone.)
He claims that he intentionally picked out four bunches of bananas, each bunch at a different stage of ripeness.
But the light at Fairway is a tricky business, because in our kitchen, all the bananas were an identical shade of yellow-green.
Which means I’m going to be stuck with 30 brown bananas in a matter of days. (I will freeze them, you know, to make banana bread. I will then throw them out a week later to make room in the freezer. Intention is everything.)
“I guess I’m going to be eating a lot of bananas,” said M.
I guess you will be.
(Consequently, I have sixty five sticks of string cheese if anyone is interested.)